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Parties are much like fish, 't is said,
The tail directs them, not the head;
Then, how could any party fail,
That steer'd its course by Bathurst's tail?
Not Murat's plume, throngh Wagram's fight,

E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all true Tories' sight,

Blazed from our old Colonial comet! If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,

(As Wellington will be anon)
Thou mightst have bad a tail to spare;

But no, alas! thou hadst but one,
And that-like Troy, or Babylon,

A tale of other times-is gone!
Yet-weep ye not, ye 'Tories true, -

Fate las not yet of all bereft us;
Though thus deprived of Bathurst's queue,

We've Ellenborouglis curls still left us;-
Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious,
His shots, as from ninc-pounders, issues ;
Grand, glorious curls, which, in debate,
Surcharged with all a nation's fate,
His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,

And oft in thundering talk comes pear him;Except that, there the speaker nodded,

And, here, 't is only those who hear him. Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil

Of that fai cranium may ye tlourish, With plenty of Macassar oil,

Through many a year your growth to nourish! And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath

His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
Still dear to Tories, even in death,
Their last loved relics we'll bequeath,

A hair-loom to our sons for ever.

Here, sly Arians flock unnumber'd,

And Socinians, slim and spare, Who, with small belief encumber'd,

Slip in easy any where :Methodists, of birds the aptest,

Where there's pecking going on; And that water-fowl, the Baptist, --

All would share our fruits anon : Ev'ry bird, of ev'ry city,

That, for years, with ceaseless din, Hath reversed the starling's dilly,

Singing out « I can't get in.» «God forbid!» old Testy snivels;

« God forbid !») echo too; Rather may ten thousand devils

Seize the whole voracious crew! If less costly fruit won't suit 'em,

Hips and haws and such like berries, Curse the corm'rants ! stone 'em, shoot 'em,

Any thing-to save our cherries.


DEFEAT." Go, seek for some abler defenders of wrong, If we must run the gauntlet through blood and es

pense; Or, Goths as ye are, in your multitude strong,

Be content with success, and pretend not to sense. If the words of the wise and the gen'rous are vain,

If Truth by the bow-string must yield up ber breath, Let Mutes do the office,-and spare ber the pain

Of an loglis or Tiodal to talk her to death. Chain, persecute, plunder, -do all that you will,

But save us, at least, the old womanly lore Of a Gloucester, who, dully prophetic of ill,

Is, at once, the two instruments, AUGUR 3 and BOLE. Bring legions of Squires— if they 'll only be m

And array their thick heads against reason and right, Like the Roman of old, of historic repule, 3

Who with droves of dumb animals carried tbe fight Pour out, from each corner and hole of the Court,

Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves, Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter what sort,

Have their consciences tack'd to their patents and





See those cherries, how they cover

Yonder sunny garden-wall ;Had they not that net-work over,

Thieving birds would eat them all. So, to guard our posts and pensions,

Ancient sages wove a net, Through whose holes, of small dimensions,

Only certain knaves can get. Shall we then this net-work widen?

Shall we stretch these sacred holes, Through which, ev'n already, slide in

Lots of small dissenting souls ? « God forbid!» oid Testy crieth;

«God forbid!» so echo l; Every ravenous bird that flieth

Then would at our cherries fly. Ope but half an inch or so,

And, behold, what bevies break in ;Here, some curst old Popish crow

Pops his long and lickerish beak in:

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Catch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings,

Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim,i With all the base, time-serving toadies of Kings, Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship

ev'n him : And while, on the one side, cach name of renown,

That illumines and blesses our age is combined; While the Foxes, the Pitts, and the Cannings look down,

And drop o'er the cause their rich mantles of Mind; Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other,

And, counting of noses the quantum desired,

During the discussion of the Catholic Quostion in the House of Commons last session.

: This is more for the ear than the eye, as tbe carpenter's tool is spelt auger.

· Fabius, who sent droves of bullocks against the enemy. • Res Fisci est, ubicumque natat.--Juvenal.

1. Shakes bis ambrosial curls, and gives the nod..

POPP's Homer. • Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation Acts.

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For, lo, what a service we Irish have done thee:

Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more; By St Patrick, we've scrawld such a lesson upon thee

As never was scrawld upon foolscap before. Come, --on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke, (Or O'Connell has green ones he haply would lend

you,) Read Vesey all o'er-as you can't read a bookAnd improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send

you; A lesson, in large Roman characters traced,

Whose awful impressions from you and your kin Of blank-sheeted statesmen will ne'er be effaced,

Unless, 'stead of paper, you 're sheer asses' skin. Shall I help you to construe it? ay, by the Gods,

Could I risk a translation, you should have a rare



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Let other bards to groves repair,

Where linnets strain their tuneful throats, Mine be the Woods and Forests, where

The Treasury pours ils sweeter notes. No whispering winds have charms for me,

Nor zephyr's balmy sighs I ask;:
To raise the wind for Royaily

Be all our sylvan zephyr's task!
And 'stead of crystal brooks and floods,

And all such vulgar irrigation,
Let Gallic rhino through our Woods

Divert its « course of liquid-ation.»
Ah, surely, Virgil koew full well

What Woods and Forests ought to be, When, sly, he introduced in Hell

His quinea-plant, his bullion-lrec.' Nor see I why, some future day,

When short of cash, we should not send Our Herries down-he knows the

way To see if Woods in hell will lend, Long may ye flourish, sylvan haunts, Beneath whose « brunches of

expense » Our gracious King gets all he wants,

Except a little taste and sense. Long, in your golden shade reclined,

Like him of fair Armida's bowers, May Wellington some wood-nymph find,

To cheer his dozenth lustrum's hours : To rest from toil the Great Untaught,

And soothe the panys his warlike brain Must suffer, when, unused to thought,

It tries to think, and-tries in vain. Oh long may Woods and Forests be

Preserved, in all their teeming graces, To shelter Tory Bards, like me,

Who take deliglie in Sylvan places ! ?

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On tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope!

Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sca, And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope,

From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee. If mutely the slave will endure and obey,

Nor clanking his fetters, nor breathing his pains, His masters, perhaps, at some far distant day,

May think (tender tyrants !) of loosening bis chains.» Wise «if» and « perhaps!»-precious salve for our

wounds, If he, who would rule thus o'er mapacled mutes, Could check the free spring-lide of Mind, that re

sounds, Even now, at his feet, like the sea at Canute's.But, no, 't is in vain-the grand impulse is given, Man knows his high Charter, and knowing will



Take back the virgin page..

Moure's Irish Melodies.

No longer, dear Vesey, feel hurt and uneasy

At hearing it said by thy Treasury brother, That thou art a sheet of blank paper, my Vesey, And he, the dear innocent placeman, another. I Called by Virgil, botanically, a species auri frondentis.. - Tu facis, ut silvas, ut amem loca


clair; And if ruin must follow where fetters are riven, Be theirs, who have forged them, the guilt and the


I Written after bearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June 10, 828.

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Ev'n now I feel the coming light,

Ev'n now, could Folly lure
My Lord Mountcashel, too, lo write,

Emancipation is sure.
By geese (we read in history)

Old Rome was sa ved from ill;
And now, to quills of geese, we see
Old Rome indebted still.



on, etc. Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,

Nor beat for sense about,-
Things, little worth a Noble's while,

You 're better far without.
Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore,

Such miracles were done;
For, write but four such letters more,

And Freedom's cause is won!

If the slave will be silent!»—vain Soldier, beware

There is a dead silence the wrong'd may assume, When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair,

But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom;When the blush, that long buro'd on the suppliani's

cheek, Gives place to th' avenger's pale, resolute bue; And the tongue, that once threaten'd, disdaining to

speaki, Consigns to the arm the high office-to do. If men, in that silence, should think of the hour,

When proudly their fathers in panoply stood, Presenting, alike, a bold front-work of power

To the despot on land and the foe ou the flood;-That hour, when a Voice had come forth from the west,

To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms; And a lesson, long look'd for, was taught the opprest,

That kings are as dust before freemen in arms! If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet

day At length seem'd to break through a long night of

thrall, And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray ;If Fancy should tell him, that Day-spring of Good,

Though swiftly its light died away from his chain,
Though darkly it set in a nation's best blood,

Now wants but invoking to shine out again;-
If-if, I say, breathings like these should come o'er

The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come, Then, perhaps,-ay, perhapsbut I dare not say

more ; Thou hast will'd that thy slaves should be mute-I

am dumb.

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Ara-Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear.

A Bisnop and a bold Dragoon,

Both heroes in their way,
Did thus of late, one afternoon,

Unto each other say :- Dear Bishop !» quoth the brave Hussar,

« As nobody denies That you a wise logician are,

And I am-otherwise;
« 'T is fit that, on this question, we

Stick each to his own art-
That yours should be the sophistry,

And mine the fighting part.
« My creed, I need not tell you, is

Like that of Wellington,
To whom po harlot comes amiss,

Save Her of Babylon;'
« And when we 're at a loss for words,

If laughing reasoners flout us,
For lack of sense we 'll draw our swords

The sole things sharp about us.»
« Dear bold Dragoon !» the Bishop said,

«'T is true for war thou art meant; And reasoning (bless that dandy head!)

Is not in thy department. « So leave the argument to me

And, when my holy labour Hath lit the fires of bigotry,

Thou 'lt poke them with thy sabre. « From pulpit and from sentry-box

We'll make our joint attacks, 1, at the head of my cassocks,

And you, of your cossacks. * So here 's your health, my brave Hussar!

My exquisite old fighter-
Success to Bigotry and War,

The musket and the mitre.»
Thus pray'd the minister of Heaven-

While YORK, just entering then,
Snored out (as if some Clarke had given

His nose the cue) « Amen!»
Cui nulla meretrix displicuit, præter Babylonicam.

Salvete, fratres Asini.--St Francis.

WRITE on, write on, ye Barons dear,

Ye Dukes, write hard and fast;
The good we've sought for many a year

Your quills will bring at last.
One letter more, Newcastle, pen,

To match Lord Kenyon's two,
And more than Ireland's host of men,
One brace of Peers will do.

Write on, write on, etc. Sure, never, since the precious use

Of pen and ink began,
Did letters, writ by fools, produce

Such signal good to mao.
While intellect, 'mong high and low,

Is marching on, they say,
Give me the Dukes and Lords, who go,
Like crabs, the other way.

Write on, write on, etc.

Look on it now! deserted, bleachd, and grim,

Is this, thou feverish man, thy festal bowl ?
Is this the cup wherein thou seek'st the balm

Each brighter chalice to thy lip denies?
Is this the oblivious bowl whose floods becalm

The worm that will not sleep, and never dies ? Woe to the lip to which this cup is held !

The lip that's palld with every purer draught ; For which alone the rifled grave can yield

A goblet worthy to be deeply quaffid.
Strip, then, this glittering mockery from the skull,

Restore the relic to its tomb again,
And seek a healing balm within the bowl,

The blessed bowl that never flow'd in vain!

THE DAY-DREAM.' Taey both were hush'd, the voice, the chords ;

I heard but once that witching lay; And few the notes, and few the words,

My spell-bound memory brought away; Traces, remember'd here and there,

Like echoes of some broken strain;Links of a sweetness lost in air,

That nothing now could join again. Ev'n these, too, ere the morning, fled;

And, though the charm still lingerid on
That o'er each sense her song had shed,

The song itself was faded, gone ;-
Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,

On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as cummer flowers,

Though what they were, we now forget. In vain, with hints from other strains,

I wood this truant air to come,-As birds are taught, on eastern plains,

To lure their wilder kindred home. In vain :-the song that Sappho gave,

In dying, to the mournful sea, Not muter slept beneath the wave

Than this within my memory. At length, one morning, as I lay

In that half-waking mood, when dreams Unwillingly at last give way

To the full truth of day-light's beams, A face,– the very face, methought,

From which had breathed, as from a shrine Of song

and soul, the notes I sought,Came with its music close to mine;

the long-lost measure o'er,Each note and word, with every tone And look, that lent it life before,

All perfect, all again my own.
Like parted souls, when, 'mid the blest,

They meet again, each widow'd sound
Through Memory's realm had wing'd in quest

Of its sweet mate, till all were found. Nor ev'n in waking, did the clue,

Thus strangely caught, escape again;
For never lark its matins knew

So well as now I knew this strain.
And oft, whep Memory's wondrous spell

Is talk'd of in our tranquil bower,
I sing this lady's song, and tell

The vision of that morning hour.

And sung



OF IT. Gop

preserve us! there's nothing now safe from assault, Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the

hammer; And accounts have just reach'd us that one Mr Galt

Has declared open war against English and grammar! He had long been suspected of some such design

And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at, Had lately 'mong C-Ib-rn's troops of the line

(The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private. There school'd, with a rabble of words at command,

Scotch, English, and slang, in promiscuous alliance, lle at length against Syntax bas taken bis siand,

And sets all the nine parts of speech at defiance. Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford ;

In the mean time the danger most imminent grows, Ile has taken the Life of one eminent Lord, And who he 'll next murder the Lord only knows!

Wednesday Evening. Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene

Though the rebel, 'l is stated, to aid his defection, Has seized a great Powder-no-Puff Magazine,

And th’ explosions are dreadful in every direction. What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,

As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration) Of lyrical « ichor,»' « gelatinous » prose, a

And a mixture called « amber immortalization,»3 Now he raves of a bard, he once happen'd to meet, Seated high « among rattlings » and « churming » a

sonnet, 4 Now talks of a Mystery, wrapp'd in a sheet,

With a halo (by way of a night-cap) upon it! We shudder in tracing these terrible linesSomething bad they must mean, though we can't

make it out; For whate'er may be guess'd of Gali's secret designs,

That they're all anti-English no Cliristian can doubt. 1. That dark diseased ichor, wbich coloured his effusions, Galt's Life of Byron.

*. That gelatinous character of their effusions..-H.

1. The poetical embalminent, or rather amber immortalization." -H.

•. Sitting amidst the shrouds and rattlings, churming an inarticulate melody.» --Id.

s. He was a mystery in a winding-sheet, crowned with a halo. -Id.




Why hast thou bound around, with silver rim,

This once gay peopled palace of the soul ?

In these stanzas I bave done little more than relate a fact in verse ; and the lady, whos: singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sloup, is Mrs Robert Arkwright.

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( The following are very generally attributed to Mr Moore, and though not acknowledged by that geotleman, their wit, grace, and

spirit, sufficiently attest the truth of the report, and sanction their insertion in a completo collection of bis Poetical Works.)


O for a voice, as loud as that of Fame,

To breathe the word-Arise!
From Pindus to Taygetus to proclaim-

Let every Greek arise!
Te who have hearts to strike a single blow,

Hear my despairing cries!
Ye who have hands to immolate one foe,

Arise! arise! arise!
From the dim fields of Asphodel beneath,

Upborne by cloudy sighs
Of those who love their country still in death,-

Ev'n l-ev'n 1-arise!
These are not hands for earthly wringing-these!

Blood should not blind these eyes! -
Yet here I stand, untomb'd MILTIADES,

Weeping-arise! arise! Hear ye the


that heave this burial-field !-Old Græcia's saviour-band Cry from the dust—« Fight on! nor DARE to yield!

Save ye our father-land! « Blunt with your bosom the barbaric spear!

Break it within your breast;
Then come, brave Greek! and join your brothers here

In our immortal rest!»
Shall modern Datis, swoln with Syrian pride,

Cover the land with slaves ?-
Ay- let them cover it, both far and wide, -

Cover it with their graves !
Much has been done-but more remains to do

Ye have fought long and well!
The trump that, on the Ægean, glory blew,

Seem'd with a storm to swell!
Asia's grim tyrant shudder'd at the sound,

Ile leap d upon his throne!
Murmur'd his horse-tail'd chieftainry around-

« Another Marathon !)

The feverish war-drum mingles with the fife

In dismal symphony,
And Moslem strikes at liberty and life, -

For both, strike harder ye!
Hark! how Cithæron with bis earthquake voice

Calls to the utmost shores!
While Pluto bars, against the riving noise,

His adamantine doors!
Athenè, tiptoe on her crumbling dome,

Cries— « Youth, ye must be men!»
And Echo shouts within her rocky tomb,

« Greeks, become Greeks again!» The stone first brought, bis living tomb to close,

Pausanias' mother piled :
Matrons of Greece! will ye do less for foes

Than she did for her child ?
Let boyhood strike !--Jet every rank and age

Do each what each can do!
Let him whose arm is mighty as bis rage,

Strike deep-strike home-strike through! Be wise, be firm, be cautious, yet be bold !

Be brother-true! be ONE!
I teach but what the Phrygian taught of old-

Divide, and be undone!
Hallow'd in life, in death itself, is he

Who for his country dies ; A light, a star, to all futurityArise

ye, then ! arise!
O countrymen! O countrymen! once more-

By earth-and seas--and skies-
By Heaven-by sacred Hades—I implore-

Arise ! arise! arise!


Ah quoties dubius scriptis exarsit amator!-Ovid.

Dodona, 'mid her fanes and forests hoar,

Heard it with colemn glee:
And old Parnassus, with a lofty roar,

Told it from sea to sea!.
High-bosom’d Greece, through her unnumber'd vales,

Broke forth in glorious song!
Her classic streams that plough the headlong dales,

Thunder'd the notes along!
But there's a bloodier wreath to gain, oh friends!

Now rise, or ever fall!
If ye fight now no fiercer than the fiends,

Better not fight at all!

The ghost of Miltiades came at night,
And he stood by ile bed of the Benthamite,
And he said, in a voice that thrill'd the frame,
« If ever the sound of Marathon's name
Hatlı fired thy blood, or flush'd thy brow,
Lover of liberty, rouse thee now!»
The Benthamile, yawning, left his bed
Away to the Stock Exchange be sped,
And he found the scrip of Greece so high,
That it fired liis blood, it flushid his eye,
And oh!'t was a sight for the ghost to see,
For there never was Greek more Greek than he!
And sull, as the premium biglier went,
Vis ecstasy rose---so much per cent.

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