Just now, as I hinted at this, you've no notion In the green-room how quickly I rais'd a commotion; For the men were all hopes, and the ladies all fears, That our stage would be drown'd in a deluge of tears; And, though great were the fears of the ladies-by them I was chid for proposing the torrent to stem; For their terror, it seems, was as anxious for scope And as nice to the full as the gentlemen's hope : And so as I found it high time-I withdrew, And escap'd, by good luck, with my cap on, to you. Well! peace to them all! how they fretted and fum'd! Yet did they but know, that the task I assum'd Was so far from my heart!—with how little delight I should put all your softer sensations to flight! Check the tear, which the torpor of fashion defies, New lustre to lend to the brightest of eyes! Or strive to repress, when the pulse, beating low, Attends on the pomp of a story of woe,
The sigh which the sorrows of others impart To ennoble our nature, and better the heart!— Did they know but all this!-they would soon be at rest, And conquer their dread of a perilous jest. But soft-for methinks, as I chatter, I trace A sly kind of questioning smile on each face, Just seeming to say, "If all this is so true, "And the task you assumed has no pleasure for "What planet, diverg'd from its regular sphere, "Vouchsafes us the honour of seeing you here?" Shall I own?-That enchanting applause which, just
Shed the sweetest reward on the finishing bow,
With such winning charms has invaded my breast,
That I die to come in, for my share, with the rest.
MARK! whilst with bloody banners wide unfurl'd
Infuriate discord ravages the world,
Where yon basaltic coasts remote appear
Sudden she pauses in her dread career,
Starts at the wond'rous forms that guard the shore
And shrinks with terror never felt before:
High on Hibernia's coasts four giants stand,
Silent with arms out-stretch'd they guard the land,
Now black they sternly frown in grim attire,
Now white their glittering helmets glow with fire,
Now to the east their giant arms extend,
Now to the west in airy circles bend,
One magic eye at once informs them all,
With one instinctive voice at once they call;
Unheard by man, unseen by mortal eye,
The winged words in secret silence fly,
Their mystic mandates o'er the globe they roll,
Their spirit fills, their sense informs the whole,
And when still night involves the world in shade,
And takes from forms the robe which nature made,
Bright darts the star of safety through the skies,
From pole to pole the unerring watch-fire flies,
Pleas'd at Hibernia's arts Britannia smiles,
And closer bands unite the kindred isles.
*A description of which may be found in the second volume of Nicholson's Journal, quarto edition.
SUGGESTED BY THE APPROACH OF A REGIMENT OF SOLDIERS.
HEN I hear the gay bugle notes sounding from far, Or the clang of the trumpet from squadrons advancing;
When I see all the pomp and the splendor of war,
In the banners that wave and the plumes that are dancing
When the sprightly fife and drum
Nearer still and nearer come;
Cymbals mingling clash and ring,
Beating to the soldier's tread,
Swords that meteor flashes fling,
Gleaming o'er each Horseman's head
Then, oh then! the pride of story
Memory bids in floods to roll;
Then our fathers' deeds of glory
Fill the thought, and fire the soul!
Swift as pass the tramping lines,
Fancy glows, and panting turns;
Distant soon the pageant shines
Still she muses, still she burns--
-Hark! that roar-the rushing fight!
Battling armies are in sight!
See! 'tis Albion's fire that glows!
See! 'tis Gallia dares oppose!-
Sons of Albion, Britons, on!
ardour on the foe!Rout their legions-joy!-'tis done! Sons of Albion, mercy show!
-Cease, cease, my flush'd bosom, these dreams of the battle
O canst thou see joy in the war-tempest's rattle ?
And canst thou exult in the red tide that flows
With the blood of thy brethren-or e'en of thy foes?
Say, should'st thou not rather with awe-restrain'd breath,
Contemplate in tears the wild congress of death;
Ah! should'st thou not weep and lament to the cry
Of the wounded that groan, and the conquer'd that die
Dreadful war! no more I see
Pomp and glory wait on thee!
O furl the proud banners that float o'er the plain,
Nor stain the green turf with the gore of the slain ;
And bare not the steel that with meteor-like rays,
Athwart the bright ether all dreadfully plays,
For mine eye can no longer delight in its blaze.
Ah no! for my bosom now mournfully swells,
With the woes that the breeze from the battle-field tells—
It tells that the sun-beams all brilliant that play'd
On the plumes and the spears of the gay cavalcade;
Of their faulchions and helms that emblazon'd the pride,
Shone as bright on the arms of the thousands who died
It tells that those beams shone as clear on the day,
When each warrior slept on his death-bed of clay;
And it sighs, that sad breeze, as opprest with the groans,
Which the voice of the dying had mixt with its moans.
Then how drear came the night o'er the late-swarming
heath,
[breath;
While the grass whistled shrill to the hollow wind's
How silent save that-ah, how solemn and still!
As arose the pale moon from the forest-dark hill:
And shrunk not the beauteous queen of the night,
Ah! shudder'd she not at yon terrible sight?
Alas! for she saw from the far-waving wood,
Her path o'er the plain track'd with horror and
blood;
And the lone heath o'er which her soft lustre
she shed,
[that were spread,
Grimly glanc'd back her ray, bright from arms
All broken and gory, beside the cold dead;
And long by the hearth of each warrior's home,
His children shall listen, and wish he were come;
And long shall that wish to each bosom be dear,
Ah! long in each eye shall it combat the tear.
Perhaps that same night, when beneath the keen blast,
Her soldier lay stiffen'd, and chill on the waste,
The wife would look out and contemplate the sky-
Survey the mild moon-beam-and think with a sigh
That it shone on his tent, while he wakeful might lay,
Or be dreaming of her, and his home far away:
Then turning to join the gay ring round the fire,
She would smile with her children and talk of their
sire;
If she wept for his boldness, or told of his might,
Each stripling youth glow'd to be with him in
fight;
[would burn,
While with fervour more mild the soft daughter
As she pictur'd the joys of her father's return.
Fond maiden, ah no-thy lov'd father no more
The threshold shall tread of his own humble door;
Go, comfort thy mother, for desolate now,
A lone widow is she-and an orphan art thou!
And oh! with what anguish your bosoms will wail,
When, all rudely perchance, ye shall hear the sad
tale; [stay, Thus reft of your staff, your support, and your What sorrows may press on the future's dark way;
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