For me in my deserted grave THE WONDERFUL JUGGLER. A SONG. COME all ye true hearts, who, old England to save, Now shoulder the musket, or plough the rough wave, I will sing you a song of a wonderful fellow, Who has ruined Jack Pudding, and broke Punchinello. Derry down, down, high derry down. This juggler is little, and ugly, and black, But, like Atlas, he stalks with the world at his back; 'Tis certain, all fear of the devil he scorns; Some say they are cousins; we know he wears horns. Derry down. At hop, skip, and jump, who so famous as he? He tosses up kingdoms the same as a ball, Derry down. And his cup is so fashioned it catches them all; The Pope and Grand Turk have been heard to declare His skill at the long bow has made them both stare. Derry down. He has shown off his tricks in France, Italy, Spain; So hearing John Bull has a taste for strange sights, Derry down. To encourage his puppets to venture this trip, Derry down. This new Katterfelto, his show to complete, Derry down. If this project should fail, he has others in store; Derry down. When Philip of Spain fitted out his Armada, If he comes in the style of a fish or a crow. Derry down. Now if our rude tars will so crowd up the seas, That his boats have not room to go down when they please, Derry down. How welcome he'll be, it were needless to say; Derry down, down, high derry down. SONNET TO MY MOTHER. AND canst thou, Mother, for a moment think Could from our best of duties ever shrink? Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. SONNET. SWEET to the gay of heart is summer's smile, Where gloomy storms their sullen shadows fling. Is it for me to strike the Idalian string- Away with thoughts like these. To some lone cave wave, Direct my steps; there, in the lonely drear, I'll sit remote from worldly noise, and muse Till through my soul shall Peace her balm infuse. And whisper sounds of comfort in mine ear. SONNET. QUICK o'er the wintry waste dart fiery shafts- The dying wanderer's distant, feeble cries. Yet oft his bosom heaves with rending throes, Which gnaws his heart and bids him hope no more. TIME. A POEM. This poem was begun either during the publication of CLIFTON GROVE, or shortly afterwards. The author never laid aside the intention of completing it, and some of the detached parts were among his latest productions. GENIUS of musings, who, the midnight hour For now I strike to themes of import high Above this narrow cell, I celebrate The mysteries of Time! Him who, august, Was ere these worlds were fashioned,-ere the sun. Sprang from the east, or Lucifer displayed His glowing cresset on the arch of morn, Or Vesper gilded the serener eve. At God's command, assumed a milder strain, |