Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation :

The angels had of course enough of song When upon service; and the generation Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long

Before, to profit by a new occasion : The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, "What! what!

Pje come again? No more-no more of that!"

The tumult grew; an universal cough Convulsed the skies, as during a debate.

When Castlereagh has been up long enough

(Before he was first minister of state, I mean—the slaves hear now) ; some cried "Off, off!"

As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate,

The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose Himself an author) only for his prose.

The varlet was not an ill-favor'd knave; A good deal like a vulture in the face, With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace

To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,

Was by no means so ugly as his case; But that, indeed, was hopeless as can be, Quite a poetic felony "de se."

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the noise

With one still greater. as is yet the mode On earth besides; except some grumbling voice,

Which now and then will make a slight inroad

Upon decorous silence, few will twice Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd;

And now the bard could plead his own bad cause.

With all the attitudes of self-applause.

He said (I only give the heads)-he said,

He meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas his way

Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread,

Of which he butter'd both sides; 'twould delay

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus--and 't is not here--
Such thoughts should shake my soul,

nor now,

Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be,

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honorable death
Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

At Missolonghi, January 2. 1824. October 29, 1824.