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But oh! I saw that lovely form
Like rosebud trembling to the blast;
That o'er thee, helpless victim, pass'd.
I vow'd with thoe one tot to brave ;
Shall rise, sweet Mourner, on my grave.
Returned to Town. Composed by the way two Sonnets and half an Epigram.
April 11.-Sat down at Eleven o'clock, furiously resolved to write till Three.
Half after Eleven.-Mended my pen.
Two o'clock. Wrote twelve lines.
April 18-Transcribed the following Song. It is by an author who has been frequently before our readers, and who needs no words of mie to recommend him
2. SONG IN PRISON. O'er the turf wheré roses lie,
In the dungeon's noxious gloom Through the grove where Zephyrs sigh, Could the spreading woodbine bloom ! O'er the heath, whose flowery head Could the thrush, no longer free, Trembles scarce heneath its tread,
Carol with its wonted glee? Wildly bounds the lev'ret by,
No! within the prison's shade In the love of liberty!
Hope must die, and pleasure fade! On his wildly glancing pinion,
Like the lamp's expiring ray, Monarch of the air's dominion,
Here my strength must pine away: High the eagle, slow, and proud.
And when some few months are ofer, Soars above the fleecy cloud;
Here I shall be seen no more : Darts from thence his lightning eye, Wretched live, and wretched die, In the pride of liberty?
Far from blessed liberty! O'er the wave, where streaks of gold Hark! I hear the billows dashing : Tinge each billow onwards roll, Nearer-'tis the broadsword clashing! Light the dolphin plays along,
Freedom soothes the pris'ner's pain! List’ning to the boatman's song;
Freedom breaks the pris'ner's chain, Braves The shark that's swimming nigh, Bursts the door---my friends I see ! In the glee of liberty!
Death, I scorn thee I am free! April 15.-A letter from a friend, repeating the often-urged objections of frivolity, attention to trifles, &c. Transcribed by
way of reply a little bit of Golightly's “ Thoughts on Faces.”— The paper was burnt by an old gentleman, with a prominent nose, who imagined himself reflected upon in it. None of it was preserved but the exordium :
“ There are many, who, while they are amply capable of sound and deep reflection, wben any extraordinary event calls this capacity into action, see nothing to excite reasoning or consideration in the common occurrences of life. But tbere are others to whom the every-day incidents, which are to an indifferent spectator objects of no weight or importance, afford matter of serious cogitation. An observer of this description does not find it necessary to go to Books or Colleges for precepts of morality and philosophy; he reads a lesson in every face that he looks upon; he finds an instructor in every character that he meets with: the most trivial accidents are to him subjects of profitable speculation.
“ Notwithstanding the bias in favour of scbolastic learning, which, as Etonians, we might be expected to entertain, most of the members of our Club belong to the latter description of persons. In order to call our attention to the vanity of human affairs, it is not necessary that some great event should take place ; that a city should be destroyed by an earthquake, or an empire sink into decay: we consider, with almost similar sensations, the fall of a Dandy from his steed, and the fall of an Emperor from his throne; an eruption from the crater of Vesuvius, and an eruption upon the cheek of a Belle.
“ The gravem
April 17.-Received letters from various . Members of the Club. Miss Montgomery is going to be married! I have never seen you, Miss Montgomery, but I have seen your brother, and can form a most romantic idea of your character. You should be one, methinks, not to be looked over carelessly, but to be read through attentively; not to be adored after a moment's glance, but to be loved after a year's intimacy. I know not whether your hair is black or auburn, whether your cheek is fair or dark ; but I will stake my existence, and, what is more, my work, that you have an eye of light-a voice of sweetness—a soul of poetry. The ornament of your mind is its native wit;-the beauty of your face is its native expression. I am painting in the dark, perhaps somewhat absurdly. Whatever you are, may you be moderate in your wishes, independent in your fortunes, and-kind in your criticism!
Received two little pieces from Cambridge :
TO MISS SOPHIA EVERETT,
My stubborn Muse denies a lay,
Both debts of rhyme and debts of honour, 1.
But though, they say, the Poet's trade is
To lie, make love, and fawn, and flatter,
Shall mock thy charms with adulation;
As I'm below thy condemnation.
As tokens of my true love greet 'em;
No wonder pretty ladies beat 'em.)
Of me, (they're of the best kid leather)
That band and heart should go together.
THE REJECTED LOVER.
Strango! that such symmetry of form,
Such grace as might out-rival Cupid,
Sure the girl's either blind or stupid.
Let the fair sex decide between us ;
As Vulcan's to the bed of Venus.
April 19.--I begin to perceive that the articles I have on hand accumulate very rapidly. I must endeavour to clear out my portfolio by making extracts from them. I shall begin with “ Golightly's Essay on Blues :”—
“ Lady Dabble is a True. Blue. She is a meddler in Literature of every sort and description. Poetry and Prose, Pamphlets and Plays, Sermons and Satires, Overtures and Odes-all are her Hobbies, all are the objects of her patronage, all are the subjects of her harangues. At her house is the Synod beld, where Criticism and Tea are poured out together; where sweet Sugar and sweeter Sonnets melt in delicious unison. It is delightful to spend a few hours at Lady Dabble's conversazione. All inferior Wits and Witlings flit around her like twinkling stars; while her Ladyship, with her full-moon face,-but it strikes us that this is a very old simile.
“Of all Blues we think the Light Blue is our favourite. Mark the surprising difference which exists between Emilia, the Light Blue, and her sister Sophia, the Dark Blue. Sophia is a fine Vessel, properly supplied with everything requisite for a long voyage; but a villanous slow sailor. Emilia is the same Vessel, but certainly it has thrown out a vas* quantity of ballast. To speak in plainer language, Sophia talks lear edly, and puzzles you ; Emilia talks learnedly, and amuses you : 1
latter sets you a laugbing'; and the former sends you to sleep. A good Painter will select for his picture only the most agreeable parts of the Landscape which lies before him; a good Talker will notice the more pleasing points of his subject, while he will throw aside the tedious. But, alas ! Emilia will describe a statue while Sophia is treating of a finger; and the Light Blue will analyze the Iliad, while the Dark Blue is discussing the Digamma.
“Fannia is a Fair One, who endeavours to unite the extreme of fashionable Dress with the extreme of unfashionable Blue-ism. Mr. Hodgson made a vile pun (as usual) when he denominated her a Blue Bell.
“ The only remaining Blue of whom we shall here make mention is Eva, the Sky-Blue. The babit of talking sentiment, in which the SkyBlue commonly indulges, is in general sufficiently annoying ; but in the person of Eva, far be it from us to apply to it such an epithet. Eva is always in Heroics ; she never speaks a sentence which is not fit to go into a German Romance. All this sits very well upon Youth and Beauty, but in Age and Ugliness it is insufferable. Eva has a pretty pair of Blue eyes, a finely polished neck, an enchanting white arm, and a voice withal, which is never heard but in a whisper, an aria, or a sigh. She has, in short, such a talent at turning our brains, that our Secretary has not inappositely styled her Blue Ruin."
April 21.-Received “a Country Curate.” He will probably appear in our next.
April 22.-Ditto ditto, The Game at Chess.”
April 23.-Read over ten times a most beautiful Love-Song from Gerard. Sealiger, I think, used to say that he would rather have written Horace's “ Donec gratus eram tibi” than have been the King of Persia. Truly, my dear Gerard, I would rather have written one line of your Love-Song than be King of Naples.
April 25. Met our Secretary at a Dance-inquired of him at Supper, whether he had received any contributions for No. VII. “ At present,” said Mr. H., swallowing at the same time the largest mouthful of ice that I ever saw, “it is only my business to take care of No. One !”-Impertinent scoundrel ! :
April 30.--I had intended to insert the “ Stanzas on Caernarvon Castle" in this Number. But upon coming to the end of it, I find that I have made a little mistake in my calculations, which obliges me to omit them. They shall be inserted in No. VIII.
In concluding our Seventh Number, I must beg our readers to attribute any little inaccuracies they may find in it to the unavoidable absence of their obliged servant,
The King of Clubs.
Saturni, 140 die Maii, 1821. The Club met earlier than usual this month, in order to secure the company of one of their Members, who was about to take up his abode upon the banks of Isis.
After the Articles intended for No. VIII. had been read, and the thanks of the Club voted, as usual, to the Authors of them, Mr. LE BLANC was desired, in default of any more agreeable amusement, to read to the Club his Vale. Allen accordingly complied.
MR. LE BLANC'S VALE.
“ From time immemorial it has been the custom of Etonians, upon their departure from this seat of classic literature, to compose some- . thing which they term a “ Vale.” I know not precisely how to define this species of writing : I can hardly call it prose, for it is clothed in the gewgaw fetters of rhyme; I can hardly call it poetry, for it is frequently burdened with all the ponderous inflexibility of prose. It is always very sad, and generally produces a contrary feeling in its readers.
However, it has long been a maxim with me, that old customs, in all their primitive utility, or in all their primitive absurdity, ought to be kept up; and I therefore sit down, and, having composed my thoughts into a most gentlemanly melancholy, I proceed to dite my Vale. In doing so, however, I intend to deviate in one respect from the practice which has been most commonly received among our predecessors; I will not confine my thoughts in the inharmonious cadence of monkish jingle: the language in which the ideas of Allen Le Blanc are expressed shall be as free as those ideas themselves; I will write in plain, humble, unsophisticated, English prose.