LORD HOLLAND. [1773-1840
HIS OWN EPITAPH.
Nephew of Fox and friend of Grey,
I ask no higher fame,
If those who've marked my course shall say,
I've sullied neither name.
HENRY LUTTRELL. [Died 1851
From LETTERS TO JULIA.
O London! comprehensive word!
Whose sound, though scarce in whispers heard,
Breathes independence-if I share
That best of blessings, I can bear
F'en with thy fogs and smoky air.
Of leisure fond, of freedom fonder,
O grant me in thy streets to wander ;
Grant me thy cheerful morning walk,
Thy dinner, and thy evening talk.
What signify such paltry blots?
The glorious sun itself has spots.
Here stands proclaimed a general mart,
Traffic who will. Here science, art,
Wit, learning, courage, genius, sense,
And every kind of excellence,
In the thronged lists of wealth and fame
Contend for fortune, or a name.
Say that, from feebleness of will,
From indolence, or want of skill,
Not venturing on a game so high
You view it as a stander by-
A risk so great, so large a stake,
Would keep the heaviest eyes awake.
All equal here, as if the pavement
To level men were like the grave meant.
Let them, in earnest or in fun, try
If they can match it in the country;
A village is a hive of glass,
There nothing undescried can pass;
There all may study, at their ease,
The forms and motions of the bees;
What wax or honey each brings home
To swell the treasures of the comb,
Upon his loaded thighs and wings;
And which are drones, and which have stings; Whether in consequence be higher
The Rector, or the neighbouring squire. . .
But count the motes or specks who can
On this our huge Leviathan! . . .
How, but by prancing in the mud,
Can pampered cattle show their blood?
Poor heiresses! These doubts will bore you,
You will suspect that men adore you
Not for yourselves, but for your money :
"Tis thus with gall you dash your honey.
Oh that there might in England be
A duty on Hypocrisy !
A tax on humbug, an excise
On solemn plausibilities,
A stamp on every man that canted!
No millions more, if these were granted,
Henceforward would be raised or wanted.
And White's bow-windowed Club-house deserted.
Shot from yon heavenly bow, at White's,
No critic arrow now alights
On some unconscious passer-by,
Whose cape's an inch too low or high;
Whose doctrines are unsound in hat,
In boots, in trousers, or cravat ;
On him who braves the shame and guilt
Of gig or tilbury ill-built ;-
Sports a barouche with panels darker
Than the last shade turned out by Barker;
Or canters with an awkward seat,
And badly mounted, up the street.
Silenced awhile that dreadful battery,
Whence never issued sound of flattery;
That whole artillery of jokes,
Levelled point blank at humdrum folks ;
Who now, no longer kept in awe
By Fashion's judges or her law,
Strut by the window at their ease,
With just what looks and clothes they please!
There, once well-strapped from point to heel,
Glided his foot on glittering steel,
Like a light vessel on her keel;
And rapid as the viewless wind,
Left all his rivals far behind.
Never were yet achieved by skates
Such outside edges, threes, and eights,
As when he wheeled and circled, scorning
The mighty crack's prophetic warning.
O Death, thy certainty is such,
And thou art a thing so fearful,
That, musing, I have wondered much
How men are ever cheerful!
'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in Hell, And Echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; On the confines of Earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the Depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Tis seen in the Lightning, and heard in the
"Twill be found in the Spheres when they're riven asunder;
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest Breath,
It attends at his Birth, and awaits him in Death;
Presides o'er his Happiness, Honour, and Health,
Is the prop of his House, and the end of his Wealth.
In the Heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal Heir.
It begins every Hope, every Wish it must bound, With the Husbandman toils, and with Monarchs is crowned.
Without it the Soldier and Seaman may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from Home!
In the Whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'en in the Whirlwind of passion is drowned.
'Twill soften the Heart, and though deaf to the Ear,
Will make it acutely and instantly Hear.
In Shade let it rest, like a beautiful flower,
O breathe on it softly, it dies in an Hour.
["Here Rogers sat, and here for ever dwell
For me those pleasures that he sang so well."
LORD HOLLAND On a Garden Seat at Holland House.]
From-THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.
Twilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green,
With magic tints to harmonize the scene.
Mark yon old mansion frowning through the trees,
Whose hollow turret wooes the whistling breeze. .
The mouldering gateway strews the grass-grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the sound,
And turned the blindfold hero round and round;
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairy ring,
And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing.
Giants and genii chained each wondering ear,
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear.
Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood,
Or viewed the forest-feats of Robin Hood.
Down by yon hazel copse, at evening, blazed
The gipsy's fagot-there we stood and gazed;
Gazed on her sun-burnt face with silent awe,
Her tattered mantle, and her hood of straw;
Her moving lips, her cauldron brimming o'er;
The drowsy brood that on her back she bore.
On yon grey stone, that fronts the chancel door,
Worn smooth by busy feet now seen no more.
Each eve we shot the marble thro' the ring
When the heart danced and life was in its spring.
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