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ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON,

THE NIGHT OF THE SEVENTEENTH OF MARCH, 1789.

When, long sequester'd from his throne,

George took his seat again, By right of worth, not blood alone,

Entitled here to reign,

Then loyalty, with all his lamps

New trimm'd, a gallant show ! Chasing the darkness and the damps,

Set London in a glow.

'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares

Which form’d the chief display, These most resembling cluster'd stars,

Those the long milky way.

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,

And rockets flew, self-driven, To hang their momentary fires

Amid the vault of heaven.

So, fire with water to compare,

The ocean serves, on high Up-spouted by a whale in air,

To express unwieldy joy.

Had all the pageants of the world

In one procession join'd,
And all the banners been unfurld

That heralds e'er design d,

For no such sight had England's queen

Forsaken her retreat, Where George, recover’d, made a scene

Sweet always, doubly sweet.
Yet glad she came that night to prove,

A witness undescried,
How much the object of her love

Was loved by all beside.
Darkness the skies had mantled o'er

In aid of her design-
Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before

To veil a deed of thine !
On borrow'd wheels away she flies,

Resolved to be unknown,
And gratify no curious eyes

That night except her own. Arrived, a night like noon she sees,

And hears the million hum ; As all by instinct, like the bees,

Had known their sovereign come. Pleased she beheld, aloft portray'd

On many a splendid wall, Emblems of health and heavenly aid,

And George the theme of all.
Unlike the enigmatic line,

So difficult to spell,
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine

The night his city fell.

312

QUEEN's visiT TO LONDON

Soon watery grew

her
eyes

and dim,
But with a joyful tear,
None else, except in prayer for him,

George ever drew from her.
It was a scene in every part

Like those in fable feign'd,
And seem'd by some magician's art

Created and sustain'd.
But other magic there, she knew,

Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,

Save love of George alone.
That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd,

And, through the cumbrous throng, Not else unworthy to be fear'd,

Convey'd her calm along. So, ancient poets say, serene

The sea-maid rides the waves, And fearless of the billowy scene

Her peaceful bosom laves. With more than astronomic eyes

She view'd the sparkling show; One Georgian star adorns the skies,

She myriads found below. Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once seen, suffice, Heaven grant us no such future sight,

Such previous woe the price!

THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.*

Muse_hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring

For his sake into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,

Nor place where he was born.

That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme

Perchance may credit win)

* Written on reading the following in the obituary of the Gentleman's Magazine for April, 1789.—" At Tottenham, John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, and in the splendour of his carriages and horses rivalled by few country gentlemen. His table was that of hospitality, where, it may be said, he sacrificed too much to conviviality; but, if he had his foibles he had his merits also, that far outweigbed them. Mr. A. was very fond of cock-fighting, and bad a favourite cock, upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid upon this cock he lost; which so enraged him, that he had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affecting, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which so enraged Mr. A., that he seized a poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared, that he would kill the first man who interposed; but, in the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the circumstances which attended the death of this great pillar of humanity.”

314

THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.

For proof to man, what man may prove, If grace depart, and demons move

The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)

Wanted no good below,
Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such, and he had worth,

If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest,
He shone superior at the feast,

And qualities of mind,
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose,

Possess'd of every kind.

Methinks I see him powder'd red,
With bushy locks his well-dress'd head

Wing'd broad on either side,
The
mossy

rosebud not so sweet ;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat,

As luxury could provide.

Can such be cruel ? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;

A tyrant entertain'd
With barbarous sports, whose fell delight
Was to encourage mortal fight

'Twixt birds to battle train'd.

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