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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.
So, left through their own little orbit to move,

His years might have rolled inoffensive away;
His children might still have been blessed with his love,

And England would ne'er have been cursed with his sway.



Principibus placuisse viris.-Hor.
Yes, grief will have way, but the fast-falling tear

Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those
Who could bask in that spirit's meridian career,

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 !
How bailiffs may seize his last blauket to-day,

Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow !
And thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream,

Incoherent and gross, even grosser had passed,
Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam

Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingners cast:
No, not for the wealth of the land that supplies thee

With millions to heap upon foppery's shrine;-
No, not for the riches of all who despise thee,

Though this would make Europe's whole opulence mine ;-
Would I suffer what-even in the heart that thou hast,

All mean as it is—must have consciously burned,
When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,

And which found all his wants at an end, was returned !1
Was this, then, the fate '-future ages will say,

When some names shall live but in history's curse;
When Truth will be heard, and these lords of a day

Be forgotten as fools, or remembered as worse-
"Was this, then, the fate of that high-gifted man,

The pride of the palace, the bower, and the hall,
The orator-dramatist-minstrel, -who ran

Through each mode of the lyre, and was master of all !
“Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art

From the finest and best of all other men's powers-
Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,

And could call up its sunshine, or bring down its showers
Whose humour, as gay as the fire-fly's light,

Played round every subject, and shone as it played :
Whose wit, in the combat, as gentle as bright,

Ne'er carried a heart-stain away on its blade ;
• Whose eloquence-brightening whatever it tried,

Whether reason or fancy, the gay or the grave-
Was as rapid, as deep, and as brilliant a tide

As ever bore Freedom aloft on its wave!'
Yes—such was the man, and so wretched his fate ;--

And thus, sooner or later, shall all have to grieve,
Who waste their morn's dew in the beams of the Great,

And expect 'twill return to refresh them at eve!
In the woods of the North there are insects that prey

On the brain of the elk till his very last sigh ;3
Oh, Genius! thy patrons, more cruel than they,

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

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Carbone Notati!

Ar-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are

From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,

Be sucked out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains !
On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,

Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore !
Let their fate be a mock-word-let men of all lands

Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,
When each sword that the cowards let fall from their hands

Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls !
And deep and more deep as the iron is driven,

Base slaves ! may the whet of their agony be,
To think-as the damned haply think of that heaven

They had once in their reach--that they might have been free!
Shame, shame, when there was not a bosom, whose heat

Ever rose o'er the ZERO of 's heart,
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,

And send all its prayers with your liberty's start-
When the world stood in hope-when a spirit, that breathed

The fresh air of the olden time, whispered about,
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,

But waited one conquering cry to flash out !
When around you, the shades of your mighty in fame,

Filicajas and Petrarchs, seemed bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings like tongues of bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles--fell kindling on you !
Good God! that in such a proud moment of life,

Worth the history of ages -- when, liad you but hurled
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world-
That then-oh disgrace upon manhool ! even then,

You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath,
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,

And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death !
1t is strange—it is dreadful ;-shout, tyranny, shout,

Through your dungeons and palaces, Freedom is o'er ! _
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,

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,
Far nobler to live the brute bondman of thee,
Than to sully even chains by a struggle like this!

Paris, 1821.



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
Can be found out, sufficiently Elysian

For two such perfect lovers, I know pot.
Oh for some fair Formosa, such as he
The young Jewl fables of, in th’ Indian Sea
By nothing but its name of beauty known,
And which Queen Fancy might make all her own,
Her fairy kingdom--take its people, lands,
And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make at least, one earthly corner fit
For Love to dwell in-pure and exquisite !



Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and—all that,
And wondering much what little knavish sprite
Had put it first in women's heads to write :
Sudden I saw, as in some witching dream,
A bright blue glory round my bookcase beam,

: Psalmanazar.


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From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,
Some sunny morning, from a violet bed.
Bless me!' I starting cried, 'what imp are you?'
"A small he-devil, Ma'am-my name Bas Bleu--
A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading;
'Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding
The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,
The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,
And, when the waltz has twirled her giddy brain,
With metaphysics twirl it back again!'
I viewed him, as he spoke-his hose were blue,
His wings—the covers of the last Review-
Cerulean, bordered with a jaundice hue,
And tinselled gaily o’er, for evening wear,
Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair.
• Inspired by me—(pursued this waggish Fairy) -
That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,
Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,
Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes.
For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,
And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine :
For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking,
Looks wise-the pretty soul—and thinks she's thinking.
By my advice Miss Indigo attends
Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends,
“ 'Pon honour !-(mimics)-nothing can surpass the plan
Of that professor-(Trying to recollect)-psha! that memory-man-
That—what's his name?--him I attended lately-
'Pon honour, he improved my memory greatly."
Here, curtseying low, I asked the blue-legged sprite
What share he had in this our play to-night.
Nay, there-(he cried)—there I am guiltless quite--
What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time,
When no one waltzed, and none but monks could rhyme ;
When lovely woman, all unschooled and wild,
Blushed without art, and without culture smiled-
Simple as flowers, while yet unclassed they shone,
Ere Science called their brilliant world her own,
Ranged the wild rosy things in learned orders,
And filled with Greek the garden's blushing borders ?-
No, no—your gentle Inas will not do-
To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,
I'll come—(pointing downwards) – you understand till then adieu !

And has the sprite been here? No-jests apart--
Howe'er man rules in science and in art,
The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.
And, if our Muse bave sketched with pencil true
The wife--the mother—firm, yet gentle too-


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