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 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- But sadly shiver Without his plumage, when past the Spring. Like chiefs of Faction, A formal paction That curbs his reign, 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 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 I beg you'll permit me to say Wish me many returns of the season, EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. WITH death doom'd to grapple, Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel Now lies in the Abbey. EPIGRAM. IN digging up your bones, Tom Paine, Will. Cobbett has done well: THE CHARITY BALL. WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, What matters-a heart which, though faulty, ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. JANUARY 22, 1821. THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty, MARTIAL, LIB. I., EPIG. I. HE unto whom thou art so partial, BOWLES AND CAMPBELL. I will publish some Remarks on Mister Campbell. ANSWER. WHY, how now, Billy Bowles? EPIGRAMS. OH 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 So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who? EPITAPH. POSTERITY will ne'er survey A nobler grave than this: JOHN KEATS. 'The poet-priest Milman To 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, And a new spring of noble affections arise-Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in [the skies. thy chain, 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. Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last, If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay, Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey? Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reignTo reign! in that word see, ye ages, comprised The cause of the curses all annals contain, From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised! claim Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, pro[country convince His accomplishments! His!!! and thy Half an age's contempt was an error of fame, And that Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince !' Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ? Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with bymns? Ay! Build him a dwelling!' let each give his mite! If she did-let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd, Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring[flush'd, See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full Still warming its folds in the breast of a king! Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how [till Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still! My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right, low This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free, [still for thee! fight, And this heart, though outworn, had a throb Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land, [thy sons, I have known noble hearts and great souls in And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once. [arisen! For happy are they now reposing afar,-Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, all Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite-Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent And 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! Till they groan like thy people, through ages [throne, of woe! war, [fall. 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. sore, Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's Like their blood which has flow'd and which Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour yet has to flow. 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. But let not his name be thine idol alone own! On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine [jeers! 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 Without one single ray of her genius, without The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her raceThe miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt If she ever gave birth to a being so base. STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. OH, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? [sprinkled. 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew beThen away with all such from the head that is hoary! [glory! What care I for the wreaths that can only give Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, [cover, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one disShe thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; [my story, When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. November, 1821. 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; And the bard in my bosom is dead; There are moments which act as a plough ;| And there is not a furrow appears ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent (I hope I am not violent), Nor men nor gods knew what he meant, To me, divine Apollo, grant-0! 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 Is lone as some volcanic isle;. No torch is kindled at its blazeA funeral pile. |