What mighty cause has torn him thus
Unwilling from “ suburban rus,”
Bade him desert his one-horse chaise,
His old companions and "old ways ;"
Give up his Baccalaurean tattle,
And quit the bottle-for the battle?
Has he forgot, in martial ardour,
His wig, his teapot, and his larder?
Has he forgot ungrateful Sub.—
Champagne, backgammon, and-the club?
Has he forgot his native earth,
His sofa, and his decent hearth?
Has he forgot his homely fare,

And her, the maid with yellow hair,

That dress'd the meat, and spread the board,
Laid fuel on the fire, and pour'd

In stream as sparkling as her eye,
From its green gaol the Burgundy?
That Hebe, in thy native town,
Looks from her lattic'd window down,
And, when the newsman paces by,
Runs, with a sharp and fearful cry,
And cheek all pale, and eye all wet,
To seek thy name in the Gazette.
What fate has bid her master roam
An exile from his cheerful home?
What has his landlord turn'd him out?
Is he gone mad with love-or gout?
Has death impos'd his finger bony
Upon his mistress-or his crony ?
Have sober matrons ceas'd to praise
The lover of their youthful days?
Are belles less eager to command,
With wink and smile, his ready hand?

Fears he the sudden dissolution
Of club-house-or of constitution?
Has the last pipe of hock miscarried?
Has-I forget, last week he married.

Thou too thy brilliant helm must don,
Etona's wild and wayward son,

Mad merry Charles.-While, beardless yet,
Thou look'st upon thy plume of jet,
Or smilest, as the clouds of night
Are drifted back by morning's light,
Thy boyish look, thy careless eyes,
Might wake the envy of the wise.

Six months have past, since thou didst rove
Unwilling through Etona's grove,
Trembling at many an ancient face
That met thee in that holy place;
To speak the plain and honest truth,
Thou wast no, scholar in thy youth.
But now go forth-broke loose from school,
Kill and destroy by classic rule,

Or die in fight, to live in story,

As valiant Hector did before ye.

On! on! take forts and storm positions,

Break Frenchmen's heads-instead of Priscian's, And seek in death and conflagration

A gradus to thy reputation.

Yet, when the war is loud and high,

Thine old mistakes will round thee fly;

And still, in spite of all thy care,

False quantities will haunt thee there;
For thou wilt make, amidst the throng,
Or a short, or иλεo long.

Methinks I know that figure bold, And stalwart limbs of giant mould!

"Tis he-I know his ruddy face,

My tried staunch friend, Sir Matthew Chase.

His snore is loud, his slumber deep,

Yet dreams are with him in his sleep,

And Fancy's visions oft recall

The merry Hunt and jovial Hall-
And oft replace before his sight
The bustle of to-morrow's fight.

In swift succession o'er his brain,
Come fields of corn, and fields of slain;
And, as the varying image burns,
Blood and blood-horses smoke by turns;
The five-barr'd gate and muddy ditch',
Smolensko and " the spotted bitch,"
Parisian puppies-English dogs

Begar" and " damme,”-beef and frogs, In strange unmeaning medley fly

Before poor Nimrod's wandering eye.

He speaks! what murmuring stifled sounds Burst from his throat: "Why, madam! zounds! "Who scar'd me with that Gorgon face?

"I thought I saw my Lady Chase!"

And thou too, Clavering-Humour's son !

Made up of wisdom and of fun!
Medley of all that's dark and clear,
Of all that's foolish, all that's dear,
Tell me what brings thee here to die,
Thou prince of eccentricity?'
Poor Arthur! in his childhood's day'
He cared so little for his play,
And wore so grave and prim a look,
And cried so, when he miss'd his book,
That aunts were eager to presage

The glories of his riper age,

And fond mamma in him foresaw
The bulwark of the British law,
And Science from her lofty throne
Look'd down and mark'd him for her own.
Ah! why did flattery come at school
To tinge him with a shade of fool!
Alas! what clever plans were crost!
Alas! how wise a judge was lost!
Without a friend to check or guide,
He hurried into fashion's tide,
He aped each folly of the throng,
Was all by turns, and nothing long;
Through varying tastes and modes he flew,
Dress-boxing-racing-dice-Virtu,

Now looking blue in sentimentals,
Now looking red in regimentals,
Now impudent, and now demure,
Now blockhead-and now connoisseur,
Now smoking at " the Jolly Tar,"
Now talking Greek with Doctor Parr,
A friend by turns to saints and sinners,
Attending lectures, plays, and dinners,
The Commons' House, and Common Halls,
Chapels of Ease-and Tattersall's;
Skilful in fencing, and in fist,
Blood-critic-jockey-methodist ;
Causeless alike in joy or sorrow,
Tory to-day, and Whig to-morrow,
All habits and all shapes he wore,

And lov'd, and laugh'd, and pray'd, and swore :

And now some instantaneous freak,

Some peevish whim, or jealous pique

Has made the battle's iron show'r

The hobby of the present hour,

And bade him seek, in steel and lead,

An opium for a rambling head.

A cannon ball will prove a pill

To lull what nothing else can still;
And I, that prophecy his doom,
Will give him all I can-a tomb,
And-o'er a pint of half and half,
Compose poor Arthur's epitaph :-

"Here, join'd in death, th' observer sees
"Plato-and Alcibiades ;-

"A mixture of the grave and funny, "A famous dish of Salmagundi."

Allan M'Gregor! from afar
I see him 'midst the ranks of war,
That all around are rising fast

From slumbers that may be their last;
I know him by his Highland plaid,
Long borne in foray and in raid,

His scarf all splash'd with dust and gore,
His nodding plume and broad claymore ;
I know him by that eagle eye,

Where foemen read their destiny;

I know him by that iron brow,

That frowns not, burns not, quails not now,
Though life and death are with the ray
That redly dawns upon to-day.

Woe to the wretch whose single might
Copes with dark Allan in the fight;
He knows not mercy-knows not fear;
The pibroch has to Allan's ear

A clearer and a sweeter note

Than mellow strains that blithely float
From lyre or lute, in courtly throng,
Where Beauty smiles upon the song.
Of artful wiles against his foe
Nothing he knows or cares to know;