« AnteriorContinuar »
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.
JLL-FATED Heart! and can it be,
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ;
Alike been all employ'd in vain ?
And every fragment dearer grown,
A fitter emblem of his own.
LINES TO A LADY WEEPING..
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ;
Could wash a father's fault away!
Auspicious to these suffering isles ;
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !
THE CHAIN I GAVE.
FROM THE TURKISH.
THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
And ill deserved the fate it found.
Thy truth in absence to divine;
Alas ! they could not teach thee thino.
But not to bear a stranger's touch ;
In other hands its notes were such.
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
The chain is broke, the music mute.
False heart, frail chain, and silent luto.
• The Princess Charlotte.
TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.
My friend, what magic spells belong !
In turn thy converse and thy song.
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh,
Shall weep that aught of thee can die,
Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,
April 19, 1819
OCTOBER 10, 1812.
Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and mourn'a,
Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name
As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Some hour propitious to orr prayes may boast
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Plays
This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by ner uerald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises—may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please-long, long may you preside !
VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT
• “Cywon, a clown, who ne'er bad dreamt of love."
DRYDEN'S Modernization of Chaucer. # At Hales-Owen the poet Shenstone was buried, and “ The Leasowes" was immediately contiguous to it. It was probably some desecration of the poet's tomb, or of his works of taste, that gave birth to these lines.
AN A POSTROPHIC HYMN.
“Qualis in Eurotre ripis, aut rer juga Cynthi,
Diana seems : and so she charms the sight,
TO THE PUBLISHER. SIR, -I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have been a parliament-man for a certain borough, having had the offer of as many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812.* But I was all for domestic happiness; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived happily at Hornem Hall till last season,
when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town.
Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, as they call it, marketabie) age, and having besides a Chancery suit inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old chariot, of which, by the bye, my wife grew so much ashamed in less than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the inside—that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, her partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see a country dance, or, at most, cotillons, reels, and all the old paces to the newest tunes. But judge of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking gentleman I never set eyes on before; and his, to say truth, rather more than half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a d-d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the “Black joke,” only more "affettuoso," till it made me quite giddy with wondering they were not so. By-and-by they stopped a bit, and I thought they would sit or fall down.-but no; with Mrs. H.'s hand on his shoulder, “quam familiariter" t (as Terence said when I was at school), they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cockchafers spitted upon the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard hut in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her after the Princess of Swappenbach) said, “ Lord, Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are valtzing!” or waltzing (I forget which); and then up she got, and her mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper. time. Now, that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so does
• State of the poll (last day), 5.
My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what he never remembered; but I bought my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling bank token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, being all for the memory of Perceval and “ No popery," and quite regretting the downfali of the pope, because we can't burn him any more.