Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd, And waved it round her beauteous brow.

And Fancy bid me mark where, o'er
Her altar as its flame ascended,
Fair laurell'd spirits seem'd to soar,

Who thus in song their voices blended :—

" Shine, shine for ever, glorious flame,
Divinest gift of God to men!
From Greece thy earliest splendour came,
To Greece thy ray returns again!

"Take, Freedom! take thy radiant round-
When dimm'd, revive-when lost, return;
Till not a shrine through earth be found,
On which thy glories shall not burn!

EPILOGUE.

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 book-case beam,
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:
"T is 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 twirl'd her giddy brain,
With metaphysics twirl it back again!

I view'd him, as he spoke--his hose were blue,
His wings-the covers of the last Review-
Cerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue,
And tinsell'd 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!--(mimicks)—nothing can surpass the

plan

What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time, When no one waltz'd, and none but monks could rhyme ;

When lovely woman, all unschool'd and wild,
Blush'd without art, and without culture smiled-
Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone,
Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own,
Ranged the wild rosy things in learned orders,
And fill'd with Greek the garden's blushing bor-
ders?-

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 have sketch'd with pencil true
The wife-the mother-firm, yet gentle too-
Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun,
Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one;
Who loves-yet dares even Love himself disown,
When honour's broken shaft supports his throne:
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,
Dire as they are, of Critics and-Blue Devils.

TO THE MEMORY OF

JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. OF DUBLIN. Ir ever life was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, 'Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright were all its strife,
The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles,
Light wit, that plays along the calm of life,

And stirs its languid surface into smiles;
Pure charity, that comes not in a shower,

Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But, like the dew, with gradual silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves among the meads;

The happy grateful spirit, that improves

And brightens every gift by fortune given, That, wander where it will with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven: All these were his.-Oh! thou who read'st this ston, When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, That ye like him may live, like him may die!

EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET BENEATH these poppies buried deep,

The bones of Bob the Bard lie hid;
Peace to his manes; and may he sleep
As soundly as his readers did!

Through every sort of verse meandering,
Bob went without a hitch or fall,
Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine,
To verse that was no verse at all;

Till fiction having done enough,

To make a bard at least absurd,

And give his readers quantum suff.

He took to praising George the Third:

And now, in virtue of his crown,

Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter; Like Donellan of bad renown,

Poisoning us all with laurel-water.

And yet at times some awkward qualms he
Felt about leaving honour's track;
And though he's got a butt of Malmsey,
It may not save him from a sack.

Death, weary of so dull a writer,

Put to his works a finis thus.
Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter
Than did his quartos upon us!

THE SYLPH'S BALL.

A SYLPH, as gay as ever sported

Her figure through the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted, And, strange to say, he won the fair. The annals of the oldest witch

A pair so sorted could not show-
But how refuse?-the Gnome was rich,
The Rothschild of the world below;

And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,
Learn from their mammas to consider
Love as an auctioneer of features,

Who knocks them down to the best bidder.

Home she was taken to his mine

A palace, paved with diamonds allAnd, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,

Sent out her tickets for a ball.

The lower world, of course, was there,
And all the best; but of the upper
The sprinkling was but shy and rare-
A few old Sylphids who loved supper.
As none yet knew the wondrous lamp
Of Davy, that renown'd Aladdin,
And the Gnome's halls exhaled a damp,
Which accidents from fire were bad in;
The chambers were supplied with light
By many strange, but safe devices:-
Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient's flowers and spices:

Musical flint-mills-swiftly play'd

By elfin hands-that, flashing round, Like some bright glancing minstrel maid, Gave out, at once, both light and sound;

Bologna-stones, that drink the sun

And water from that Indian sea,
Whose waves at night like wild-fire run,
Cork'd up in crystal carefully;
Glow-worms, that round the tiny dishes,
Like little light-houses, were set up;

And pretty phosphorescent fishes,
That by their own gay light were eat up.

'Mong the few guests from Ether, came

That wicked Sylph, whom Love we cal.My Lady knew him but by name,

My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 't is said apprized
That he was coming, and, no doubt
Alarm'd about his torch, advised

He should, by all means, be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan,

And, by his flame though somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman, In such a dangerous place to light it. However, there he was-and dancing

With the fair Sylph, light as a feather: They look'd like two young sunbeams, glancing, At daybreak, down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well,

But for that plaguy torch-whose light, Though not yet kindled, who could tell How soon, how devilishly it might? And so it chanced-which in those dark And fireless halls, was quite amazing, Did we not know how small a spark

Can set the torch of Love a-blazing. Whether it came, when close entangled

In the gay waltz, from her bright eyes, Or from the lucciole, that spangled

Her locks of jet-is all surmise.

Certain it is, the ethereal girl

Did drop a spark, at some odd turning, Which, by the waltz's windy whirl,

Was fann'd up into actual burning.

Oh for that lamp's metallic gauze—
That curtain of protecting wire-
Which Davy delicately draws

1

Around illicit, dangerous fire!—

The wall he sets 'twixt flame and air

(Like that which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss,) Through whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other but not kiss.'

At first the torch look'd rather bluely--
A sign, they say, that no good boded—
Then quick the gas became unruly,

And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.
Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mix'd together,
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies, in stormy weather,

Were blown-legs, wings, and tails-to pieces While, 'mid these victims of the torch,

The Sylph, alas! too, bore her partFound lying, with a livid scorch,

As if from lightning, o'er her heart!

Partique dedere

Oscula quisque suæ, non pervenientia contra.-Ovid.

"Well done!" a laughing goblin said, Escaping from this gaseous strife; ""T is not the first time Love has made A blow-up in connubial life."

REMONSTRANCE.

After a conversation with L-d J— R———, in which he had intimated some idea of giving up all political pursuits.

WHAT! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy

name

Thou, born of a Russel-whose instinct to run The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun! Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal, Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race offer'd up for the weal Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet! Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena where all that is grand, And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life,

Is for high-thoughted spirits, like thine, to command?

Oh no, never dream it-while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare Such a light from her dark'ning horizon as thou!

With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those

Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm; Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose

To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm;

With an ardour for liberty, fresh as in youth,

It first kindles the bard, and gives life to his lyre; Yet mellow'd, even now, by that mildness of truth Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire; With an eloquence-not like those rills from a height, Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er; But a current that works out its way into light Through the filt'ring recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to per-
suade,

Yet think how to freedom thou 'rt pledged by thy

name.

Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree,
Set apart for the fane and its service divine,
All the branches that spring from the old Russel tree,
Are by liberty claim'd for the use of her shrine.

EPITAPH ON A LAWYER. HERE lies a lawyer-one whose mind (Like that of all the lawyer kind) Resembled, though so grave and stately, The pupil of a cat's eye greatly;

Which for the mousing deeds, transacted
In holes and corners, is well fitted,
But which, in sunshine, grows contracted,
As if 't would rather not admit it;
As if, in short, a man would quite
Throw time away who tried to let in a
Decent portion of God's light

On lawyers' mind or pussy's retina.
Hence when he took to politics,
As a refreshing change of evil,
Unfit with grand affairs to mix
His little Nisi-Prius tricks,

Like imps at bo-peep, play'd the devil;
And proved that when a small law wit
Of statesmanship attempts the trial,
"Tis like a player on the kit

Put all at once to a bass viol. Nay, even when honest (which he could Be, now and then,) still quibbling daily, He serv'd his country as he would

A client thief at the Old Bailey. But do him justice-short and rare

His wish through honest paths to roam; Born with a taste for the unfair, Where falsehood call'd, he still was there,

And when least honest, most at home. Thus, shuffling, bullying, lying, creeping, He work'd his way up near the throne, And, long before he took the keeping Of the king's conscience, lost his own.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day!"-What a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears!
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links

That time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said, "were he ordain'd to run His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."-
Ah! 't is not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly—
Of counsel mock'd-of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines--
Of nursing many a wrong desire-
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire

That cross'd my pathway for his star!

All this it tells, and, could I trace
The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-
All-but that freedom of the mind

Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly,
And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark,

And comfortless, and stormy round!

FANCY.

THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found That, fill'd as 't is with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands, within her own bright round,

A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.
Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun-
But 't is the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on angels' wings!

Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lighten'd mind
Lays down its load of care at last ?-

When, tired with toil on land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wish'd-for bed once more?
This, this it is that pays alone

The ills of all life's former track-
Shine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio-greet thy master back.
And thou, fair lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heaven, like Lydia's sea,
Rejoice, rejoice-let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TO MY MOTHER.
Written in a Pocket-Book, 1822.
THEY tell us of an Indian tree
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth
From which the life, that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.
"Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be,)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

ILLUSTRATION OF A BORE.

If ever you've seen a gay party,
Relieved from the pressure of Ned-
How instantly joyous and hearty

They've grown when the damper was fled—
You may guess what a gay piece of work,
What delight to champagne it must be,
To get rid of its bore of a cork,

And come sparkling to you, love, and me!

A SPECULATION.

Or all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf
Is, to buy ****** up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
SWEET Sirmio! thou, the very eye
Of all peninsulas and isles

That in our lakes of silver lie,

Or sleep, enwreathed by Neptune's smiles,

How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking can it be
That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?

SCEPTICISM.

ERE Psyche drank the cup that shed
Immortal life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,

One drop of doubt into the bowlWhich, mingling darkly with the stream, To Psyche's lips-she knew not why

Made even that blessed nectar seem

As though its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,

A chill came o'er her heart-a fear That death would, even yet, remove

Her spirit from that happy sphere.

"Those sunny ringlets," she exclaim'd,

Twining them round her snowy fingers"That forehead, where a light, unnamed, Unknown on earth, for ever lingers

"Those lips, through which I feel the breath
Of heaven itself, whene'er they sever-
Oh! are they mine beyond all death-
Mine own, hereafter and for ever?

"Smile not-I know that starry brow,

Those ringlets and bright lips of thine, Will always shine as they do now

But shall I live to see them shine?"

In vain did Love say, "Turn thine eyes
On all that sparkles round thee here-
Thou 'rt now in heaven, where nothing dies,
And in these arms-what canst thou fear?"

In vain the fatal drop that stole

Into that cup's immortal treasure, Had lodged its bitter near her soul, And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, though there ne'er was rapture given Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,

Hers is the only face in heaven

That wears a cloud amid its joy.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Of all the men one meets about,
There's none like Jack-he's every where :
At church-park-auction-dinner-rout-

Go when and where you will, he 's there. Try the West End, he's at your backMeets you, like Eurus, in the EastYou're call'd upon for "How do, Jack?"

One hundred times a-day, at least.

A friend of his one evening said,

As home he took his pensive way, "Upon my soul, I fear Jack's deadI've seen him but three times to-day!"

ROMANCE.

I HAVE a story of two lovers, fill'd

With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness And the sad doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd

Two young and longing hearts in that sweet mad

ness;

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 not.

Oh, for some fair Formosa, such as he,
The young Jew,' fabled of, in the 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 live in-pure and exquisite !

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"COME, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,

There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake

It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.""Why, so it is, father,-whose wife shall I take?"

ON

LIKE a snuffers, this loving old dame,

By a destiny grievous enough, Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame, Hath never caught more than the snuff.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER. HERE lies Factotum Ned at last : Long as he breathed the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd In which he had n't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was outWhatever statesmen did or saidIf not exactly brought about,

Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP if Russia went to war,

"T was owing, under Providence,
To certain hints Ned gave the Czar-
(Vide his pamphlet-price six pence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo-
As all, but Frenchmen, think she was-
To Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news-no envoy's bag

E'er pass'd so many secrets through itScarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots,

With foreign names one's ear to buzz in

From Russia chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 't was he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright seen the King,

1 Psalmanazar.