Hast. I am not read,

Nor skill'd and practis'd in the arts of greatness,
To kindle thus, and give a scope to passion.
The duke is surely noble; but he touched me
Ev'n on the tend'rest point; the master string
That makes most harmony or discord to me.
I own the glorious subject fires my breast,
And my soul's darling passion stands confess'd;
Beyond or love's or friendship's sacred band,
Beyond myself, I prize my native land:
On this foundation would I build my fame,
And emulate the Greek and Roman name;

Think England's peace bought cheaply with my blood,
And die with pleasure for my country's good.

THE ASTRONOMICAL ALDERMAN,

Horace Smith.

THE pedant or scholastikos became
The butt of all the Grecian jokes ;
With us poor Paddy bears the blame

Of blunders made by other folks;
Though we have certain civic sages,
Term'd aldermen, who perpetrate
Bulls as legitimate and great
As any that the classic pages

Of old Hierocles can shew,

Of Mr. Miller's, commonly called Joe.

One of these turtle-eating men,

Not much excelling

In his spelling,

When ridicule he meant to brave,

Said he was more P than N,

Meaning thereby more phool than nave;

Though they who knew our cunning Thraso,

Pronounc'd it flattery to say so.

His civic brethren, to express

His "double, double, toil and trouble,"

And bustling, noisy emptiness,

Had christen'd him Sir Hubble Bubble.

This wight ventripotent was dining

Once at the Grocer's Hall, and lining
With calipee and calipash

That tomb omnivorous-his paunch,
Then on the haunch

Inflicting many a horrid gash;

When having swallow'd six or seven
Pounds, he fell into a mood
Of such supreme beatitude
That it reminded him of heaven,

And he began, with mighty bonhommie,
To talk Astronomy.

"Sir," he exclaimed between his bumpers,
"Copernicus and Tycho Brahe,

And all those chaps, have had their day;
They've written monstrous lies, Sir, thumpers.
Move round the sun?-it's talking treason,
The earth stands still-it stands to reason.
Round as a globe ?-stuff-humbug-fable!
It's a flat sphere, like this here table;
And the sun overhangs this sphere,
Ay-just like that there chandelier."

66

But," quoth his neighbour, "when the sun
From east to west his course has run,

How comes it that he shows his face

Next morning in his former place?”

"Ho! there's a pretty question, truly,"
Replied our wight, with an unruly
Burst of laughter and delight,

66

So much his triumph seem'd to please him,
Why, blockhead! he goes back at night,
And that's the reason no one sees him!"

CRESCENTIUS.*

Miss Landon.

I LOOK'D upon his brow ;-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there;

He stood as proud by that death-shrine
As even o'er despair

He had a power; in his eye

There was a quenchless energy,

A spirit that could dare

The deadliest form that Death could ke,

And dare it for the daring's sake

*Crescentius was Consul of Rome, A.D. 998.

After having made a vigorous

attempt to deliver his country from the tyranny of the Saxon emperors, he was induced to surrender, through a promise of safety, and was then most cruelly executed.

He stood, the fetters on his hand,—
He rais'd them haughtily;

And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high

With freer pride than it wav'd now;
Around he look'd, with changeless brow,
On many a torture nigh,—

The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.

I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,

And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed.

His helm, his breastplate, were of gold,
And grav'd with many a dent, that told
Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danc'd his snow plume on the gale.

But now he stood; chain'd and alone,
The headsman by his side;

The plume, the helm, the charger, gone;
The sword that had defied

The mightiest, lay broken near,
And yet no sign of fear

Came from that lip of pride;

And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who throng'd to see him die.

It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,-
A nation's funeral cry,—
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot and her latest one.

СНАТНАМ.

Grattan.

THE secretary stood alone; modern degeneracy had not reached him ; original and unaccommodating, the features of his character had the hardihood of antiquity; his august mind overawed majesty; and one of his sovereigns thought royalty so impaired in his presence, that he conspired to remove him, in order to be relieved from his superiority. No state chicanery, no narrow system of vicious politics, sunk him to the vulgar

level of the great: but, overbearing, persuasive, and untractable, his object was England, his ambition was fame. Without dividing, he destroyed party;-without corrupting, he made a venal age unanimous. France sunk beneath him. With one hand he smote the house of Bourbon, and wielded in the other the democracy of England. The sight of his mind was infinite; and his schemes were to affect, not England, not the present age only, but Europe and posterity. Wonderful were the means by which these schemes were accomplished;-always seasonable, always adequate; the suggestions of an understanding, animated by ardour and enlightened by prophecy.

The ordinary feelings which make life amiable and indolent were unknown to him; no domestic difficulties, no domestic weakness, reached him; but, aloof from the sordid occurrences of life, and unsullied by its intercourse, he came occasionally into our system, to counsel and to decide. A character so exalted, so strenuous, so various, so authoritative, astonished a corrupt age; and the treasury trembled at the name of Pitt, through all the classes of venality. Corruption imagined, indeed, that she had found defects in this statesman, and talked much of the inconsistency of his glory, and much of the ruin of his victories; but the history of his country, and the calamities of the enemy, answered and refuted her. Nor were his political abilities his only talents: his eloquence was an era in the senate, peculiar and spontaneous, familiarly expressing gigantic sentiments, and instructive wisdom: not like the torrent of Demosthenes, or the splendid conflagration of Tully, it resembled sometimes the thunder, and sometimes the music of the spheres. Like Murray, he did not conduct the understanding through the painful subtilty of argumentation; nor was he, like Townsend, for ever on the rack of exertion; but rather lightened upon the subject, and reached the point by the flashings of the mind, which, like those of his eye, were felt, but could not be followed. Upon the whole, there was in this man something that could create, subvert, or reform; an understanding, a spirit, and an eloquence to summon mankind to society, or to break the bonds of slavery asunder, and to rule the wilderness of free minds with unbounded authority; something that could establish or overwhelm empire, and strike a blow in the world that should resound through the universe.

THE BULL FIGHT.
Byron.

HUSH'D is the din of tongues; on gallant steeds,
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lance,
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds,

And lowly bending to the lists advance:

Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance.
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,

The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,
(Best prize of better acts,) they bear away;

And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain, their toils repay.

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak arrayed,
But all afoot, the light-limbed matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade

The lord of lowing herds; but not before
The ground, with curious tread, is traversed o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed.
His arms a dart, he fights aloof; nor more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed,—
Alas! too oft condemned for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion-lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute,
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls;
Bounds with one lashing spring, the mighty brute;
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand; nor blindly rushes on his foe:

Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit
His first attack, wide waving to and fro

His angry tail red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

:

Sudden he stops ;-his eye is fixed;—away,
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear:
Now is thy time, to perish, or display

The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well-timed croup, the nimble coursers veer
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes;
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes:
Dart follows dart; lance, lance :-loud bellowings speak
his woes.

Again he comes; nor dart nor lance avail,

Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse:
Though man, and man's avenging arms, assail,
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.
One gallant steed is stretched, a mangled corse;
Another-hideous sight!-unsecur'd appears;

Hs gory chest unveils life's panting source:

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unarm'd he bears.

Foiled, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,

Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,

'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And foes disabled in the brutal fray.

And now the matadores around him play,

Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand.

Once more through all he bursts his thundering way:

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge hand,

Wraps his fierce eye,-'tis past,―he sinks upon the sand!

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.