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And if he meets no heavier harm
Tomorrow, from a foeman's arm,
Than crack'd cuirass, or broken heal,
He'll hasten from his fever's bed,
And, just broke loose from salve and lint,
Rush, like a hero, into print ;
Heading his light and harmless prattle
“ Lines written on a field of battle.”
Thou favored bard, go boldly on,
The Muse shall guard her darling son ;
And when the musket's steady aim
Is levelled at the pet of fame,
The Muse shall check the impious crime,
And shield thee with a ream of rhyme;
But if 'tis doomed, and fall thou must,
Since bards, like other men, are dust,
Upon the tomb where thou shalt sleep
Phæbus and Mars alike shall weep;
And he that lov'd, but could not save,
Shall write “ Hic Jacet” o'er thy grave.
What wight is that, whose distant nose Gives token loud of deep repose ? What! honest Harry on the ground ? I' faith thy sleep is wondrous sound, For one who looks, upon his waking, To sleep “ the sleep that knows not breaking.” But rest thee, rest! thou merriest soul That ever loved the circling bowl;
I look upon his empty cup,
And sudden tears, uncalled, spring up;
Perchance in this abode of pother
Kind Harry may not drain another ;
But still our comrades at the Bell
On Harry's prowess long shall tell,
And dignify, with well-earned praise,
The revelry of other days.
And then the merry tale will run
Of many a wager lost and won,
On many a jest, and many a song,
And many a peal of laughter long,
That from our jovial circle broke
At Harry's last, or Harry's joke;
Again, at Fancy's touch restored,
Our old sirloin shall grace the board;
Again, at Fancy's touch, shall flow
The tap we drained an age ago.
And thou, the soul of fun, the life
Of noisy mirth, and playful strife,
May'st sleep, in honor's worm-worn bed,
The dreamless slumber of the dead.
But oft shall one sad heart, at least,
Think on the smile that never ceased
Its catching influence, till the earth
Closed o'er the lips that gave it birth.
I'll pour upon thy tranquil rest
The hallowed bowl of Meux's best ;
And recollect, with smile and sigh,
Thy“ beer with E, and bier with I.”
Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see Two glorious Suns of Chancery? The pride of Law appears the first, And next the pride of Moulsey Hurst. Faithless and feeless, from the bar Tim Quill is come to practice war: Without a rival in the ring, Brown Robert“ peels” for Church and King. Thus ever to your country's fights Together go, ye kindred knights ! Congenial arts ye aye pursued; “Daylight” ye studied to exclude; And both of old were known to Crib, And both were very apt to fib. Together go; no foe shall stand The vengeance of our country's brand, When on his ranks together spring Cross-buttocks and cross-questioning.
Sir Jacob arming! what despair
Has snatched him from his elbow-chair ?
And hurried from his good old wine
The bachelor of fifty-nine !
What mighty cause has torn him thus
Unwilling from surburban rus,
Bade him desert his one-horse chaise,
His old companions, and “old ways;">
Give up his Baccalaurean tattle,
And quit the bottle for the battle ?
Has he forgot, in martial ardour,
His wig, his tea-pot, and his larder ?
Has he forgot—ungrateful Sub.-
Champagne, back-gammon, and—the club ?
Has he forgot his native earth,
His sofa, and his decent hearth?
Has he forgot his homely fare,
And her, the maid with yellow hair,
That dressed the meat, and spread the board,
Laid fuel on the fire, and poured
In stream as sparkling as her eye,
From its green goal the Burgundy ?
That Hebe, in thy native town,
Looks from her latticed window down,
And, when the newsman paces by,
Runs, with a sharp and fearful cry,
And cheek all pale, and eye all wet,
To seek thy name in the Gazette.
What fate has bid her master roam,
An exile, from his cheerful home?
What! has his landlord turned him out,
Is he gone mad with love-or gout?
Has death imposed his finger bony
Upon his mistress—or his crony?
Have sober matrons ceased to praise
The lover of their youthful days ?
Are belles less eager to command,
With wink and smile, his ready hand ?
Fears he the sudden dissolution
Of club-house—or of constitution ?
Has the last pipe of hock miscarried ?
Has— I forget, last week he-married.
Thou, too, thy brilliant helm must don, Etona's wild and wayward son, Mad, merry Charles. While, beardless yet, Thou look’st upon thy plume of jet, Or smilest as the clouds of night Are drifted back by morning's light, Thy boyish look, thy careless eyes, Might wake the envy of the wise. Six months have passed since thou didst rove, Unwilling, through Etona's grove, Trembling at many an ancient face That met thee in that holy place; To speak the plain and honest truth, Thou wast no scholar in thy youth. But now go forth-broke loose from school, Kill and destroy by classic rule, Or die in fight, to live in story, As valiant Hector did before ye. On! on! take forts, and storm positions, Break Frenchmen's heads—instead of Priscian's, And seek in death and conflagration A gradus to thy reputation. Yet, when the war is loud and high, Thine old mistakes will round thee fly;