Peering high, and near the roof,
Pale Confusion show'd her face;
In accents wild, and sharp reproof,
Thus address'd her fallen race:-
"Mark the hour, and mark the night,
When Thames 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,
And 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,
That, hurl'd 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 baffled 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.

GRAY'S BARD.

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,

34%

Deep stamp their vengeance strong, and dark'ning terros gloom.

But stay, ah! stay, nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'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 bewail,
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 midst a form divine †,
Her port proclaims her of the Kemble line;
Her light'ning eye, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'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, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

And, hark, a cherub choir ‡ ;

Gales of harmony that bear,

Sounds that my very heart-strings tear;

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 flood,

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.

HO now shall fill the vacant chair of Sheldon?

WH

Shall Beaufort, god of wisdom, speak-or Eldon ?

Says Phoebus, "Grenville;"-say the Muses, "Well done!"

AN

( 343 )

AN ADDRESS

FROM ALMA MATER TO THE FELLOWS OF OXFORD, ON HER EXISTING EMBARRASSMENTS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE JUBILEE, OR JOHN BULE IN HIS DOTAGE."

WHI

HEN 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 hung 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 aları'd !

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

And, clogg'd with mucus vile, each rhetorician 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

Yet each his real penchant masks,
And swears, whene'er his lady asks,
His love is quite platonic!
Oxonians, is this well done?

Each gallant pompously 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 not 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 wife;
But widow'd 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, now my hairs are gray, Apparently so amorous?

"Beware!"

When ardent knights assail the fair,
Circling the feet of beauty,
Though stern Discretion roars
We make our will our duty!
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,

Ánd t'other with his speeches?

But