I have just time to point out the " Little Cloud" as one of the most finished pieces I know; and extract part of a patriotic effusion addressed to Britain :
"I love thee, O my native Isle: Dear as my mother's earliest smile; Sweet as my father's voice to me Is all I hear, and all I see, When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land, In view thy Public Virtues stand, The guardian angels of thy coast, Who watch the dear domestic Host, The Heart's Affections, pleased to roam Around the quiet heaven of home.
I love thee,-when I mark thy soil Flourish beneath the peasant's toil, And from its lap of verdure throw Treasures which neither Indies know.
I love thee,-when I hear around Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound, Thine engines heaving all their force, Thy waters labouring on their course, And arts, and industry, and wealth Exulting in the joys of health.
I love thee,-when I trace thy tale To the dim point where records fail; Thy deeds of old renown inspire My bosom with our fathers' fire; A proud inheritance I claim
In all their sufferings, all their fame;
Nor less delighted when I stray
Down history's lengthening, widening
way,
And hail thee in thy present hour,
From the meridian arch of power,
Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
Like sunshine, over land and main.
I love thee,-when I read the lays
Of British bards in elder days,
Till, rapt on visionary wings,
High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings;
For I, among thy living choir,
I, too, can touch the sacred lyre.
I love thee,-when I contemplate
The full-orb'd grandeur of thy state;
Thy laws and liberties, that rise,
Man's noblest works beneath the skies,
To which the Pyramids were tame,
And Grecian temples bow their fame;
These, thine immortal sages wrought
Out of the deepest mines of thought!
These, on the scaffold, in the field,
Thy warriors won, thy patriots seal'd;
These, at the parricidal pyre,
Thy martyrs sanctified in fire,
And, with the generous blood they spilt,
Wash'd from thy soil their murderers'
guilt,
Cancell'd the curse which vengeance
And left a blessing in its stead:
-Can words, can numbers count the price
Paid for this little paradise?
Never, oh! never be it lost;
The land is worth the price it cost.
I love thee,-when thy sabbath dawns
O'er woods and mountains, dales and lawns,
And streams that sparkle while they run,
As if their fountain were the sun:
When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair
Each to their chosen house of prayer,
And all in peace and freedom call
On Him, who is the Lord of all.
Busy people, great and small,
Awkward dancers, short and tall,
Ladies, fighting which shall call,
Loungers, pertly quizzing all.-ANON.
THIS is a night of pleasure! Care,
I shake thee from me! do not dare
To stir from out thy murky cell,
Where, in their dark recesses, dwell
Thy kindred Gnomes, who love to nip
The rose on Beauty's cheek and lip,
Until, beneath their venom'd breath,
Life wears the pallid hue of Death.
Avaunt! I shake thee from me, Care!
The gay, the youthful, and the fair,
From "Lodge," and "Court," and "
"Hall,'
Are hurrying to the County Ball.
Avaunt! I tread on haunted ground,
And giddy Pleasure draws around,
To shield us from thine envious spite,
Her magic circle! nought to-night
Over that guarded barrier flies
But laughing lips and smiling eyes;
My look shall gaze around me free,
And like my look my line shall be;
While Fancy leaps in every vein,
While love is life, and thought is pain,
I will not rule that look and line
By any word or will of thine.
The Moon hath risen! Still and pale
Thou movest in thy silver veil,
Queen of the night; the filmy shroud
Of many a mild transparent cloud
Hides, yet adorns, thee-meet disguise
To shield thy blush from mortal eyes.
Full many a maid hath lov'd to gaze
Upon thy melancholy rays;
And many a fond despairing youth
Hath breath'd to thee his tale of truth;
And many a luckless rhyming wight
Hath look'd upon thy tender light,
And spilt his precious ink upon it,
In Ode, or Elegy, or Sonnet.
Alas! at this inspiring hour
I feel not, I, thy boasted power!
Nor seek to gain thine approbation
By vow, or prayer, or invocation
I ask not what the vapours are,
That veil thee like a white cymar;
Nor do I care a single straw
For all the stars I ever saw !
I fly from thee, I fly from these,
To bow to earthly Goddesses,
Whose forms in mortal beauty shine
As fair, but not so cold, as thine!
But this is foolish! Stars and Moon, You look quite beautiful in June; But, when a Bard sits down to sing, Your beauty is a dangerous thing; To muse upon your placid beam One wanders sadly from one's theme, And when weak poets go astray, The Stars are more in fault than they. * The Moon is charming! so, perhaps, Are pretty maidens in mob-caps; But, when a Ball is in the case, They're both a little out of place.
I love a Ball! there's such an air
Of magic in the lustres' glare,
And such a spell of witchery
In all I hear, and all I see,
That I can read in every dance
Some relique sweet of old romance:
As fancy wills, I laugh and smile,
And talk such nonsense all the while,
That when Dame Reason rules again,
And morning cools my heated brain,
Reality itself doth seem
Nought but the pageant of a dream :
In raptures deep I gaze, as now,
On smiling lip, and tranquil brow,
"And when weak women go astray,
The Stars are more in fault than they."
While merry voices echo round,
And music's most inviting sound
Swells on mine ear; and glances fly,
And love and folly flutter high,
And many a fair romantic cheek,
Redden'd with pleasure or with pique,
Glows with a sentimental flush,
That seems a bright unfading blush ;
And slender arms before my face
Are rounded with a statue's grace;
And ringlets wave, and beauteous feet
Swifter than lightning part and meet;
Frowns come and go; white hands are pressed,
And sighs are heard, and secrets guessed,
And looks are kind, and eyes are bright,
And tongues are free, and hearts are light.
Sometimes upon the crowd I look,
Secure in some sequester'd nook,
And while from thence I look and listen,
Though ladies' eyes so gaily glisten,
Though ladies' locks so lightly float,
Though music pours her mellowed note,
Some little spite will oft intrude,
Upon my merry solitude.
By turns the ever-varying scene
Awakes within me mirth and spleen;
By turns the gay and vain appear-
By turns I love to smile and sneer,
Mixing my malice with my glee,
Good humour with misanthropy:
And while my raptur'd eyes adore
Half the bright forms that flit before,
I notice with a little laugh
The follies of the other half.
That little laugh will oft call down,
From matron sage, rebuke and frown;
Little in truth for these I care-
By Momus and his mirth I swear!
For all the dishes Rowley tastes,
For all the paper Courtenay wastes,
For all the punch his subjects quaff,
I would not change that little laugh.*
Hoc ego opertum,
Hoc ridere meum, tam nil, nullâ tibi vendo
Iliade.
Shall I not laugh, when every fool
Comes hither for my ridicule,
When every face, that flits to-night
In long review before my sight,
Shows off unask'd its airs and graces,
Unconscious of the mirth it raises?
Skill'd to deceive our ears and eyes
By civil looks, and civil lies,
Skill'd from the search of men to hide
His narrow bosom's inward pride,
And charm the blockheads he beguiles
By uniformity of smiles,
The County Member, bright Sir Paul,
Is Primo Buffo at the Ball.
Since first he long'd to represent His fellow-men in Parliament, Courted the coblers and their spouses, And sought his honours in mud-houses, Full thirty springs have come and fled; And though from off his shining head The twin-destroyers, Time and Care, Begin to pluck its fading hair, Yet where it grew, and where it grows, Lie powder's never-varying snows, And hide the havoc years have made In kind monotony of shade.
Sir Paul is young in all but years;
And when his courteous face appears,
The maiden wall-flowers of the room
Admire the freshness of his bloom,
Hint that his face has made him vain,
And vow" he grows a boy again;"
And giddy girls of gay fifteen
Mimic his manner and his mien,
And when the supple Politician
Bestows his bow of recognition,
Or forces on th' averted ear
The flattery it affects to fear;
They look, and laugh behind the fan,
And dub Sir Paul "the young old man."
Look! as he paces round, he greets With nod and simper all he meets
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