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As through the past:
Reflect but rapture-not least though last.
Ask more than patience;
From such have risen!
Is but for boys-
To wean, and not wear out your joys.
ON MY WEDDING-DAY
HERE's a happy new year! but with reason
January 2, 1820.
EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT
WITH death doom'd to grapple,
WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
THE world is a bundle of hay,
And the greatest of all is John Bull.
THE CHARITY BALL
WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and father,
Be driven to excesses which once could appalThat the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, As the saint keeps her charity back for "the ball!"
ON THE BRAZIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE
THE braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass
EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY
THIS day, of all our days, has done
January 2, 1821.
ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY
JANUARY 22, 1821
THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
So Castlereagh has cut his throat !—The worst
So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who ?
WHO kill'd John Keats?
""Twas one of my feats."
Who shot the arrow ?
TO MR. MURRAY
FOR Orford and for Waldegrave
Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
And if, as the opinion goes,
But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd,
THE IRISH AVATAR
"And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider."-Curran.
ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,
True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone, The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her
True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags,
The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, 10 And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands, For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.
But he comes
the Messiah of royalty comes ! Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves; Then receive him as best such an advent becomes, With a legion of cooks, and an army of slaves!
He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,
Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skies.
Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now? Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay, With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his browSuch servile devotion might shame him away.
Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his prideNot thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.
Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good!