EPIGRAM. FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIERES. IF, for silver or for gold, You could melt ten thousand pimples Looking, doubtless, much more snugly; STANZAS. COULD Love for ever No other pleasure With this could measure ; We'd hug the chain. Love plumes his wing; Then for this reason Let's love a season; But let that season be only Spring. When lovers parted A few years older, From out his wing He'll stay for ever, But sadly shiver Without his plumage, when past the Spring. Like chiefs of Faction, His life is action A formal paction That curbs his reign, Obscures his glory, Quits with disdain. He must move on- Love brooks not a degraded throne. Wait not, fond lover! Till years are over, As from a dream. While each bewailing All passion blight: Then part in friendship-and bid good-night. So shall Affection. Bring back with joy : As through the past: Of your sweet errors, Reflect but rapture-not least though last. True, separations Ask more than patience; From such have risen! But yet remaining, What is't but chaining Hearts which, once waning, Beat 'gainst their prison? To wean, and not wear out your joys. ON MY WEDDING-DAY. HERE'S a happy new year! but with reason EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. WITH death doom'd to grapple, Who lied in the Chapel Now lies in the Abbey. EPIGRAM. IN digging up your bones, Tom Paine, Will. Cobbett has done well: 8 THE CHARITY BALL. WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and father, If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, And the saint patronizes her 'charity ball!' What matters-a heart which, though faulty, was feeling, ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty, MARTIAL, LIB. I., EPIG. I. Hic est, quem legis, ille, quem requiris, Tota notus in orbe Martialis,' &c. HE unto whom thou art so partial, Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial, The Epigrammatist while living, Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving; So shall he hear, and feel, and know it-Post-obits rarely reach a poet. BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. To the tune of 'Why, how now, saucy jade?' WHY, how now, saucy Tom? If you thus must ramble, I will publish some Remarks on Mister Campbell. ANSWER. WHY, how now, Billy Bowles? EPIGRAMS. On Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now; Cato died for his country, so didst thou: He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved, Be driven to excesses which once could appal-Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, As the saint keeps her charity back for the ball!' saved! So Castlereagh has cut his throat !-The worst Of this is, that his own was not the first. So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who? The man who cut his country's long ago. EPITAPH. POSTERITY will ne'er survey A nobler grave than this: Here lie the bones of Castlereagh : Stop, traveller JOHN KEATS. WHO kill'd John Keats? 'I,' says the Quarterly, So savage and Tartarly; ''Twas one of my feats.' Who shot the arrow? 'The poet-priest Milman (So ready to kill man), 'Or Southey, or Barrow.' [partTo perform in the pageant the sovereign's But long live the shamrock, which shadows him o'er ! heart! Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again, thy chain, And a new spring of noble affections arise-Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in [the skies. And this shout of thy slavery which saddens Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? [clay, Were he God-as he is but the commonest With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow Such servile devotion might shame him away. Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash Their fanciful spirits to pamper his prideNot thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied. Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good! So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest! With all which Demosthenes wanted endued, And his rival or victor in all he possess'd. Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome, [gunThough unequall'd, preceded, the task was be But Grattan sprung up like a god from the tomb Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one! With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute; With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind; Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute, And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind. mite! Ay! Build him a dwelling!' let each give his [arisen! Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath Let thy beggars and helots their pittance uniteAnd a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison ! Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast, Till the gluttonous despot be stuffd to the gorge! [last And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at The fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd 'George !' Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan! If she did-let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, low Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy And this heart, though outworn, had a throb Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not I have known noble hearts and great souls in once. For happy are they now reposing afar, Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent [fall. war, And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of today [slaves Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; [core There was something so warm and sublime in the Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead. if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour My contempt for a nation so servile, though [upon power, Which though trod like the worm will not turn 'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore! September, 1821. Till they groan like thy people, through ages of woe! [throne, Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's Like their blood which has flow'd and which Or, yet has to flow. But let not his name be thine idol alone On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine [jeers! own! A wretch never named but with curses and Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth, [soil, Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her Seeins proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth, [smile. And for murder repays him with shouts and a sore, STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD Without one single ray of her genius, without doubt If she ever gave birth to a being so base. hoary! [glory! What care I for the wreaths that can only give STANZAS TO A HINDOO AIR. How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking;| Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow. Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom !-oh! my lonely Pillow! IMPROMPTU. BENEATH Blessington's eyes Should be free as the former from evil; For an apple should grieve, What mortal would not play the Devil? TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON. What Laurence has painted so well; I am ashes where once I was fire, And my heart is as grey as my head. My life is not dated by years There are moments which act as a plough;| STANZAS FOR MUSIC. In the orbs of the blessed to shine. As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be! There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest; But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest? ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY MISSOLONGHI, Jan. 22, 1824. My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The fire that on my bosom preys |