Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head, But a truce to digression.-These birds of a feather nese, But, bless you, that's nothing-at Brighton one sees Which have spoil'd you, till hardly a drop, my old Of pure English claret is left in your corpus; You kick'd him, old BEN, as he gasp'd on the ground! Under B➖➖➖➖ɛ, Y————тu, and young Master Insult the fallen foe that can harm him no more. « As for us in Pekin»---here a devil of a din From the bed-chamber came, where that long Mandarin, (Nota bene.-His Lordship and LIVERPOOL come, Out, cowardly spooney!—again and again, To show the white feather is many men's doom, TO LADY HOLLAND, On Napoleon's Legacy of a Snuff-Box. To her, whose pity watch'd, for ever nigh; This relic lights up in her generous eye, EPISTLE FROM TOM CRIB TO BIG BEN, Ahi, mio Ben!-METASTASIO.2 WHAT! Ben, my old hero, is this your renown! Your trinkets, wigs, thingumbobs, gold lace, and lo- Your noyaus, curaçoas, and the devil knows what- 'Written soon after Bonaparte's transportation to St Helena. Tom, I suppose, was assisted to this motto by Mr Jackson, who, it is well known, keeps the most learned company going. a Gia. 1 Then why, my Lord Warden! oh! why should you fidget Your mind about matters you don't understand? Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot, Because, «you,» forsooth, « have the pen in your hand!» Think, think how much better Should avoid, by the by) ? How much pleasanter 't is to sit under the bust Of old CHARLEY, my friend here, and drink like a new one; While CHARLEY looks sulky and frowns at me, just Juan! 3 To crown us, Lord Warden! In CUMBERLAND'S garden Grows plenty of monk's-hood in venomous sprigs; While Otto of Roses, Refreshing all noses, Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs. 4 What youth of the Household will cool our noyau In that streamlet delicious, That, down 'midst the dishes, 5 Or who will repair Unto Manchester Square, And see if the gentle Marchesa be there? 6 And let her bring with her 7 Oh! let her come with her dark tresses flowing, All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay, In the manner of ACKERMANN'S Dresses for May! No want has he of sword or dagger, He does not care one single d-mn! 2 Whether 'midst Irish chairmen going, Or, through St Giles's alleys dim, 'Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing, No matter 't is all one to him. 3 For instance I, one evening late, Upon a gay vacation sally, Singing the praise of Church and State, Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley. When lo! an Irish Papist darted Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big- Scared at me even without my wig! 5 Oh! place me 'midst O'ROURKES, O'TOOLES, 6 Of Church and State I'll warble still, Though even DICK MARTIN'S self should grumble; Sweet Church and State, like JACK and JILL, 7 So lovingly upon a hill Ah! ne'er like JACK and JILL to tumble! Non eget Mauri jaculis neque arcu, Nec venenatis gravida sagittis Fusce, pharetra. Sive per Syrteis iter æstuosas, Sive facturus per inhospitalem Caucasum, vel quæ loca fabulosus Lambit Hydaspes. The noble translator had, at first, laid the scene of these imagined dangers of his man of conscience among the papists of Spain, and had translated the words quæ loca fabulosus lambit Hydaspes thus- The fabling Spaniard licks the French; but, recollecting that it is our interest just now to be respectful to Spanish catholics (though there is certainly no earthly reason for our being even commonly civil to Irish ones), he altered the passage as it stands at present. 3 Namque me sylva lupus în Sabina, I cannot help calling the reader's attention to the peculiar ingenuity with which these lines are paraphrase. Not to mention the happy conversion of the wolf into a papist (seeing that Romulus was suckled by a wolf, that Rome was founded by Romulus, and that the Pope has always reigned at Rome), there is something particularly neat in supposing ultra terminum to mean vacation time, and then the modest consciousness with which the noble and learned translator has avoided touching upon the words curis expeditus,» (or, as it has been otherwise read, causis expeditus,) and the felicitous idea of his being inermis when without his wig," are altogether the most delectable specimens of paraphrase in our language. 4 Quale portentum neque militaris 'The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be admired. The translator has added a long, erudite, and flowery note upon Roses, of which I can merely give a specimen at present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosarium Politicum of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hope of finding some Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the text-but in vain: he then tells us, that Cicero accused Verres of reposing upon a cushion Melitensi rosa fartum, which, from the odd mixture of words, be supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known panning epitaph on fair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal bope that, if Rosa munda mean Rose with clean hands, it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the « Rosa aurea, which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury Statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the words old Rose," he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the poet, consenuisse Rosas. The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses that is 7 There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the in- quite edifying. Dialogue between a Dowager and her Maid on the Night of Lord Yarmouth's Fête. "I WANT the Court-Guide,» said my Lady, « to look If the house, Seymour Place, be at 30 or 20» << We 've lost the Court-Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book, Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour PLACES in plenty!» 1 The words addressed by Lord Herbert of Cherbury, to the beautiful nun at Murano. See his Life. This is a bon mot, attributed, I know not how truly, to the PaiNCESS OF WALES. I have merely versified it. EPIGRAM. FROM THE FRENCH. « I NEVER give a kiss, says Prue, << To naughty man, for I abbor it.>> She will not give a kiss 't is true She'll take one, though, and thank you for it. ON A SQUINTING POETESS. To no one Muse does she her glauce confine, But has an eye, at once, to all the Nine! THE TORCH OF LIBERTY. I SAW it all in Fancy's glass- 'T was like a torch-race-such as they Pass'd the bright torch triumphant on. I saw the expectant nations stand << That torch they pass is Liberty!» And each, as she received the flame, From ALBION first, whose ancient shrine And lit a flame like ALBION's-steady. The splendid gift then GALLIA took, And, like a wild Bacchante, raising The brand aloft, its sparkles shook, As she would set the world a-blazing. And, when she fired her altar, high Next, SPAIN so new was light to her- 'T was quench'd, and all again was dark. Yet no-not quench'd—a treasure worth And shone, a beacon, in all eyes. Who next received the flame?-Alas! Unworthy NAPLES-shame of shames, That ever through such hands should pass That brightest of all earthly flames! Scarce had her fingers touch'd the torch, When, frighted by the sparks it shed, Nor waiting e'en to feel the scorch, She dropp'd it to the earth-and fled. And fallen it might have long remain'd, But GREECE, who saw her moment now, Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd, And waved it round her beauteous brow. And Fancy bid me mark where, o'er Who thus in song their voices blended: « Shine, shine for ever, glorious flame, «Take, Freedom! take thy radiant round- On which thy glories shall not burn!» EPILOGUE. LAST night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, « Bless me!» I starting cried, « what imp are you?»>-- I view'd him, as he spoke-his hose were blue, By my advice Miss Indigo attends plan Of that professor-(trying to recollect)-psha! that memory-man That-what's his name?-him I attended lately- Here, curtseying low, I ask'd the blue-legg'd sprite, " Nay, there-(he cried)-there I am guiltless quite- When no one waltz'd, and none but monks could rhyme; To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue, till then adieu !» And has the sprite been here? No-jests apart- The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. 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, The sunny temper, bright where all is 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, The happy grateful spirit, that improves And brightens every gift by fortune given, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven: All these were his.-Oh! thou who read'st this stone, |