And he call'd his little Soul to order, order, order, Till she fear'd he'd make her jog in To jail like Thomas Croggan (As she wasn't Duke or Earl), to reward her, ward her, ward her, As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her. The little Man then spoke, For as sure as J-cky F-ull-r loves a sup, sup, sup, What I think of Church and Steeple, And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up, Away then, cheek by jowl, Little Man and little Soul Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle, That this priggish little pair Never yet in all their lives look'd so little, little, little, REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON. suosque tibi commendat Troja PENATES Hos cape fatorum comites.-Virgil. As recruits in these times are not easily got, 1813. And the Marshal must have them-pray, why should we not, Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him? There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear, Any men we could half so conveniently spare, And, though they've been helping the French for years past, C-stl-r-gh in our sieges might save some disgraces, Nay, I do not see why the great R-g-t himself Should, in times such as these, stay at home on the shelf;- And though oft, of an evening, perhaps, he might prove, 6 Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded, HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III. A FRAGMENT. Odi profanum vulgus et arceo. Regum timendorum in proprios greges, HATE thee, O Mob! as my lady hates delf, 1813. To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses, Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself, And, like G-dw-n, write books for young masters and misses. Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry, Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap, Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry, Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap. * HORAT. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII, A FRAGMENT. Persicos odi, puer, apparatus: TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries, IMPROMPTU. UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN. 1810. BETWEEN Adam and me the great difference is, LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS. So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled, 1813. While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, O Wellington! long as such Ministers wield Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do; which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned Clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph on Fair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal hope, that, if 'Rosa munda' mean 'a Rose with clean hands,' it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the Rosa aurea,' which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the 'old Rose,' he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the poet, consenuisse Rosas.' The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses that is quite edifying. SACRED SONGS. 1816. THOU ART, O GOD! AIR-Unknown.1 The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter.'—Psalm lxxiv. 16, 17. THOU art, O God! the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see ; When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven; Those hues, that make the sun's decline So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine. When night, with wings of starry gloom, Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes;- Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. THIS world is all a fleeting show There's nothing true but Heaven! And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb,- Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way, There's nothing calm but Heaven! I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair.' 'I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enenies.'-Jer. xii. 7. 2Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory.'Jer. xiv. 21. No-Heaven but faintly warms the breast, That beats beneath a broider'd veil; And she, who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail.8 Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away! of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet, till there be no place.'-Jer. vii. 32. 7 These lines were suggested by a passage in St. Jerome's reply to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated upon his intimacy with 3The Lord called thy name, A green olive-the Matron Paula:-'Numquid me vestes sericæ, tree, fair, and of goodly fruit,' &c.-Jer. xi. 16. 4 For he shall be like the heath in the desert.' -Jer. xvii. 6. 5 Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord's.'-Jer. v. 10. 6Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the valley of the son of Hinnom, but the Valley nitentes gemmæ, picta facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio ? Nulla fuit alia Romæ matronaruin, quæ meam po sit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu pene cæcata.'-Epist. 'Si tibi putem.' 8 Ου γαρ χρυσοφορειν την δακρύουσαν δει. Chrysost. Homil. 8, in Epist. ad Tim. 11 |