Tickler, Or, Monthly Compendium of Good Things, in Prose and Verse: Blending ...

But chiefly spare, O, KING of CLOUDS,
The Sailor on his airy shrouds―.
When Wrecks and Beacons strew the Steep,
And Spectres walk along the Deep;
Milder yet thy snowy breezes

Breathe on yonder tented shores,
Where the Rhine's bright billow freezes,
Where the dark-brown Danube roars!

Oh, Winds of Winter, list ye there

To many a deep and dying groan?

Or start ye, Dæmons of the midnight air,

At shrieks and thunders louder than your own?

Alas! e'en your unhallow'd breath

May spare the Victim fallen low:

But Man will ask no truce to Death-
No bound to Human Woe!

FOR THE 25th OCTOBER.

This was a day of Jubilee,

A day to every Briton dear;

But now, unmeet the sound of glee,

'Tis hallow'd with a silent tear;

That "God would save," no more the prayerWe only ask-that Heav'n would spare.

Oh, honour'd be that aged head,

White with the venerable snows

That four score years" have sternly shed;
Oh, doubly honour'd by the woes
That left him but a shadowy throne,
In storms, in darkness, and alone.

And yet, tho" "quench'd those orbs" in night-
Tho' lost that mind in deepest shade-
Celestial visions, pure and bright,
And Angel visits duly paid,

May break on this dark wint'ry state,
And cheer the blind-the insulate.
Oh God! if such communion be
The solace of his loneliness-
If his high converse be with thee

And Angels, who his visions bless--
Then who would such illusion break?
Oh, who would bid such dreamer wake?
Peace be with thee, afflicted Sire!

Howe'er from Reason's path astray,
May Heav'n still lend its pillar'd fire
To guide thee on thy lonely way;
Fill thy soul here with thoughts sublime,
And loose thee in its own good time.

J. S***.

REVERSE.

St. George, his spear being broken,
To shew that he is not joking,
Has unsheath'd his dagger so good,
To let out the dragon's blood!
As erst, near the river Nile,
I've assail'd a crocodile-
And, spite of his inch-thick scale,
Have reach'd his heart with a nail.
His cloak flickers gaily behind,

Like a sack, left to dry in the wind.
Indeed the Saint appears

Like a leader of Blanketeers!

He looks just as bold and fierce,

As the famous game-chicken, Bill Pearce, Ere death, with his icy hand,

Had " shipp'd him into the land."'

His horse, a mettlesome tit,

Is impatient of the bit.

He seems to food a stranger,

So he's brushing off-to the manger.

Tis a delicate kindness to all in distress;

'Tis a wish to relieve and to succour the weak; "Tis that TEMPER (disdaining the fribble of dress) Which never can feel what it dares not to speak. Whoever saw Fox like a gaudy Macaw ?+

Or PITT deck'd with ribbands to dazzle the view?

No! THEY thought of their country, of learning,
and law,

And left trifling matters for triflers to do!
But such now are Courtiers, and we feel it, alas!
As if Reason and Wisdom completely have fled,
A Statesman appears seldom more than an ass,
With nothing but GEW-GAWS to fill up his head!

“No es todo oro lo que reluce."—"Tis not all gold that glitters.

✦ "The gayest plumage of the feather'd tribe." Toys or baubles.”

“QUID PRO QUO."

A sprightly Lady, young and fair,
With arms all nude, and neek all bare,

At dinner near a Quaker sat;
And feeling much disposed to joke,
In playful accents thus she spoke ;→→

"See, Friend, Itoast thy broad-brimm'd hat.”
The Quaker smil'd and said, "Thou know'st
"I ne'er use healths, nor give a toast,

"Else from thy challenge I'd not shrink; "Inelin'd to please so kind a lass, "I cheerfully would take my glass, "And to thy absent 'kerchief drink.”

VOYAGE TO HELL.

I do remember-not a 'pothecary

[Three or four Stanzas are omitted here, describing the coast in the manner of the voyage to Loo Choo.]

There was Azazel, drunk as any lord,

His mast-high standard flagging in his hand; Belphegor, too, like him of Perigord,

Limp'd nimbly up and down along the Strand,
And there was Beelzebub and Lucifer,

And many other gentlemen beside,
For all the quality of Hell came there,

As decent people as I ever spied.
Room to relate their names I cannot spare,
Besides, I don't remember what they were.

And some in flour-of-brimstone arbours sate,
And play'd angelical, as Milton says,
(Book second, line five hundred forty-eight,)
Infernal music to infernal lays.

Glad was my soul, and straight I cock'd my ear,
For fourth, fifth, octave, sixth, and either third,

But one warm evening when well fill'd with Hoping to make it presently appear

drink,

And having found my wine too hot to carry,

I laid myself most merry in a sink;
And there when Somnus plac'd his leaden hand
Upon my eyes, and call'd Squire Morpheus in,
I had such dreams, so glorious and so grand,
That to conceal them were a grievous sin;
And, therefore, with all due and meet celerity,
I dedicate them hereby to posterity.

Whether they issued from the iron gate,
Or gate of horn, I stop not to inquire,
Hereafter let my commentators prate,
And full of learned notes fill quire on quire.
I only shall relate the naked fact,

Of which my gentle reader need not doubt,
Which was, that as I snor'd and lay compact,
Good drink within, and puddle all without,
The muse, descending from Parnassian station,
Inspir'd my soul with heavenly contemplation.

The style of modern Hell was most absurd; And then to write a learn'd convincing letter, To prove their ancient music was much better. But I shall speak the truth and shame the devil, Although from Hell I've only made a sortie For I must say their playing was not evil,

And savoured more of accent than of forte. Such as of yore they play'd in ancient Greece, When old Timotheus tickled Alexander, And I was much delighted with a piece,

Droned on the bag-pipes by a Salamander. Besides, when asked which concord had most worth,

The fourth or fifth? they all sung out the fourth!

The remaining Stanzas contain remarks on the Literature and state of the Fine Arts in Hell, Stage Criticism, and the political intrigues of the Cabinet Ministers of his Infernal Majesty, at Pandemonium, the capital of the infernal regions.

In that star of the west by whose shadowy splen

dour,

At twilight so often we've roam'd through the

dew,

There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,

And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you. But tho' they were even more bright than the green Of that isle they inhabit in heaven-blue sea, As I never these fair young celestials have seen, Why this earth is the planet for you, love,

and me.

As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation, Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare, Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,

Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could

sparc.

Oh! think what a world we should have of it here, If the haters of peace, of affection, and glee, Were to fly up to Saturn's dull comfortless sphere, And leave earth to such spirits as you, love and me.

*From the 7th vol. of Irish Melodies by T. Moore, Esq.

+ Tous les habitans de Mercu re sont vifs. Pluralite des Mondes.

La terre pourra etre pour Venus l'etoile du berger et la mere des amours, comme Venus l'est pour

nous.

Sonnets.

To LORD BYRON,

BYRON! thy very soul is poetry,

IB.

And as I read thy burning lines, I feel
My heart within my throbbing bosom reel,
And fast tears bathe my cheek and fill mine
eye.

Byron! thine eye "in a fine phrenzy rolls,"
But 'tis a jaundic'd eye, and yellow seem
All objects to its joy-consuming beam,
Yet has it magic power o'er kindred souls.

Byron! thou canst not die, while song shall live,

The flower must wither and the sun must set, But man must woman, woman man forget, Nor can a feeling heart on earth survive. Ere man or woman can refuse thy lays, The sigh of heart-felt sympathy, the song of rapturous praise. PHILO.

With which the pillow of my youth was blest. Be thou at once my omen and my theme,

Now that each sterner passion is at rest, And all that did o'ercloud me is afar,

And life's horizon glows like that beneath thy car. Guil'd by thy light of old, full many a theme,

Of too ambitious import fill'd my brain, When beauty smil'd; perchance 'twas but a dream;

Yet better was it far than waking pain; Quenching of mind and heart are worse I deem, And strugglings to escape renew'd in vain: Like thine, bright star, when I beheld thee last, Edging a thunder-cloud rent by the fitful blast.

· Verses.

ORIGINAL STANZAS

On the Birth of a Young Lady, Oct. 4, 1818.

How lovely breaks the morn,
E'en of October's day;

And Nature's smile could scarce adorn

A lovelier scene in May:

His heart must be forlorn,

Unmov'd, unfeeling, who could gaze around,
Nor feel his breast dilate, his heart exulting bound

The bounties of the sphere
Have fill'd the reaper's hand;

The golden treasures of the year

That way'd o'er all the land,

Are stor'd with joy sincere :

The reaper's harvest-hymn to God on high,
Hath echoed thro' the fields, and fill'd the glad-
den'd sky.

Though Summer's reign is gone,
And dimm'd her golden ray,

An halo of the past is thrown

Around the present day;

She binds her golden zone,

And like a maiden to her lover kind,

Turas as she goes, and casts a smile behind.

Thou most belov'd, and dear!
Whose name inspires these lines:

Again to deck the waning year,

An annual wreath entwines :

Flowers of the mind are there;

Affection, tenderness, and maiden grace,

These deck Augusta's brow, and blossom in her face.

That day we happiest deem
When rose thy natal star;

And shed o'er life's delusive dream, Its radiance bright and far

It is a joyful theme-

Parental wishes hail'd its dawn, and prayers More than parental, mingle yet with theirs! Daughter, and Sister, hail!

Nor e'en the poet's ken

Can pierce the mystic future's veil;
In vain essays the pen,

Of hidden years to tell the tale, These in the Eternal's secret counsels sleep, Pure pleasures they may bring, or they may see thee weep.

Could Friendship claim for thee,

Each richer boon of Heaven; Life's happiest destiny should be

To our Augusta given:

Grief and regret should flee-
Oh impious wish, and vain! regret is brief,
For earthly ills, and transient earthly grief.
What is our being here?

A meteor and a span !

"Tis bright in Hope's illumin'd sphere, But fugitive as man!

And in its mirror clear,

We all may read, and own with anxious breast, 'Tis but the pilgrimage to everlasting rest.

The pride of Beauty's bower
For tempests cannot fly;

Thou, lovelier than its loveliest flower→→
Ev'n thou must fade and die;
Should tempests never lour

Soon shall thy check no pale carnations deck,
No auburn wreathes thy brow, nor lilies white
thy neck!

This welcome birth-morn brings
An added year to age;

But time with swift unceasing wings,
Blots one from life's brief page;

O'er it his shadow flings;

Alone sweet memory lights it with her ray,
As evening's sun-gilt hills look lovely far away.

Adieu to sorrows past

Hail happiness unborn!

O were thy latest griefs the last;
And may this natal morn,

Its calm serenely cast

Over thy future life, till ebbing breath

Respires in placid age, and thou art born in death.

There is a resting place;

There is a life above,

Where God unveils his glorious face,

Where every law is love.

O, kept by sovereign grace,

May thou, and he whose partial verse is thine, Gain that celestial home, behold that face divine. FRATER. October, 1818.

THE DEAD TWINS.

"Twas summer and a sabbath eve, And balmy was the air;

I saw a sight that made me grieve, And yet the sight was fair: Within a little coffin lay

Two lifeless babes as sweet as May.

Like waxen dolls that infants dress,
The little bodies were;
A look of placid happiness

Did on each face appear;

And in their coffin, short and wide,
They lay together, side by side.

A rose-bud, nearly clos'd, I found
Each little hand within,

And many a pink was strew'd around,
With sprigs of jessamin;

And yet the flowers that round them lay,
Were not to me more fair than they.

Their mother, as a lilly pale,

Sat by them on a bed,

And bending o'er them told her tale,

And many a tear she shed;

Yet oft she cried, amidst her pain,
'My babes and I shall meet again!"

DREAMS.

"Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet,
"When absent souls in fancy meet."

I dream'd that at e'en a white mist arose
Where the hedge-row brambles twist;

I thought my love was a sweet wild rose,
And I the silv'ry mist!

How sweetly I beaded her pale red charms

With many a diamond speck!

How softly I bent up my wat❜ry arins,
And hung round her beautiful neck!
Oh me!--what a heavenly birth:
I revell'd all night

Till the morn came bright,
Then sank at her feet down again in the Earth.

I dream'd that my Love was a sweet wild tree,
All cover'd with purple bloom,
And I, methought, was an amorous Bee,
That lov'd the rich perfume:
Large draughts of nectar I sat to sip,

On a bean-leaf just below;

I breath'd her breath, and I kist her lip,

And she was as chaste as snow!

Oh me!-what a beautiful task!

For there I lay

Till eve grew grey,

While she in the Sun's bright gleam did bask.

On being requested to write to her. No, let me hide from all my woes,

Nor longer strive to rend the veil away; In its own gloom let my sad heart repose,

And shun the light that beams but to betray.

False and bewildering, like the meteor's glare, O'er my dull path of life thy beauty shone ;Then quickly left me, darkling in despair,

To urge my onward course, deject and lone Yet, as 'mid Afric's sands the Pilgrim train

Oft turn, on one green spot a look to cast, My wearied thoughts recal in present pain, The soothing memory of a pleasure past.

Again those days return, when fond I hung

On the soft accents, from thy lips that stole : When love's own music trembled o'er thy tongue,

And told the passion of thy secret soul.

For then nor guile, nor scorn thy mind had known,

Pride had not canker'd then thy beauty's flower; Thy heart sweet innocence had made her throne, Blushing, unconscious of her magic power.

Could I believe-too fair, too cruel maid!.

When on thy lips I sigh'd my last farewell, When thy swoln grief to speak in vain essay'd, And my warm kisses drank the tears that fell; Could I believe, thou ever would'st forsake,

Or from thy vows with wanton mockery flee, Deride the wretch, thy arts conspir'd to make, Who would have died-who only liv'd for thee?

NEVIL.

Printed and Published for the Proprietors, by J. WHITE, 41, Holywell-street, Strand, and may be had of all Booksellers.

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Tickler, Or, Monthly Compendium of Good Things, in Prose and ..., Volúmenes1-3