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GRAY'S BARD:

Peering high, and near the roof,

Pale Confusion show'd her face;
In accents wild, and sharp reproof,

Thus address'd her failen race :-
4 Mark the hour, and mark the night,
When Thaines shall echo with delight;
And to your ears the dreadful verdict bring:
When Henry's antique towers will ring
With shouts that strike Thames Ditton with affright.
The wolf of law, with unrelenting fangs,

Tearing the bowels of our inangled mate;
Fell Conviction hovering o'er us, hangs:

The scourge of Justice, ah! what ills await;
Amazement in the van, and fear combin'd,

poverty and cold imprisonment behind.
What though Clifford, daring chief,

Has gain'd by chance a short-liv'd fame,
That will to us bring no relief,

Who fed the fire and fann'd the flame;
From us the gallant hero's dead,

And Weinholt too has veil'd his head *.
The swarms that in the Statesman's beams were born
The public taste has laugh'd to scorn,
And all our efforts overwhelm;
In easy sail their new-built vessel goes,
Shakspeare the prow, and Kemble at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,
Thát, hurld in dread repose, has lost its evening prey:

Lo! they fill the tragic bowl,

A rich repast prepare ;
Reason's feast and flow of soul

Again will triumph here;
While punishment and vengeance scowl
A baleful frown upon our bafiled host.

Late we heard their battle bray,

Arm to arm, and force to force ;
Through hours of havoc urg'd the course,
And through all Bow Street's squadrons mow'd their way.

These hours are gone, and gone our fame,
And nearly sunk is O. P.'s name.

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Judgment suspended o'er their head,

Above, below, they deal the blow,

And o'er the plain our flying squadrons spread;
The brothers, smiling at our dismal doom,
Deep stamp their vengeance strong, and dark’ning terror

gloom.
But stay, ah! stay, nor thus forlorn
Leave ine uobless'd, unaided here to mourn.
In
yon

dark cloud that skirts the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes ;
But, ah! what dazzling scenes on Kemble wait!

Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll:
Visions of glory, spare my aching

sight;
Ye crowded houses, rush not on my soul:
No more their long-lost Shakspeare they bewaily
The flash of his far-beaming eye they hail,
And with him Otway, Southerne, Rowe,

Sublime their starry frontlets rear.
And gorgeous dames in gallant show

In mimic majesty appear;

In the inidst á form divine to
Her port proclaims her of the Kemble line;
Her lightning eye, her awe-commanding face,

Atteniper'd sweet to every grace.

What sounds of acclamation fill the air!
What strains of trembling rapture round her play!
Hear from thy grave, immortal Shakspeare, hear;
She breathes a soul to animate thy clay;
Bright Nature calls, and, soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings.

Lo! they adorn again
Fierce war and faithful love,
And truth, in fairy fiction dress'd.
In buskin'd measures move
Pale grief and pleasing pain,
With horror, iyrant of the throbbing breast.
And, hark, a cherub choir † ;
Gales of harmony that hear,
Sounds that my very heart-strings tear;

Cherub choir-Dickons, Mountain, Liston,

+ Mrs. Siddons. Bolton, &c. &c. &c.

Q3

Their

342

EPIGRAM.
Their horrid warblings pain my startled ear,

That, lost in Melody's soft notes, expire.
Vain was our hope that deem'd the sanguine cloud

Rais'd by my breath would quench the orb of day;
To-morrow he repairs his golden food,

And warms the nation with redoubled ray.

Enough for me, with dread I see
The different doom our fates assign;

Yours is despair and legal care,
Sorrow and defeat are mine.”
She spoke, and headlong from the gall’ry's height,
Deep in the roaring pit she plung'd to endless night.

FALKLAND.

EXTEMPORE ON OUR LATE CAPTURE OF ITHACA, THE KINGDOM

OF ULYSSES.

(From the Morning Chronicle.]
OF yore did fam'd Ulysses' island yield

Wisdom in council, conduct in the field :
Under our sway this classic land is brought;
But, ah! too late we have Ulysses sought;
Else had a nation's tears not wept, in vain,
Our gain of Walcheren, and our loss of Spain.

SPELMAN

EPIGRAM.

[From the same, Dec. 9.]

Ανδρα μου εννεπε----
WHO now shall fill the vacant chair of Sheldon?

Shall Beaufort, god of wisdon, speak-or Eldon? Says Phæbus, “ Grenville;"-say the Muses, “Well done!"

AN

AN ADDRESS FROM ALMA MATER TO THE FELLOWS OF OXFORD, ON

HER EXISTING EMBARRASSMENTS.
BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE JUBILEE, OR JOHN BULL

IN HIS DOTAGE."
[From the Morning Herald, Dec. 9.]

WHEN death took Bentinck from his peers,

And left the nation's council headless,
(Yet mark me, I don't mean to say,

That his demise took all their wit away)
Sickening Britannia bung her ears!

And William Curtis fed less!
Though no salt tears ran down my face,

As signals of my woe,
I groan'd as much to lose His Grace,

As modish relicts do.
When the winds wafted here the dismal tale,

The mighty Tom was muffled;
And Pegasus unsaddled, stripp'd, and manger'd:

My favourite Brazen Nose turn'd pale;
All Souls pour'd rivers from their eyes,

Forming a bath for Sorrow's race to swim in!
Magdalen bade huge Erudition rise !

Queens were aların'd!

The intriguers charmid,
And Christ's Church was endanger'd;
The bachelors ran after married women,

And, clogg'd with mucus vile, each rhétorician snuffied !
Yet ere my weeds have known decay,

Or Kemble's arm can fell O. P.
Alas! I find both night and day,

More suitors than Penelope !
Two noble lords, both potent chiefs,

A Grenville, and an Eldon,
Claim my regards, and breathe their griefs,

(Are they not both ironic?)
Though each is married, each will woo!
Though each has got enough to do!

Yet

344 ALMA MATER'S ADDRESS TO THE OXONIANS.

Yet each his real penchant piasks,
And swears, whene'er his lady asks,

His love is quite platonic !
Oxonians, is this well done?
Each gallant pomponsly advances,

They raise their crests, and shake their lances,
As bold as Mustapha Bairactar!
While the sweet Muses, from their forky hill,
With concentrated song, and heavenly skill,
Urge me to visit Hymen’s fane

Again,
If it were only to sustain my character !

Should I let either have his will,

May noi the Baron use me ill, Or sulkily be dumb to me,

And think, like many a chevalier,

He's done enough, if, once a year,
He condescends to come to me?

A maid may heedlessly become a wise;
But widow's dames, who've more illumin'd souls,
Should throw the lead, and ascertain the shoals,

Before they make another voyage for life.
What will my sister Cantab say?

Will not the nymph be clamorous,
To find me, bow my hairs are gray,

Apparently so amorous
When ardent knights assail the fair,

Circling the feet of beauty,
Though stern Discretion roars Beware!"

We make our will our diity!
What strange irrational pretences

We all assume,

At London, Paris, or at Rome,
To further the dominion of the senses !
Yet, should the nuptial rites take place,

And Discord make some breaches
In the outworks of matrimonial manners,
While my good man unfolds her blood-red banners,
May not one beat me with his mace,
And t'other with his speeches ?

But

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