And youths and maidens most poetical,
Who lose the deepening twilight of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still,

Full of meek sympathy, must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains!
My friend, and thou, my sister! we have learn'd
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast, thick warble his delicious notes,
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburden his full soul
Of all its music!

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve;
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.-That strain again?
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,

Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small fore-finger up,
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise

To make him Nature's playmate; and if Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with her songs, that with the night
He may associate joy! Once more farewell,
Sweet Nightingale!


THE atrocious crime of being a young man, which the honourable gentleman has, with such spirit and decency, charged upon me, I shall neither attempt to palliate nor deny; but

content myself with wishing-that I may be one of those whose follies cease with their youth; and not of that number who are ignorant in spite of experience.

Whether youth can be imputed to any man as a reproach, I will not assume the province of determining: but, surely, age may become justly contemptible, if the opportunities which it brings, have past away without improvement, and vice appears to prevail when the passions have subsided. The wretch, that, after having seen the consequences of a thousand errors, continues still to blunder, and whose age has only added obstinacy to stupidity, is surely the object either of abhorrence or contempt; and deserves not that his grey head should secure him from insults. Much more is he to be abhorred, who, as he has advanced in age, has receded from virtue, and become more wicked with less temptation; who prostitutes himself for money which he cannot enjoy, and spends the remains of his life in the ruin of his country.

But youth is not my only crime. I have been accused of acting a theatrical part. A theatrical part may either imply some peculiarities of gesture, or a dissimulation of my real sentiments, and an adoption of the opinions and language of another man.

In the first sense, the charge is too trifling to be confuted, and deserves only to be mentioned that it may be despised. I am at liberty, like every other man, to use my own language; and though I may perhaps have some ambition, yet to please this gentleman I shall not lay myself under any restraint, or very solicitously copy his diction or his mein, however matured by age or modelled by experience. But if any man shall, by charging me with theatrical behaviour, imply that I utter any sentiments but my own, I shall treat him as a calumniator and a villain; nor shall any protection shelter him from the treatment which he deserves. I shall, on such an occasion, without scruple, trample upon all those forms with which wealth and dignity entrench them

selves; nor shall any thing but age restrain my resentmentage, which always brings one privilege-that of being insolent and supercilious without punishment.

But, with regard to those whom I have offended, I am of opinion-that if I had acted a borrowed part, I should have avoided their censure. The heat that offended them is the ardour of conviction, and that zeal for the service of my country, which neither hope nor fear shall influence me to suppress. I will not sit unconcerned while my liberty is invaded, nor look in silence upon public robbery. I will exert my endeavours (at whatever hazard) to repel the aggressor, and drag the thief to justice,-what power soever may protect the villany, and whoever may partake of the plunder.


Now's the day, and now's the hour!
Freedom is our nation's dower,
Put we forth a nation's power,
Struggling to be free!
Raise your front the foe to daunt!
Bide no more the snare, the taunt;
Peal to highest heaven the chant-
"Law and Liberty!"

Gather like the muttering storm!
Wake your thunders for Reform!
Bear not, like the trodden worm,
Scorn and mockery!

Waking from their guilty trance,
Shrink the foes as storms advance,
Scathed beneath a nation's glance,-
Where's their bravery?


Waves on waves compose the main;
Mountains rise by grain on grain;
Men an empire's might sustain,
Knit in unity!

Who shall check the ocean tide?
Who o'erthrow the mountain's pride?
Who a nation's strength deride,
Spurning slavery?

Hearts in mutual faith secure,
Hands from spoil and treachery pure,
Tongues that meaner oaths abjure,—

These shall make us free!

Bend the knee, and bare the brow,
God, our guide, will hear us now!
Peal to highest heaven the vow—-

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Law and Liberty!"


THE high moon sails upon her beauteous way,
Serenely smoothing o'er the lofty walls
Of those tall piles and sea-girt palaces,-
Whose porphyry pillars, and whose costly fronts,
Fraught with the orient spoil of many marbles,
Like altars ranged along the broad canal,
Seem each a trophy of some mighty deed
Rear'd up from out the waters, scarce less strangely
Than those more massy and mysterious giants
Of architecture, those Titanian fabrics,

Which point in Egypt's plains to times that have
No other record. All is gentle: nought
Stirs rudely; but, congenial with the night,
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit.
The tinklings of some vigilant guitars

Of sleepless lovers to a wakeful mistress,
And cautious opening of the casement, showing
That he is not unheard; while her young hand,
Fair as the moonlight of which it seems part,
So delicately white, it trembles in

The act of opening the forbidden lattice,
To let in love through music, makes his heart
Thrill like his lyre-strings at the sight: the dash
Phosphoric of the oar, or rapid twinkle
Of the far lights of skimming gondolas,
And the responsive voices of the choir

Of boatmen answering back with verse for verse;
Some dusky shadow chequering the Rialto;
Some glimmering palace-roof, or tapering spire,
Are all the sights and sounds which here pervade
The ocean-born and earth-commanding city—
How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm!
I thank thee, Night! for thou hast chased away
Those horrid bodements which, amidst the throng,
I could not dissipate; and with the blessing
Of thy benign and quiet influence,

Now will I to my couch, although to rest

Is almost wronging such a night as this.



THERE is not an inhabitant of Britain that has not a vital interest in Ireland: there is no man, from the highest to the least elevated stations in life, to whose bosom the affairs of that country do not come home. No statesman's head will lie easy on its pillow, until the distractions of Ireland are allayed. No contributor to the revenues of the British empire, no holder of British funds, is without a deep concern in what has hitherto proved an endless source of expense

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