As through the past: Reflect but rapture-not least though last. True, separations Ask more than patience; What desperations From such have risen! But yet remaining, To wean, and not wear out your joys. ON MY WEDDING-DAY HERE's a happy new year! but with reason Wish me many returns of the season, January 2, 1820. EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT WITH death doom'd to grapple, Who lied in the Chapel Now lies in the Abbey. January, 1820. STANZAS WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home, Let him combat for that of his neighbours; Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome, And get knock'd on the head for his labours. To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan, Then battle for freedom wherever you can, EPIGRAM 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, What matters-a heart which, though faulty, was feeling, Be driven to excesses which once could appal— That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, As the saint keeps her charity back for the ball! EPIGRAM 66 ON THE BRAZIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO PRESENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE THE braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass An address, and present it themselves all in brass ;— A superfluous pageant-for, by the Lord Harry! They'll find where they're going much more than they carry. EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY TO PENELOPE 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, EPIGRAMS So Castlereagh has cut his throat!-The worst So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who? TO MR. MURRAY FOR Orford and for Waldegrave You give much more than me you gave; My Murray. Because if a live dog, 'tis said, A live lord must be worth two dead, And if, as the opinion goes, Verse hath a better sale than prose,- But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, ΙΟ 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 cause. True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags, To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands 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! 20 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? Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good! 30 40 |