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UN MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE. Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, A FÁRCICAL EPIGRAM
One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside,
One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,
Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause,
Nor with the effect forget the cause.
Neustead Abbey, Oct. 11th, 1811
Sept. 14, 1811.
ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.
EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON,
DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS.
IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BE
CHEERFUL, AND TO “BANISH CARE."
WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent,
And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise-
“Oh! banish care”-such ever be
To me, divine Apollo, grant-0!
And thus to furnish decent lining,
TO LORD THURLOW.
" I lay my branch of laurel down,
Then thus to form Apollo's crown,
Lord Thurlow's Lines to Mr. Rogers.
"Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
“ I lay my branch of laurel down.”
Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;
Does Rogers want it most, or thou ?
Or send it back to Doctor Donne-
He'd have but little, and thou-none.
“ Then thus to form Apollo's crown.”
Inquire among your fellow-lodgers,
“ Let every other bring his own.”
And owls sent to Athens as wonders,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ;
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare
But let this pass-I'll whine no more,
TO THOMAS MOORE.
THE DEVIL'S DRIVE.
WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COM- for this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and nity
PANY WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to IN HORSEMONGER-LANE JAIL, MAY 19, 1813.
Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigor and imagination, it is for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condeny
sation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, adopting On you, who in all names can tickle the town,
a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson. There are Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, however, some of the stanzas of - The Devil's Drive” well worth pre For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,
serving.)-Moore. Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post
The Devil return'd to hell by two,
And he staid at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragout, But now to my letter-to yours 'tis an answer | And a rebel or so in an Irish stew, To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, And sausages made of a self-slain Jew, All ready and dress’d for proceeding to spunge on
And bethought himself what next to do, (According to compact) the wit in the dungeon- “ And,” quoth he, “I'll take a drive, Pray Phæbus at length our political malice
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night: May not get us lodgings within the same palace! In darkness my children take most delight, I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some And I'll see how my favorites thrive.
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; “ And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer then-
And at present my purpose is speed;
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.
“I have a state-coach at Carlton House,
1 A chariot in Seymour Place; • WHAT say I?”-not a syllable further in prose; But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends I'm your man of all measures,” dear Tom,--sol By driving my favorite pace: here goes!
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
Then up to the earth sprung he;
ea) never To look upon Leipsic plain;
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,
- That he perch'd on a mountain of slain; The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes, Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight, man,
Nor his work done half as well: And what dignity decks the flat face of the great
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, man.
That it blushed like the waves of hell! I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he; For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty. You know, we are used to quite different graces,
“Methinks they have here little need of me!”
The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and But the softest note that soothed his ear brisker,
Was the sound of a widow sighing:
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
As round her fell her long fair hair ;
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,
A child f famine dying ;
Charles to his people, Henry to nis wife, And the cirnage begun when resistance is done, -In him the double tyrant starts to life: And the fall of the vainly flying!
| Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, Each royal vampire wakes to life again.
Ah, what can tombs avail !-since these disgorge But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white, The blood and dust of both to mould a And what did he there, I pray?.
March, 1814. If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day :
ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TO
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. Who bid pretty well—but they cheated him, though.
THERE was a day-there was an hour,
While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thine The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,
When that immeasurable power Its coachman and his coat;
Unsated to resign So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
Had been an act of purer fame And seized him by the throat:
Than gathers round Marengo's name « Aha," quoth he, “what have we here?
And gilded thy decline, 'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!”
Through the long twilight of all time.
Despite some passing clouds of crime.
But thou forsooth must be a king
And don the purple vest, His brothel, and his beer;
As if that foolish robe could wring "Next to seeing a lord at the council board,
Remembrance from thy breast. I would rather see him here.”
Where is that fated garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star—the string—the crest ?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the great ; He might peep at the peers, though to hear them
Where neither guilty glory glows, were fiat;
Nor despicable state ? And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, Yes--one-the first-the last-the best That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate, He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
Bequeath'd the name of Washington, The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
To make man blush there was but one.
April, 1814. And Johnny of Norfolk-a man of some size
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy; And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, Because the Catholics would not rise,
TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB.
On one unbroken dream of thee?
December, 1813. And change the heart thou mayest not bless.
They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem’d,
Of late, another's charms to woo,
That thou wert banish'd from my view.
What thou hast done too well, for me
This treachery--was truth to thee.
Lines composed on the occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent
being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I. in the royal vault at Windsor.
FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
I have not wept while thou wert gone,
Nor worn one look of sullen wo;
(Ah! need I name her?) could bestow.
It is a duty which I ovve
ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT To thine-to thee-to man-to God,
THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.
Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name; But since my breast is not so pure,
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain, Since still the vulture tears my heart,
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, Let me this agony endure,
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand Not thee-oh! dearest as thou art!
No foe could tame-no tyrant could command ? In mercy, Clara ! let us part,
That race is gone-but still their children breathe, And I will seek, yet know not how,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : To shun, in time, the threatening dart
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, Guilt must not aim at such as thou.
And England! add their stubborn strength to thine,
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, But thou must aid me in the task,
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee! And nobly thus exert thy power:
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 'Then spurn me hence-'tis all I ask
But give support—the world hath given him fame! Ere time mature a guiltier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled Remorse redoubled on my head;
While cheerly following where the mighty led, Ere fires unquenchably devour
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod A heart, whose hope has long been dead. Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath 'tis all their fate allows Deceive no more thyself and me,
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse: Deceive not better hearts than mine;
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise Ah! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
From wo like ours, from shame like thine? Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose And, if there be a wrath divine,
The Highland seer's anticipated woes, A pang beyond this fleeting breath,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form Een now all future hope resign,
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
'Tis Heaven-not man-must charm away the wo STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head; But the tear which now burns on my cheek may May lighten well her heart's maternal care, impart
And wean from penury the soldier's heir. The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of
May, 1814. heart.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness cease?
TON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING We repent-we abjure we will break from our THE PICTURE OF SARAH, COUNTESS OF chain,
JERSEY, TO MRS. MEE. We will part, -we will fly to-unite it again!
WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord, Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr’d, Forgive me, adored one!--forsake, if thou wilt;
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, But the heart which is thine shåll expire undebased, That left a likeness of the brave or just; And man shall not break it—whatever thou may’st. What most admired each scrutinizing eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry? And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, What spread from face to face the wondering air? This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be; The thought of Brutus--for his was not there! And our days seem as swift, and our moments more That absence proved his worth--that absence fix'd sweet,
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd; With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze And the heartless may wonder at all I resign Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
May, 1814. Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less; If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey; That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief,
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay, To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:
And our hearts were so full of the land far away. Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.
The song they demanded in vain-it lay still What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ?
In our souls as the wind that hath died on the hill; A garden with all flowers-except the rose;
They called for the harp, but our blood they shall A fount that only wants its living stream;
spill, And night with every star, save Dian's beam.
Ere our right hands shall teach them one tone of Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,
their skill. That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree, Than all he shall not force on our applause. As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be,
Our hands may be fettered, our tears still are free, Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,
For our God and our glory, and Sion! for thee. With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine:
October, 1814. The symmetry of youth--the grace of mienThe eye that gladdens and the brow serene; The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than
They say that Hope is happiness, fair,
But genuine Love must prize the past; Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws
And Memory wakes the thoughts that blessa A spell which will not let our looks repose,
They rose the first, they set the last.
And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only hope to be; And these must wait till every charm is gone
And all that hope adored and lost
Hath melted into memory.
Alas! it is delusion all,
The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,
|LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF
"THE SIEGE OF CORINTH.”
BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn,
Nor in thy sensual fulness fall : Behold! while yet before thee burn
The graven words, the glowing wall. Many a despot men miscall :
Crown'd and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of all
Is it not written, thou must die ?
Go! dash the roses from thy brow
Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them:
More than thy very diadem,
Then throw the worthless bauble by,
And learn like better men to die.
In the year since Jesus died for men,
All our thoughts and our words had scope,
And some, or I mis-say, of neither;
Oh! early in the balance weigh’d,
And ever light of word and worth,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
But tears in Hope's averted eye
Unfit to govern, live, or die.