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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,
Good plays are scarce,

One rank'd in some recording page
So Moore writes farce :

With the worst anarchs of the age,
The poet's fame grows brittle-

Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause,
We knew before

Nor with the effect forget the cause.
That Little's Moore,

Neustead Abbey, Oct. 11th, 1811
But now 'tis Moore that's Little.

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,
(I hope I am not violent,)
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise-
To common sense his thoughts could raise
Why would they let him print his lays ?

“Oh! banish care”-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and “ banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought-but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of any thing but love.

To me, divine Apollo, grant-0!
Hermilda's first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;

And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining-
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

May, 1813.

TO LORD THURLOW.

" I lay my branch of laurel down,

Then thus to form Apollo's crown,
Let every other bring his own."

Lord Thurlow's Lines to Mr. Rogers.

"Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'Twould suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled
As fond and faultless as her child ;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain,
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.

I lay my branch of laurel down.
Thou “lay thy branch of laurel down !

Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;
And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou ?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send it back to Doctor Donne-
Were justice done to both, I trow,

He'd have but little, and thou-none.

Then thus to form Apollo's crown.
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,

Inquire among your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phæbus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

Let every other bring his own.
When coals to Newcastle are carried,

And owls sent to Athens as wonders,
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurei,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare

But let this pass-I'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,-
I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's “ May is in the sere,”
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes
Suit with the sablest of the times,

TO THOMAS MOORE.

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE.

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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.

codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; “ And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer then-
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, “If I follow'd my taste, indeed,
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote, I should mount in a wagon of wounded men,
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, And smile to see them bleed.
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. But these will be furnish'd again and again,

And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,

And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.
FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO
THOMAS MOORE.

“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,
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, I have something for both at the end of their race.
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme.
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in “ So now for the earth to take my chance."
the flood,

Then up to the earth sprung he;
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, And making a jump from Moscow to France,
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, He stepp'd across the sea,
And Southey's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep;- And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
That “Felo de se," who, half drunk with his No very great way from a bishop's abode.

malmsey,
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, But first as he flew. I forgot to say,
Singing “Glory to God” in a spick and span stanza, That he hover'd a moment upon his way
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never

ea) never To look upon Leipsic plain;
man saw.

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:
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;

And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in, kersey- Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Of a maid by her lover lying-
Jersey,

As round her fell her long fair hair ;
Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air,
With majesty's presence as those she invited. Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!

And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,
June, 1814. With his hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,

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 :
But he made a tour, and kept a journal

ADDITIONAL STANZAS, TO THE ODE TO
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,

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.
So he sat him on his box again,
And bade him have no fear,

But thou forsooth must be a king
But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein,

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 ?
The Devil gat next to Westminster,

Vain froward child of empire! say,
And he turn'd" to the room” of the Commons ; Are all thy playthings snatch'd away?
But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there,
That “the Lords " had received a summons;

Where may the wearied eye repose
And he thought as a “ quondam aristocrat,"

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.
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard—which set Satan himself a staring AND say'st thou that I have not felt,
A certain chief justice say something like swearing. Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me ?
And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, “Il Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt
must go,

On one unbroken dream of thee?
For I find we have much better manners below. But love like ours must never be,
If thus he harangues when he passes my border, And I will learn to prize thee less;
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order." As thou hast fled, so let me flee,

December, 1813. And change the heart thou mayest not bless.

ma

WINDSOR POETICS.

They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem’d,

Of late, another's charms to woo,
Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd

That thou wert banish'd from my view.
Clara ! this struggle to undo

What thou hast done too well, for me
This mask before the babbling crew

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,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;
Between them stands another sceptered thing-
It moves, it reigns-in all but name, a king :

I have not wept while thou wert gone,

Nor worn one look of sullen wo;
But sought, in many, all that one

(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.
To crush, tc quench this guilty glow,
Ere yet the path of crime be trod.

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;
Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death. While sad, she chants the solitary song,

The soft lament for him who tarries long-
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave.

'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
I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, lof half its bitterness for one so dear;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
fame,

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.

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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

HEBREW MELODIES.
Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits,
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart

In the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
Could with thy gentle image bear depart,

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.
But turn to gaze again, and find ahew
Some charm that well rewards another view.
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright,

And all that Memory loves the most
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;

Was once our only hope to be; And these must wait till every charm is gone

And all that hope adored and lost
To please the paltry heart that pleases none,

Hath melted into memory.
That dull, cold sensualist, whose sickly eye
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by;

Alas! it is delusion all,
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine

The future cheats us from afar,
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.

Nor can we be what we recall,
July, 1814. Nor dare we think on what we are.

October, 1814.

TO BELSHAZZAR.

|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:
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,

More than thy very diadem,
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem :-

Then throw the worthless bauble by,
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn:

And learn like better men to die.

In the year since Jesus died for men,
Eighteen hundred years and ten,
We were a gallant company,
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea.
Oh! but we went merrily!
We forded the river and clomb the high hill,
Never our steeds for a day stood still;
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed;
Whether we couch'd in our rough capote,
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread
As a pillow beneath the resting head,
Fresh we woke upon the morrow:

All our thoughts and our words had scope,
We had health, and we had hope,
Toil and travel, but no sorrow.
We were of all tongues and creeds;
Some were those who counted beads,
Some of mosque, and some of church,

And some, or I mis-say, of neither;
Yet through the wide world might ye search,
Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.

Oh! early in the balance weigh’d,

And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay’d,

And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth:

But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth-

Unfit to govern, live, or die.

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