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Them written without heads; and books | But to the point: while hovering o'er the brink

we see

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throng,

A general bustle spread throughout the | And then against them, bitterer than ever;
For pantisocracy he once had cried
Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clever;
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin—
Had turn'd his coat-and would have turn'd
his skin.

Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation;
The angels had of course enough of song
When upon service; and the generation
Of ghosts had heard too much in life,not long
Before, to profit by a new occasion;
The Monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd
"What! what!

He had sung against all battles, and again Pye come again? No more—no more of that!" | In their high praise and glory; he had call'd Reviewing "the ungentle craft," and then Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd:

The tumult grew, an universal cough
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate,
When Castlereagh has been up long enough
(Before he was first minister of state,
I mean—the slaves hear now), some cried
"off, off,"

As at a farce; till grown quite desperate,
The Bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose
(Himself an author) only for his prose.

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He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,

And more of both than any body knows.

He had written Wesley's life:-here, turn-
ing round
To Satan, "Sir, I'm ready to write yours,
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,
With notes and preface, all that most allures
The pious purchaser; and there's no ground
For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:
So let me have the proper documents,
That I may add you to my other saints."

Satan bow'd, and was silent. "Well, if you,
With amiable modesty, decline
My offer, what says Michael? There are few
Whose memoirs could be render'd more
divine.

Mine is a pen of all work; not so new
As it was once, but I would make you shine
Like your own trumpet; by the way, my own
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.

But talking about trumpets, here's my
Vision!

Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you
shall
Judge with my judgment! and by my
decision

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall!
I settle all these things by intuition,
Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell,
and all,
Like King Alfonso! When I thus see double,
I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.”

He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no
Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints,
Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so
He read the first three lines of the contents;
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show
Had vanish'd with variety of scents,
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,
Like lightning, off from his "melodious
twang."

Those grand heroics acted as a spell: The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions;

The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell;

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions

(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, And I leave every man to his opinions); Michael took refuge in his trump-but lo! His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, And at the fifth line knock'd the Poet down; Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, Into his lake, for there he did not drown, A different web being by the Destinies Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, whene'er

He first sunk to the bottom-like his works, But soon rose to the surface-like himself; For all corrupted things are buoy'd, like corks,

By their own rottenness, light as an elf, Or wisp that flits o'er a morass: he lurks, It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, In his own den, to scrawl some "Life" or "Vision,"

As Wellborn says "the devil turn'd precisian."

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion Of this true dream, the telescope is gone Which kept my optics free from all delusion, And show'd me what I in my turn have shown:

All I saw further in the last confusion. Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one;

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm. Reform shall happen either here or there. I left him practising the hundredth psalm

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE.

Honest-honest Iago!

If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee. SHAKSPEARE.

BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred, Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head; Next--for some gracious service unexprest, And from its wages only to be guess'd— Raised from the toilet to the table, where Her wondering betters wait behind her chair:

With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd, Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, The genial confidante, and general spy; Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess,

An only infant's earliest governess! She taught the child to read, and taught 80 well

That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell.

An adept next in penmanship she grows, As many a nameless slander deftly shows: What she had made the pupil of her art, None know—but that high soul secured the

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Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind,

Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could

not blind,

Deceit infect not, near contagion soil.
Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil,
Nor master'd science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frost,
Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vain,
Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain,
Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion
bow,
Nor virtue teach austerity-till now.
Serenely purest of her sex that live,
But wanting one sweet weakness to forgive
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never
know,

She deems that all could be like her below:
Foe to all vice, yet hardly virtue's friend -
For virtue pardons those she would amend

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At times the loftiest to the meanest mind-Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, Have given her power too deeply to instil The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast The angry essence of her deadly will; spread! If like a snake she steal within your walls, Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;

If like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints,

With all the kind mendacity of hints, While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles,

A thread of candour with a web of wiles; A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,

To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd

scheming;

A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal,
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel;
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown,
A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone.
Mark how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale,
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face).
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined:
Look on the picture! deem it not o'er-
charged-

There is no trait which might not be
enlarged;

Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made

This monster when their mistress left off
trade,-

This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

Then, when thou fain wouldst weary heaven with prayer,

Look on thine earthly victims-and despair! Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away,

Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous
clay.

But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear,
Thy name-thy human name—to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers,
And festering in the infamy of years.

SPOKEN

ADDRESS,

March 30, 1816.

АТ ТПВ OPENING OF DRURY LANE

THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and

mourn'd,

Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven,

Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from
heaven;

Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled
Thames,
While thousands, throng'd around the
burning dome,
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for
their home,
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly
shone

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a The skies, with lightnings awful as their thought,

own,

Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall The time shall come, nor long remote, Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her when thou fall; Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now; Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. May the strong curse of crush'd affections light

Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind,
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.

Say– shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in
our isle,

Know the same favour which the former
knew,
A shrine for Shakespeare-worthy him and
you?

Yes it shall be-the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame ; On the same spot still consccrates the scene,

And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spell— Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast

Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart.

On Drury Garrick's latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu :

But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom

That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse

One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander's head!

Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,

Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass

To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, Pause ere their feebler offspring you condemn,

Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays

Must sue alike for pardon, or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,
And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste, it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's
powers,

And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours!

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone

Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.

The curtain rises-may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please - long, long may you preside!

ODE.

OH Venice! Venice! when thy marble-walls
Are level with the waters, there shall be
A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,
A loud lament along the sweeping sea!
If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
What should thy sons do?-any thing but
weep:

And yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers-as the slime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the dashing of the spring-tide-foam,
That drives the sailor shipless to his home,
Are they to those that were; and thus they
creep,
Crouching and crab-like, through their
sapping streets.
Oh! agony--that centuries should reap
No mellower harvest! Thirteen hundred
years

Of wealth and glory turn'd to dust and tears;
And every monument the stranger meets,
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;
And even the Lion all subdued appears,
And the harsh sound of the barbarian drum.
With dull and daily dissonance, repeats
The echo of thy tyrant's voice along
The soft waves, once all musical to song,
That heaved beneath the moonlight with
the throng

Of gondolas and to the busy hum
Of cheerful creatures, whose most sinful
deeds

Were but the overbeating of the heart, And flow of too much happiness, which needs The aid of age to turn its course apart From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood But these are better than the gloomy errors, The weeds of nations in their last decay, When Vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors,

And Mirth is madness,and but smiles to slay; And Hope is nothing but a false delay, The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,

When Faintness, the last mortal birth ofPain,
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning
Of the cold staggering race which Death
is winning,

Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath.

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