Heav'ns! how his bosom burn'd to dare
The grim delight of manhood's war,
And brandish in no mimic field
His beaming lance and osier shield:
How his young bosom long'd to claim
In war's wild tumult manhood's name,
And write it, 'midst the battle's foam,
In the best blood of trembling Rome!

Such was the hope, the barbarous joy,
That nerv'd to arms the German boy;
A flame as ardent, more refin'd,
Shall brightly glow in Julio's mind';
But yet

I'd rather see thee smile quilt Grimly on war's embattled file,

I'd rather see thee wield in strifes turpe 1 roll The German butcher's reckless knife, Thinking thy claims to manhood grow #F'. From each pale corse that bleeds below;

I'd rather view thee thus, than see

A modern blockhead rise in thee.

di, daca o my T met alun vuola

ST

Is it a study for a Peera joeto o To breathe soft vows in lady's ear,

To choose a coat or leap a gate, mét

To win an heiress-or a plate?

D'asidy 950 (ni valori ovíť

Far nobler studies shall be thineɔgo sit So Friendship and the Muse divine: RELEA

It shall be yours, in danger's hour,

in danger's hour, il bundsd To guide the helm of British power 10 sood A And 'midst thy country's laurell'd crown'

power,

To mix a garland all thine own.

T

Julio, from this auspicious day,

New honours gild thine onward way;
In thee Posterity shall view

A heart to faith and feeling true,

And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend, For Virtue's, and the poor man's friend,esi ma

PREPARING, FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN. T

JULIA, while London's fancied bliss, Bids you despise a life like this, any tull While and its joys you leave,

For hopes, that flatter to deceive, on mediati You will not scornfully refuse,

(Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,) To look upon my line, and hear

What Friendship sends to Beauty's ear.

Y

Where dusty ivy strives to crawl contra

Five inches up the whiten'd wall.

The open window, thickly set

With myrtle, and with mignionette,
Behind whose cultivated row

A brace of globes peep out for show,
The avenue-the burnish'd plate,
That decks the would-be rustic gate,
Denote the fane where Fashion dwells,
-"Lyce's Academy for Belles."

"Twas here, in earlier, happier days,
Retired from Pleasure's weary maze,
You found, unknown to care or pain,
The peace you will not find again.
Here Friendships, far too fond to last,
A bright, but fleeting radiance cast,
On

every sport that Mirth devised,
And every scene that Childhood prized,
And every bliss, that bids you yet
Recall those moments with regret.

Those friends have mingled in the strife That fills the busy scene of life, And Pride and Folly-Cares and Fears, Look dark upon their future years : But by their wrecks may Julia learn, Whither her fragile bark to turn ; And, o'er the troubled sea of fate, Avoid the rocks they found too late.

You know Camilla-o'er the plain She guides the fiery hunter's rein; First in the chase she sounds the horn, Trampling to earth the farmer's corn, That hardly deign'd to bend its head, Beneath her namesake's lighter tread. With Bob the Squire, her polish'd lover, She wields the gun, or beats the cover; And then her steed! why! every clown Tells how she rubs Smolensko down, And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof, While wondering hostlers stand aloof.

At night, before the Christmas fire She plays backgammon with the Squire;

Shares in his laugh, and in his liquor,
Mimics her father and the Vicar;
Swears at the grooms-without a blush
Dips in her ale the captured brush,
Until her father duly tired
The parson's wig as duly fired

The dogs all still the Squire asleep,
And dreaming of his usual leap,—
She leaves the dregs of white and red,
And lounges languidly to bed;.
And still in nightly visions borne,
She gallops o'er the rustic's corn;
Still wields the lash-still shakes the box,
Dreaming of "sixes "—and the fox.

And this is bliss-the story runs,
Camilla never wept-save once;
Yes! once indeed Camilla cried-
'Twas when her dear Blue-stockings died.

Pretty Cardelia thinks she's ill

She seeks her med'cine at Quadrille ;
With hope, and fear, and envy sick,
She gazes on the dubious trick,
As if Eternity were laid

Upon a diamond, or a spade.
And I have seen a transient pique
Wake, o'er that soft and girlish cheek,
A chilly and a feverish hue,

Blighting the soil where Beauty grew,
And bidding Hate and Malice rove
In eyes that ought to beam with love.

Turn we to Fannia-she was fair As the soft fleeting forms of air,

Shap'd by the fancy,-fitting theme
For youthful bard's enamour'd dream.
The neck, on whose transparent glow
The auburn ringlets sweetly flow,
The eye that swims in liquid fire,
The brow that frowns in playful ire;
All these, when Fannia's early youth
Look'd lovely in its native truth,
Diffus'd a bright, unconscious grace,
Almost divine, o'er form and face.

Her lip has lost its fragrant dew, Her cheek has lost its rosy hue, Her eye the glad enlivening rays That glitter'd there in happier days, Her heart the ignorance of woe Which Fashion's votaries may not know.

The city's smoke-the noxious airThe constant crowd-the torch's glareThe morning sleep-the noonday callThe late repast-the midnight ball, Bid Faith and Beauty die, and taint Her heart with fraud, her face with paint.

And what the boon, the prize enjoy'd, For fame defac'd, and peace destroy'd! Why ask we this? With conscious grace She criticises silk and lace;

Queen of the modes, she reigns alike
O'er sarcenet, bobbin, net, vandyke,
O'er rouge and ribbons, combs and curls,
Perfumes and patches, pins and pearls ;
Feelings and faintings, songs and sighs,
Small-talk and scandal, love and lies.