Keep but the lovely looks we seeThe voice we hear-and you will be An angel ready-made for heaven! IMPROMPTU. Upon being obliged to leave a pleasant party, from the want of a pair Breeches to dress for Dinner in. 1810. BETWEEN Adam and me the great difference is, Though a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his, While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine. WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE? Quest.-WHY is a Pump like Viscount C-STL-R-GH? Answ.-Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway, And coolly spout, and spout, and spout away, In one weak, washy, everlasting flood! EPIGRAM.' "WHAT news to-day ?"-" Oh! worse and worse- EPIGRAM. Dialogue between a Catholic Delegate and his R-y-l H-ghn-ss the D-ke of C—b-rl-nd. SAID his Highness to NED, with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic NEDDY?""Because, Sir," said NED, looking full in his phiz, "You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!" EPIGRAM. Dialogue between a Dowager and her Maid on the Night of Lord Y-rm-th's Fete. "I WANT the Court-Guide," said my Lady, "to look If the house, Seymour Place, be at 30 or 20."We've lost the Court-Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book, Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour PLACES in plenty !" EPIGRAM. FROM THE FRENCH. "I NEVER give a kiss," says Prue, She'll take one, though, and thank you for it. 1 This is a bon-mot, attributed, I know not how truly, to the PR-NC-SS of W-L-s. I have merely versified it. ON A SQUINTING POETESS. To no one Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once, to all the nine! THE TORCH OF LIBERTY. I SAW it all in Fancy's glass- "That torch they pass is Liberty!" And each, as she received the flame, From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine The splendid gift then GALLIA took, As she would set the world a-blazing. And, when she fired her altar, nigh It flash'd into the redd'ning air So fierce, that ALBION, who stood high, Shrunk, almost blinded by the glare! Next, SPAIN-So new was light to herLeap'd at the torch; but, ere the spark She flung upon her shrine could stir, 'T was quench'd and all again was dark.. Yet no-not quench'd-a treasure worth So much to mortals rarely dies.Again her living light look'd forth, And shone, a beacon, in all eyes. Who next received the flame?-Alas! Scarce had her fingers touch'd the torch, Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd, What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time, rhyme; And Fancy bid me mark where, o'er When lovely woman, all unschool'd and wild, Her altar as its flame ascended, Blush'd without art, and without culture smiledFair laurell'd spirits seem'd to soar, Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone, Who thus in song their voices blended :- Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own, Ranged the wild rosy things in learned orders, “ Shine, shine for ever, glorious flame, And fill'd with Greek the garden's blushing borDivinest gift of God to men ! ders ?From Greece thy earliest splendour came, No, no-your gentle Inas will not doTo Greece thy ray returns again! To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, I'll come-(pointing downwards)—you understand“Take, Freedom ! take thy radiant round- till then adieu !" When dimm'd, revive--when lost, return; Till not a shrine through earth be found, And has the sprite been here ? No—jests apartOn which thy glories shall not burn! Howe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true EPILOGUE. The wife—the mother—firm, yet gentle too Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun, Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one; Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and all that, Who loves—yet dares even Love himself disown, And wondering much what little knavish sprite When honour's broken shaft supports his throne: Had put it first in women's heads to write :-- If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Sudden I saw-as in some witching dream Dire as they are, of Critics and Blue Devils. ) TO THE MEMORY OF JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. OF DUBLIN. “ Bless me!" I starting cried, “what imp are you ?"-- If ever life was prosperously cast, " A small he-devil, Ma'am-my name Bas Bleu- If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading : Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding 'Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below. The reigning taste in chemistry and caps, The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, The sunny temper, bright were all its strife, And, when the waltz has twirl'd her giddy brain, The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles, With metaphysics twirl it back again! Light wit, that plays along the calm of life, And stirs its languid surface into smiles; I view'd him, as he spoke--his hose were blue, Pure charity, that comes not in a shower, His wings—the covers of the last Review Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, Cerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue, But, like the dew, with gradual silent And tinsell'd gaily o'er, for evening wear, power, Felt in the bloom it leaves among the meads; Till the nest quarter brings a new-fledged pair. “Inspired by me--(pursued this waggish Fairy)— The happy grateful spirit, that improves That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary, And brightens every gift by fortune given, Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse, That, wander where it will with those it loves, Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes. Makes every place a home, and home a heaven: For me the eyes of young Camilla shine, All these were his.-Oh! thou who read'st this stone, And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine; For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking, When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Looks wise--the pretty soul !—and thinks she's Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, thinking. That ye like him may live, like him may die! By my advice Miss Indigo attends Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, "Pon honour !-(mimicks)-nothing can surpass the EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET plan BENEATH these poppies buried deep, Of that professor-(tryng to recollect)-psha! that The bones of Bob the Bard lie hid; memory-man- Peace to his manes; and may he sleep That--what's his name?--him I attended lately As soundly as his readers did ! Through every sort of verse meandering, Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, “Nay, there—(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite- To verse that was no verse at all; Till fiction having done enough, To make a bard at least absurd, And give his readers quantum suff. He took to praising George the Third : And now, in virtue of his crown, Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter; Like Donellan of bad renown, Poisoning us all with laurel-water. And yet at times some awkward qualms he Felt about leaving honour's track; And though he's got a butt of Malmsey, It may not save him from a sack. Put to his works a finis thus. Than did his quartos upon us ! THE SYLPH'S BALL. A SYLPH, as gay as ever sported Her figure through the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted, And, strange to say, he won the fair. The annals of the oldest witch A pair so sorted could not showBut how refuse?-the Gnome was rich, The Rothschild of the world below; And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures, Learn from their mammas to consider Love as an auctioneer of features, Who knocks them down to the best bidder. And pretty phosphorescent fishes, That by their own gay light were eat up. 'Mong the few guests from Ether, came That wicked Sylph, whom Love we cal. - My Lord, her husband, not at all. That he was coming, and, no doubt He should, by all means, be kept out. But others disapproved this plan, And, by his flame though somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman, In such a dangerous place to light it. With the fair Sylph, light as a feather: At daybreak, down to earth together. But for that plaguy torch-whose light, Though not yet kindled, who could tell How soon, how devilishly it might ? And so it chanced--which in those dark And fireless halls, was quite amazing, Did we not know how small a spark Can set the torch of Love a-blazing. Whether it came, when close entangled In the gay waltz, from her bright eyes, Or from the lucciole, that spangled Her locks of jet—is all surmise. Certain it is, the ethereal girl Did drop a spark, at some odd turning, Which, by the waltz's windy whirl, Was fann'd up into actual burning. Oh for that lamp's metallic gauze That curtain of protecting wire- Around illicit, dangerous fire! (Like that which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss,) Through whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other but not kiss.' At first the torch look'd rather bluely A sign, they say, that no good bodedThen quick the gas became unruly, And, crack! the ball-room all exploded. Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mix'd together, With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces, Like butterflies, in stormy weather, Were blown-legs, wings, and tails—to pieces! While, 'mid these victims of th torch, The Sylph, alas! too, bore he“ partFound lying, with a livid scoicii, As if from lightning, o'er ner heart ! Home she was taken to his mine A palace, paved with diamonds allAnd, proud as Lady Gnome to shine, Sent out her tickets for a ball. The lower world, of course, was there, And all the best ; but of the upper The sprinkling was but shy and rare A few old Sylphids who loved supper. As none yet knew the wondrous lamp Of Davy, that renown'd Aladdin, And the Gnome's halls exhaled a damp, Which accidents from fire were bad in; The chambers were supplied with light By many strange, but safe devices: Large fire-flies, such as shine at night Among the Orient's flowers and spices : Musical Aint-mills—swiftly play'd By elfin hands—that, flashing round, Like some bright glancing minstrel maid, Gave out, at once, both light and sound; Bologna-stones, that drink the sun And water from that Indian sea, Whose waves at night like wild-fire run, Cork'd up in crystal carefully; Glow-worms, that round the tiny dishes, Like little light-houses, were set up; * * * 1 Pariique dedere Oscula quisque suæ, non pervenientia contra.- Ovid. “Well done!" a laughing goblin said, Escaping from this gaseous strife ; " "T is not the first time Love has made A blow-up in connubial life.” REMONSTRANCE. After a conversation with L-J—R-, in which he had intimated some idea of giving up all political pursuits. What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy nameThou, born of a Russel-whose instinct to run The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun! Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal, Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race offer'd up for the weal Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet! Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena where all that is grand, And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life, Is for high-thoughted spirits, like thine, to com mand? Oh no, never dream it—while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare Such a light from her dark’ning horizon as thou ! Which for the mousing deeds, transacted In holes and corners, is well fitted, But which, in sunshine, grows contracted, As if 't would rather not admit it; As if, in short, a man would quite Throw time away who tried to let in a Decent portion of God's light On lawyers' mind or pussy's retina. Hence when he took to politics, As a refreshing change of evil, Unfit with grand affairs to mix His little Nisi-Prius tricks, Like imps at bo-peep, play'd the devil ; And proved that when a small law wit Of statesmanship attempts the trial, 'Tis like a player on the kit Put all at once to a bass viol. Nay, even when honest (which he could Be, now and then,) still quibbling daily, He serv'd his country as he would A client thief at the Old Bailey. But-do him justice-short and rare His wish through honest paths to roam; Born with a taste for the unfair, Where falsehood call’d, he still was there, And when least honest, most at home. Thus, shuffling, bullying, lying, creeping, He work'd his way up near the throne, And, long before he took the keeping Of the king's conscience, lost his own. With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm; Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm ; With an ardour for liberty, fresh as in youth, It first kindles the bard, and gives life to his łyre; Yet mellow'd, even now, by that mildness of truth Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire ; With an eloquence—not like those rills from a height, Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er; But a current that works out its way into light Through the filt’ring recesses of thought and of lore. "Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of genius, the music of fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to per suade, Yet think how to freedom thou 'rt pledged by thy name. Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree, Set apart for the fane and its service divine, All the branches that spring from the old Russel tree, Are by liberty claim'd for the use of her shrine. MY BIRTH-DAY. “My birth-day!"—What a different sound That word had in my youthful ears ! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears ! When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And, as youth counts the shining links That time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said, were he ordain'd to run His long career of life again, He would do all that he had done.". Ah! 't is not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly- Haply for high and pure designs, Upon unholy, earthly shrinesOf nursing many a wrong desire Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire That cross'd my pathway for his star! EPITAPH ON A LAWYER. HERE lies a lawyer-one whose mind (Like that of all the lawyer kind) Resembled, though so grave and stately, The pupil of a cat's eye greatly; 1 Fontenelle.-"Si je recommençais ma carrière, je for rais tout ce que j'ai fait." All this it tells, and, could I trace Oh! what is happier than to find Our hearts at ease, our perils past; When, anxious long, the lighten'd mind Lays down its load of care at last ?- When, tired with toil on land and deep, Again we tread the welcome floor Of our own home, and sink to sleep On the long-wish'd-for bed once more? This, this it is that pays alone The ills of all life's former track- Sweet Sirmio-greet thy master back. And thou, fair lake, whose water quaffs The light of heaven, like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice~let all that laughs Abroad, at home, laugh out for me! The more I've view'd this world, the more I've found That, fill'd as 't is with scenes and creatures rare, TO MY MOTHER. Written in a Pocket-Book, 1822. THEY tell us of an Indian tree No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky A single tint unborrow'd from the sun May tempt its boughs to wander free, But 't is the mental medium it shines through, And shoot and blossom, wide and high, That lends to beauty all its charm and hue; Far better loves to bend its arms As the same light, that o'er the level lake Downward again to that dear earth One dull monotony of lustre flings, From which the life, that fills and warms Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make Its grateful being, first had birth. Colours as gay as those on angels' wings ! 'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends, And fed with fame (if fame it be,) This heart, my own dear mother, bends, With love's true instinct, back to thee! Love had a fever-ne'er could close His little eyes till day was breaking ; And whimsical enough, Heaven knows, The things he raved about while waking. ILLUSTRATION OF A BORE. If ever you've seen a gay party, Relieved from the pressure of Ned- How instantly joyous and hearty They've grown when the damper was fled You may guess what a gay piece of work, What delight to champagne it must be, To get rid of its bore of a cork, “ Dose, as before”—a gentle opiate, And come sparkling to you, love, and me! A SPECULATION. Is, to buy up, at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself SCEPTICISM. ERE Psyche drank the cup that shed Immortal life into her soul, Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said, One drop of doubt into the bowl- Which, mingling darkly with the stream, To Psyche's lips-she knew not why ****** |