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surmountable barrier not to be passed; nor indeed, were they able to penetrate so far to the Northward as many former navigators. What then, let us ask, becomes of the fancied amelioration of the climate of Britain, which certain Northern Philosophers predict, and would persuade us to look for from this supposed disruption and dispersion of the ice of the Polar regions? It is allowed, likewise, that all these islands of ice have been encountered by late navigators far to the West. Now experience teaches that our hottest weather proceeds from Southerly winds, not from the West or North-west, where these have been generally discovered; and it was from this quarter the wind came during the dry and hot spring and summer of 1818. Yet most of these floating islands of ice, the supposed cause of our two cold summers and late harvests of 1816 and 1817, must still exist; for it would take years to melt them under the Tropick.
But we are told, that we once had vineyards, which no longer exist, and that our orchards have become less productive. With respect to the former, as we do not admit any diminution of temperature to have taken place in our climate, we consider that we are equally capable of having them at present. We know that the common grape ripens with us in most years: and will any one say, that we could not have made our own wines in 1818 if we had had vineyards? But the loss of them must be sought for in other causes. From the changeable nature of our climate, the produce of our vineyards must have always been uncertain, and their culture hazardous and expensive. And when we had obtained considerable acquisitions in the Southern parts of France, it was found that we could always obtain our wines eheaper and of better quality, and in any quantity, from that part of our empire, than we could afford to raise them at home; and to that cause alone do we im. pute the neglect and ultimate loss of our vineyards, which were grubbed up to make room for a more certain and more profitableculture: nor have we the smallest doubt, but that if due encouragement were given, they might be again established. The present high price of foreign wines strongly encourages the attempt; but no encouragement is to be expected from Government, which would not countenance a measure so highly detrimental to the revenue. Besides, we all know there is a fashion even in wines, and the public taste has been so long habituated to those of France and other countries, that it might be long before the publie prejudice would yield to the produce of our own vineyards,
There are anomalies of Season in all
climates of the earth, and in all countries where the Seasons are most regular.-The periodical rains sometimes fail in Tropical countries, and famine ensues, as happened in Bengal, in the years 1768 and 1769, when they failed partially the first, and almost totally the second; the famine of 1770 was the consequence. There are likewise certain current opinions, both as to climate and weather, which, however generally admitted, are quite unfounded, and have long since classed with many other vulgar errors which require to be eradicated; for there is nothing more difficult than to combat long-established prejudices. W. Y.
At the recent Anniversary of the White. haven Philosophical Society, two specimens of meat cured with the pyroligneous acid were exhibited. They were prepared on the 7th of September, 1819. One was hung up at home, and the other sent out by a vessel to the West Indies, to try the effect of climate upon it, and brought back on the return of the ship to that port. Both specimens were pronounced by all present who tasted them, to be perfectly fresh, sweet, and fit for use after a lapse of 15 months.
The recently-discovered planet Vesta may now be perceived with a telescope of moderate power, in the constellation of Cancer; it appears like a star of the fifth or sixth magnitude.
GEOCENTRIC AND HELIOCENTRIC TABLES.
"The Chevalier Theodore Carezzini, a Piedmontese, has invented two kinds of round tables, which he calls geocentric and heliocentric tables, and by their aid, a person without any knowledge of mathematics can, in a very short time, thoroughly observe the course of the stars, and explain the celestial phenomena. Ladies and youths, whom the inventor has instructed in his method, have, without much previous knowledge of astronomy, satisfactorily solved various problems respecting the sun, the moon, the planets, fixed stars, eclipses, &c. By means of these instruments, you may, in the open air, obtain a meridian line in a few minutes; and, in a journey by land, never miss the direction to the North. You may also learn the hour during the night without a watch. It is remarkable, that in the country the geocentric table may appear in the shape of an astronomical garden, of whatever size you please."
THE LAMENT OF WOBURN *.
HAIL! sepulchre of mighty dead,
Congenial to the Poet's tread;
Thine is the glen I love to pace,
Thine is the tale I love to trace ;
Dear are thy walls, thy thronged town,
Remembrance of thine old renown,
And though thy Names have pass'd away,
They leave behind a beamy ray.
Yes, Woburn, tho' thy cloister'd pile,
Thy groined roof, thy fretted aile,
With holy Abbots, great and just,
Are mingled in one common dust!
Yet hast thou glories-thou canst claim
The memory of unsullied fame:
Strange turn of fate! the orphan child
O'er thine obscurity had smil'd,
Nor curs'd the glories yet they tell,
That rose but as his parent fell.
Peace gilds that roof, yet once that wall
Hath known the stern oppressor's thrall;
The moon that set on Pingrith's bower
Saw Woburn sadden'd in that hour;
The sun that rose on Kymble's hill
Beheld her children weeping still.
Woe' might each native voice exclaim,
For Woburn was a ruin'd name.
It was a sad, a dreary day That saw thy warrior ride away, It was a sadder, drearier noon That saw his steps retrac'd so soon:From Leighton's vale, in martial throng, Yon black battalion moves along.
Where was the Russell in that hour, Or Duncombe with the Brickhill power? Say-did not Luke's broad pennon beam, Sent not his helm its wonted gleam; Withheld'st thou, Pingrith, aw'd by fear, Thy battle's pride-thy Boteler's spear? Yet as the fearless eagle flies, Swift to her post did Woburn rise; Kaye to the front of battle came, And the young hope of Staunton's name.
'Tis past the trumpet's martial tone Brac'd thee with valour scarce thine own; Unequal to her foemen's might
Pale Woburn bore the shock of fight.
Vain were her hopes-some new dismay
Stamps ruin on the well-fought day;
Lo Staunton writhing quits the field,
Death strikes his dart at Kaye's broad
He comes the Victor comes-his eye
Beams the wild of clemency,
While mindful of his arms' renown,
He prances through the yielding town;
Borne onward by the rushing borde,
Still bade he Conquest sheath her sword:
And grateful thousands yet had blest,
The generous flame in Bridges' breast,
Vaio was his wish-an hostile spear,
Hath reach'd him in his proud career.
Weep, Woburn, weep, that dying sound,
Shall spread destruction's signal round;
Lo, where the scorching, ruthless brand,
Glares in each soldier's madden'd hand!
And he, whose voice had bid them spare
The vanquish'd town, lies bleeding there!
Discord, who shrinks from Pity's breath,
Hath stopp'd his quivering tongue in death.
I will not paint the woes, the shame
Impending o'er a foeman's name;
Suffice it, that no soldier came
To work thy fall: some lawless band,
The terror of a peaceful land,
Suatch'd at the dark occasion's call,
And sought their prize in Woburn's thrall.
Such sorrows were-those sorrows past,
Confer a deathless fame at last.
And while such joys her name can shed,
Through Woburn's shade I love to tread;
There flows the voice I love to hear,
There lives each reminiscence dear.
Ah-shut from valour's deathless beam,
I court Love's transitory dream:
And what are joys like these to me
Or the proud gift of Poesie,
If I through life am doom'd to prove
The pangs of unrequited Love?
Vain would the laurel wreath adorn me,
'Did she for whom I prize it, scorn me.
And yet fair bow, no fabling dreams,
But words of the Most High,
Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.
When o'er the green undeluged earth
Heaven's covenant thou didst shine,
How came the world's grey fathers forth
To watch the sacred sign?
And when its yellow lustre smil'd
O'er mountains yet untrod,
Each mother held aloft her child
To bless the bow of God.
Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,
The first made anthem rang,
On earth deliver'd from the deep,
And the first Poet sang,
Nor ever shall the Muse's eye
Unraptured greet thy beam:
Theme of primeval prophecy,
Be still the Poet's theme.
The earth to thee its incense yields,
The lark thy welcome sings,
When glittering in the freshen'd fields
The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast
O'er mountain, tower, and town,
Or mirror'd in the ocean vast
A thousand fathoms down.
As fresh in yon horizon dark,
young thy beauties seem
As when the eagle from the Ark
First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred page,
Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.
THE BARD'S WISH.
OH were I laid
In the green wood shade,
Beneath the covert of waving trees,
Removed from woe,
And the ills below,
That render life but a long disease.
No more to weep,
But in soothing sleep,
To slumber on long ages through;
My grave turf bright
With the rosy light
Of eve, or the morning's silver dew.
I ask no dirge
The foamy surge
Of the torrent will sing a lament for me; And the evening breeze,
That stirs the trees,
Will murmur a mournful lullaby.
Plant not-plant not,
Above the spot,
Memorial stones for the stranger's gaze;
The earth and sky
Are enough, for I
Have lived with nature all my days.
Ob were I laid
In the greenwood shade,
Beneath the covert of waving trees,
GENT. MAG. January, 1821.
LORD BYRON TO MR. T. MOORE.
MY boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea:
But ere I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh for those I love,
And a smile for those I hate,
And, whatever sky's above,
Here's heart for any fate.
Though the ocean roar around me,
It still shall bear me on ;
Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were it the last drop in the well, As I gasp'd on the brink,
Ere my fainting spirits fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink.
In that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour
Should be-Peace to thee and thine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore.
The OXFORD NEWSMAN'S ADDRESS to his Worthy MASTERS and MISTRESSES.-CHRISTMAS, 1820. POETS were scarce in former ages,
At least so thought our antient sages; "Three Poets in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn!" But in this age of worth and wit, All-bounteous Nature has thought fit To bless us with three bards at once, To whom each Antient seems a dunce ;Scarce Homer's self can stand his ground, Where BYRON, SCOTT, and MOORE are found:
And, lest these sons of fire should quarrel, For Beauty's smile, or Phoebus' laurel, Kind Nature to prevent a wrangle, Has placed 'em in a fair triangle, Which plan appears most right to me, As Wit should always pointed be:The Northern point a Minstrel guards, Whom Scotia hails the first of bards; The Western point, green Ireland's shore, Enraptur'd hails the name of Moore; The Southern point is England's Isle, Where BYRON woos the Muse's smile, With phrenzied eye, and song divine, Bright favourite of the dark-haired line! Might one of these but condescend, This troublous year, to stand my friend, To touch with spark of seraph fire, Old JOHN TROTT's bald and broken lyre(Who still his arduous circle goes, Through Summer's heat, and Winter's
Select Poetry.-Oxford Newsman's Address.
And guide, with honied rhymes at will,
His slowly-moving gray-goose quill,
Then worthy Masters would I tip ye
Whole buckets-full of Aganippe,
Would crop like other tuneful asses,
The weeds that sprout on Mount Parnassus,
And your minds' appetite appease
With intellectual fricasees :-
But since, alas! it is not mine
In themes of lofty rank to shine,
Let gifted Bards, and other men try
Their hands on matters Parliament'ry,
Pour the full tide of burning words
On BROUGHAM & DENMAN, QUEEN & LORDS,
And once again the whole rehearse
In living Chronicle of verse,
Of what befell the Royal Rover,
Since her first bubbling up at Dover,
Her gracious smiles and care exhausting,
On bowing WooD and BILLY AUSTIN,
Until by various wishes toss'd,
Those thrilling words her ear accost,
"The Queen has won! The Bill is lost!"
Such be their boastful aim, who try
On Pegasean nag to fly,
In stinging stanzas to assail,
Earls Donoughmore and Lauderdale,
Or in soft lullabies to rock ye
By mirthful ditties on Majocchi;
On theme, so taking and bewitching,
Each hapless Anti-Queenite hitching,
In biting paragraphs, or bold rhymes,
In imitation of the Old Times;
Whilst I, on rhyming crutch essay,
To plod my dark and doggrel way,
Thro' London streets, both long and wide,
From Tyburn turnpike to Cheapside;
Thro' thronging squads, and echoing brawls
Of heavenly-minded Radicals,
When the Queen sojourned to St. Paul's!
For having from my masters got
Leave both for self, and Mrs. TROTT,
To chase, for once, our cares away,
In sunshine of a holiday;
And breathe, like other reckless neigh-
Some little respite from our labours,
As maggots-for there's little difference-
Gain from crack'd filberts jail deliv'rance,
We crawled it-(Mrs. TROTT, you know,
More nimble is of tongue than toe)--
To where in amplest tide the folly ran,
To London's city metropolitan.
And now the day of days arrives!
When each with other strongly strives
To rend the air with such mad cries,
As drive the birds from out the skies,
And shake, with earthquake of applause,
High-flying pigeons and jackdaws;
Now the throng begins to pour
Through the Minories to the Tower,
From Spitalfields in crowds they come,
From Shoreditch and from Hackney some;
All the lanes and alleys fill soon,
Headed by Sir ROBERT WILSON:
Haste, WAITHMAN! haste, my darling boy!
To greet, and give your Mistress joy-
The Bill's no more-old Woop's no fool!
She's Queen in spite of Liverpool!
Hark! the merry bells are ringing-
Happy mortals! cheerful singing-
Cockades and laure!! joyous sights-
Regiments of blazing mutton-lights,
Red-lettered day for Bergamites!
Mercy on us! what a do!
"I've lost a cloak!"-" and I a shoe"--
Stop thief! pray stop that running fel-
He's scambering off with my umbrella!"
See the rumpled lasses stand,
Lending each a helping hand,
Smoothing back dishevelled tresses,
Pinning up their tattered dresses,
Conglomeration now of trampers,
Closely packed, like figs in hampers-
Free as the wind in key-hole narrow!
Happy as toads beneath a harrow !
And now the grand procession comes-
Strike up, ye trumpets, and ye drums!
The coach and six, all spick and span,
Containing QUEEN and LADY ANNE,
Their dresses glittering like the rainbow,
And elbowed close by Wood, their main
Next, fiercely mounted on highflyers,
JOE HUME and PETER MOORE, Esquires-
Then capering horsemen, two aud two,
Proudly present themselves to view,
In all their hats white favours glow,
Fit emblems of " the unsunned snow;"
Though Love sometimes is apt to scorch,
And snow will melt in Cupid's torch!-
Amid the chariots that so mob us,
Lo! one containing little HоBHOUSE.
In full Court dress, oh! how well-bred!
And fine, like gilded gingerbread ;—
The Sheriffs strut before the Queen,
In civic robes of mazarine,
Obeisances successive warp
The plastic back of Lord Mayor THORPE,
(Like goose, which catching water-snail,
His head immerged, turns up his tail,)
Then meets her, with uncovered pate,
Alighting at the Church-yard gate.
Look up! like tulip-beds in May days,
See the balconies cramm'd with ladies-
Windows are choked with heads in piles,
And houses roofed with two-legg'd tiles;
The jam below, so firm and fitting,
You scarce could thrust an iron spit in ;-
Then, "Oh!" cries Mrs. TROTT, "my dear,
Pray let us budge a bit from here;
There's such a scrouging and such
The people's all so disobliging:
This mob-I'm sure we can't wag through
St. Giles's Fair is nothing to it:
Oh how I long once more to greet
Our home in Penny-farthing-street;
The horses kick and look so wild-
-I'm glad we did not bring the child ;-
Although poor Jackey cried to stump it-
Well, he shall have some butter'd crum-
With all this posse in the street,
'Tis plain they'd tread him under feet;
Select Poetry.-Oxford Newsman's Address.
So that, for sure, I'm not to blame-
He'd better blubber than be lame.
La! how the buggaboos do splash,
They've all bedaub'd my best calash ;—
I little thought to run such risks
With this here lute-string, bought at
Besides the streets is quite a hash-
Such heaps of mire-and all squish-
My flannel dickey's all in quod,
And smeared like any mason's hod-
Sure such a serious of ill forten
No other mortal e'er was caught in-
-Oh, Ma'am what
Oh lud! my sides!
D'ye think I'm made of putrefaction?
Stay, John!-mishap upon mishap-
My very toes are smash'd to pap-
I ne'er at home saw such a rabble,
Not e'en when Town and Gownsmen
My flounce is all begrimed (worse luck),
And stockings, too, as damp as muck:
That sauce-box, with his grinning jowl,
Says I am like a parboiled owl-
This noise, and racketting, and hurry,
Has put my nerves in such a flurry,
I shan't be well, 'till I can tickle 'em
To rest again, with cup of MICKLEM† ;
Let us cross over-baste, be quick-
Pray, Sir, take care, your horse will kick;
And when a nag rears up and capers,
It always puts me in the vapours:
Oh me! how awkwardly he rides-
The saddle's all askew-besides
His foot in stirrup is but half in-
Well, he's no gemman by his laughing :-
Odzooks! as sure as eggs is eggs,
I've catched the cramp in both my legs;
And oh that mud, I've just stepp'd flop
And now I feel my garters dropping !"
Sooner might you, my worthy Masters,
Cure broken hearts with issue plasters;
Sooner with cobwebs build a ridge
Against the tide at London bridge;
Sooner in bull-rush find a knot,
Than stop the tongue of Mrs. TROTT,
When once, with downhill speed, it goes
Along the path of her own woes.
So finding all my efforts vain,
To quell her ire, or heal her pain,
I gladly hook'd my arm in her's,
Sticking together close as burrs,
And led her gallantly along
Forth from the mud and maddening
* A celebrated tradesman in Oxford. An eminent brewer in Oxford.
To where from Hatchett's, Piccadilly,
Starts the bang up of sable Billy ‡ •
Then glad and happy not t'have lost her,
I shoved her up outside of Costar §,
(Some drops of comfort in the flagon,
To keep the cold out as we wag on,)
Thus cheek by jowl, we posted down,
Revisiting, in Oxford Town,
(As folks of fashion say) our Seat
Bosomed in Penny-farthing-street;
No valet waiting there, or lackey,
Save, with extended arms, poor Jackey :
Yet quite content, if this our tour
Shall gently shake, for one half hour,
Care's aching wrinkles from your brow,
And light it up with pleasure now!
Determining henceforth to shun
Those plagues, which others nickname fun,
I'll fly the stir and anxious throbs
Of London politics and mobs;
Leave Kings and Queens and things of
To quid-nunc keen and learned pate;
And my attention solely turn all
To circulate old JACKSON'S JOURNAL.
At times and taxes some may fret,
And shudder at the Nation's debt;
I ne'er the fancied ills bemoau,
No debis disturb me but my own;
Only those zealots mad I call,
Who take the name of Radical,
Who burn to tear-their hearts o'erflowing
With hate, that Hell itself might glow in-
The bonds of Church and State asunder,
To bring all wealth and wisdom under,
That they may batten in the plunder.
But let another hope be our's!
Still may Britannia's sea-girt towers
The gauntlet of defiance throw,
To foreign and domestic foe-
May strife and factious clamour fly,
Like clouds that rack the morning sky,
Before the sun of loyalty!
May crowded harvests smile around,
And hot sirloins be ever found
To smoke upon the board of those
Whose heart with patriot ardour glows.
May draught of MICKLEM's best be there,
To toast the King in bumpers rare;
And tankards frothed above the brink,
To stop up each intestine chink;
To gird their nerves, and give 'em pluck
To thread life's varied maze with luck :
Nor while JOHN TROTT his weekly round
Trips, like Camilla, o'er the ground,
Will you, my generous friends, refuse
To speed his progress with the News,
To stay the craving throes his stomach
And kindly grease the hinges of his heels!
A first-rate whip, in the employ of Mr. Costar.
§ Mr. Costar, the obliging and opulent coach proprietor of Oxford.