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OF VARIOUS DATES.
ON THE DEATH OF MR. PR-V-L.
In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,
Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend ; We forgot in that hour how the statesman had erred,
And wept, for the husband, the father and friend. Oh! proud was the meed his integrity won,
And generous indeed were the tears that we shed, When in grief we forgot all the ill he had done,
And, though wronged by him living, bewailed him when dead. Even now, if one harsher emotion iutrude,
"Tis to wish he had chosen some lowlier stateHad known what he was, and, content to be good,
Had ne'er for our ruin aspired to be great.
His years might have rolled inoffensive away;
And England would ne'er have been cursed with his sway.
ON THE DEATH OF SH-R-D-N,
Principibus placuisse viris.-Hor.
Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those
And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close :Whose vanity flew round him only while fed
By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave; Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the lead,
Like the gholc of the East, comes to feed at his grave Oh ! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow
And spirits so mean in the great and high-born; To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died-friendless and lorn!
How proud they can press to the funeral array
Of one whom they shunned in his sickness and sorrow !
Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow !
Incoherent and gross, even grosser had passed,
Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingners cast:
With millions to heap upon foppery's shrine;-
Though this would make Europe's whole opulence mine ;-
All mean as it is—must have consciously burned,
And which found all his wants at an end, was returned !1
When some names shall live but in history's curse;
Be forgotten as fools, or remembered as worse-
The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall,
Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all !
From the finest and best of all other men's powers-
And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers
Played round every subject, and shone as it played :
Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade ;
Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave-
As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!'
And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve!
On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh ;3
First feed on thy brains, and then leave thee to die ! "The sum was two hundred pounds-offered secting an elk, there were found in its hcad some when Sh-r--d-n could no longer take any large flies, with its brain almost eaten away by sustenance, and declined for him by his friends. them.-History of Poland, 2 Naturalists have observed that, upon dis
WRITTEN ON HEARING THAT THE AUSTRIANS HAD ENTERED NAPLES.
Ar-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are
From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins,
Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains !
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-
From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore !
Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls !
Base slaves ! may the whet of their agony be,
They had once in their reach--that they might have been free!
Ever rose o'er the ZERO of 's heart,
And send all its prayers with your liberty's start-
The fresh air of the olden time, whispered about,
But waited one conquering cry to flash out !
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seemed bursting to view,
Over Freedom's apostles--fell kindling on you !
Worth the history of ages -- when, liad you but hurled
Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world-
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath,
And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death !
Through your dungeons and palaces, Freedom is o'er ! _
And return to your empire of darkness once more.
For if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss,
TO LADY HOLLAND.
ON NAPOLEON'S LEGACY OF A SNUFF-BOX.
Gift of the Hero, on his dying day,
To her, whose pity watch'd, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,
This relic lights up in her generous eye, Sighing, he'd feel how easy 'tis to pay
A friendship all his kingdoms could not buy. Paris, July, 1821.
I HAVE a story of two lovers, filled
With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness, And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrilled
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madness; But where to choose the locale of my vision
In this wide, vulgar world—what real spot
For two such perfect lovers, I know pot.
TO THE TRAGEDY OF INA.
Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
And has the sprite been here? No-jests apart--