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I turn to thee, and listen with fix'd eyes,
And feel my spirits mount on winged ecstacies.
In vain :-For now with looks that doubly burn,
Shamed of their late defeat my foes return.
They know their foil is short; and shorter still
The bliss that waits upon the Muse's will.
Back to their seats they rush, and reassume
Their ghastly rites, and sadden all the room,
O'er ears and brain the bursting wrath descends,
Cabals, misstatements, noise of private ends,
Doubts, hazards, crosses, cloud-compelling va-
pours, With dire necessity to read the papers, Judicial slaps that would have stung Saint Paul, Costs, pityings, warnings, wits, and worse than all, (O for a dose of Thelwall or of poppy!) The fiend, the punctual fiend, that bawls for copy! Full in the midst, like that Gorgonian spell Whose ravening features glared collected hell, The well-wigg’d pest his curling horror shakes, And a fourth snap of threatening vengeance takes! At that dread sight the Muse at last turns pale, Freedom and fiction's self no more avail; And lo, my bower of bliss is turn'd into a jail! What then? What then? my better genius cries; Scandals and jails !— All these you may despise. The' enduring soul, that, to keep others free, Dares to give up its darling liberty, Lives wheresoe'er its countrymen applaud, And in their great enlargement walks abroad. But toils alone, and struggles, hour by hour, Against the’ insatiate, gold-flush'd lust of power, Can keep the fainting virtue of thy land From the rank slaves that gather round his hand.
Be poor in purse, and law will soon undo thee; Be poor in soul, and self-contempt will rue thee.
I yield, I yield.—Once more I turn to you, Harsh politics! And once more bid adieu To the soft dreaming of the Muse's bowers, Their sun-streak'd fruits and fairy-painted flowers, Farewell, for gentler times, ye laurel'd shades; Farewell, ye sparkling brooks and haunted glades, Where the triin shapes, that bathe in moonlight
eves, Glance through the light,and whisperin the leaves, While every bough seems nodding with a sprite, And every air seems hushing the delight. Farewell, farewell, dear Muse! and all thy plea-. sure!
[leisure. He conquers ease who would be crown'd with
Hist, Henry! hist! what means that air so gay?
Thy looks, thy dress bespeak some holiday ;
Thy hat is brush'd; thy hands, with wondrous
pains, Are cleansed from garden mould and inky stains; Thy glossy shoes confess the lacquey's care; And recent from the comb shines thy sleek hair. *What god, what saint, this prodigy has wrought! Declare the cause; and ease my labouring thought.
* Sed tamen, ille Deus qui sit, da Tityre nobis.
John, faithful John, is with the horses come,
Mamma prevails, and I am sent for home.
* Thrice happy who such welcome tidings greet!
Thrice happy who reviews his native seat!
For him the matron spreads her candied hoard,
And early strawberries crown the smiling board;
For him crush'd gooseberries with rich cream
And bending boughs their fragrant fruit resign:
Custards and syllabubs his taste invite;
Sports fill the day, and feasts prolong the night.
+ Think not I envy, I admire thy fate.
Yet, ah! what different tasks thy comrades wait!
Some in the grammar's thorny maze to toil,
Some with rude strokes the snowy paper soil,
Some o'er barbaric lines in maps to roam,
Far from their mother tongue and dear-loved home.
Harsh names of uncouth sound their memories
And oft their shoulders feel the' unpleasant goad !
Doubt not our turn will come some future time;
Now, Harry, hear us twain contend in rhyme;
For yet thy horses have not eat their hay,
And unconsumed as yet the allotted hour of play.
• Fortunate senex, hic inter flumina nota.
Non equidem invideo, miror magis.
At nos hinc alii sitientes ibimus Afros,
Pars Scythiam, et rapidum Cretæ veniemus Oaxen.
* Then spout alternate, I consent to hear,
Let no false rhyme offend my critic ear;
But say, what prizes shall the victor hold ?
I guess your pockets are not lined with gold.
A ship these hands have built, in every part
Carved, rigg'd, and painted with the nicest art;
The ridgy sides are black with pitchy store,
From stem to stern 'tis twice ten inches o'er.
The lofty mast a straight smooth hazle framed ;
The tackling silk, the Charming Sally named ;
And—but take heed lest thou divulge the tale,
The lappet of my shirt supplied the sail ;
An azure riband for a pendant flies :
Now if thy verse excel, be this the prize.
For me at home the careful housewifes make,
With plums and almonds rich, an ample cake.
Smooth is the top, a plain of shining ice,
The West its sweetness gives, the East its spice :
From soft Ionian isles, well known to fame,
Ulysses' once, the luscious currant came:
The green transparent citron Spain bestows,
And from her golden groves the orange glows.
So vast the heaving mass, it scarce has room
Within the oven's dark capacious womb ;
'Twill be consign’d to the next carrier's care,
I cannot yield it all—be half thy share.
Well does the gift thy liquorish palate suit,
* I know who robb'd the orchard of its fruit.
When all were wrapp'd in sleep one early morn,
While yet the dewdrop trembled on the thorn,
I mark'd when o'er the quickset hedge you leapt,
+ And, sly, beneath the gooseberry bushes crept;
Then shook the trees, a shower of apples fell,
And where the hoard you kept, I know full well;
The mellow gooseberries did themselves produce,
For through thy pocket oozed the viscous juice.
I scorn a tell tale, or I could declare
How, leave unask’d, you sought the neighbour-
Then home by moonlight spurr'd your jaded steed,
And scarce return'd before the hour of bed.
Think how thy trembling heart had felt affright,
Had not our master supped abroad that night.
On the sinooth whitewash'd ceiling near thy bed,
Mix'd with thy own, is Anna's cipher read;
From wreaths of dusky smoke the letters flow;
Whose hand the waving candle held, I know.
Fines and jobations shall thy soul appal,
Whene'er our mistress spies the sullied wall.
Unconn'd her lesson once, in idle mood,
Trembling before the master, Anna stood;
* Non ego, te vidi, Damonis.
+ Tu post carecta latebas.