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And still, in spite of all thy care,
False quantities will haunt thee there;
For thou wilt make, amidst the throng,
Or ζωή short, or κλέος long.

Methinks I know that figure bold, And stalwart limbs of giant mould ! 'Tis he—I know his ruddy face, My tried, staunch friend, Sir Matthew Chase. His snore is loud, his slumber deep, Yet dreams are with him in his sleep, And Fancy's visions oft recall The merry Hunt, and jovial Hall, And oft replace before his sight The bustle of tomorrow's fight. In swift succession o'er his brain Come fields of corn, and fields of slain ; And, as the varying image burns, Blood and blood-horses smoke by turns; The five-barred gate, and muddy ditch, Smolensko, and “the spotted bitch,” Parisian puppies-English dogs, “Begar” and “damme,”—beef and frogs, In strange, unmeaning medley fly Before poor Nimrod’s wandering eye. He speaks! what murmuring, stifled sounds Burst from his throat : “Why, madam! zounds! Who scared me with that Gorgon face? I thought I saw my Lady Chase.”

And thou, too, Clavering—Humor's son! Made up of wisdom and of fun! Medley of all that's dark and clear, Of all that's foolish, all that's dear, Tell me, what brings thee here to die, Thou prince of eccentricity ? Poor Arthur! in his childhood's day He cared so little for his play, And wore so grave and prim a look, And cried so when he missed his book, That aunts were eager to presage The glories of his riper age; And fond mamma in him foresaw The bulwark of the British law, And Science, from her lofty throne, Looked down and marked him for her own. Ah! why did flattery come at school To tinge him with a shade of fool ! Alas! what clever plans were crossed Alas! how wise a judge was lost ! Without a friend to check or guide, He hurried into fashion's tide, He aped each folly of the throng, Was all by turns, and nothing long; Through varying tastes and modes he flew, Dress-boxing-racing-dice—Virtu; Now looking blue in sentimentals, Now looking red in regimentals, Now impudent, and now demure, Now blockhead, and now connoisseur,

Now smoking at “the Jolly Tar,"
Now talking Greek with Doctor Parr,
A friend by turns to saints and sinners,
Attending lectures, plays, and dinners,
The Commons' House, and Common Halls,
Chapels of Ease, and Tattersall's;
Skilful in fencing and in fist,
Blood—critic-jockey-methodist ;
Causeless alike in joy or sorrow,
Tory to-day, and Whig to-morrow,
All habits and all shapes he wore,
And loved, and laughed, and prayed, and swore:
And now some instantaneous freak,
Some peevish whim, or jealous pique,
Has made the battle's iron shower
The hobby of the present hour,
And bade him seek, in steel and lead,
An opiate for a rambling head.
A cannon ball will prove a pill
To lull what nothing else can still ;
And I, that prophesy his doom,
Will give him all I can—a tomb,
And o’er a pint of half-and-half,
Compose poor Arthur's epitaph :-
“Here, joined in death, th’ observer sees
Plato—and Alcibiades;
A mixture of the grave and funny,
A famous dish of Salmagundi.”

Allan N'Gregor! from afar I see him,'midst the ranks of war That all around are rising fast From slumbers that may be their last; I know him by his Highland plaid, Long borne in foray and in raid, His scarf, all splashed with dust and gore, His nodding plume, and broad claymore; I know him by that eagle eye, Where foemen read their destiny; I know him by that iron brow That frowns not, burns not, quails not, now, Though life and death are with the ray That redly dawns upon to-day. Woe to the wretch whose single might Copes with dark Allan in the fight; He knows not mercy—knows not fear; The pibroch has to Allan's ear A clearer and a sweeter note Than mellow strains that blithely float From lyre or lute, in courtly throng, Where Beauty smiles upon the song. Of artful wiles against his foe Nothing he knows, or cares to know; Far less he recks of polished arts, The batteries in the siege of hearts. And hence the minions of the ton, While fair and foolish dames look on, Laugh at Old Allan's awkward bow, His stern address, and haughty brow.

Laugh they ?—when sounds the hollow drum,
And banded legions onward come,
And life is won by ready sword,
By strength to strike, and skill to ward,
Those tongues, so brave in woman's war,
Those cheeks, unstained by scratch or scar,
Shall owe their safety in the fight
To hoary Allan's arm of might.

Close to the Clansman's side is seen
Dame Fortune's soldier, James M’Lean.
I know him well-no novice he
In warfare's murderous theory;
Amidst the battle's various sound,
While bullets flew like hail around,
M'Lean was born ; in scenes like this
He passed his earliest hours of bliss :
Cradled in war, the fearless child
Looked on the scene of blood, and smiled;
Toyed with the sabre of the Blues
Long ere he knew its hellish use;
His little fingers loved to feel
The bayonet's bright point of steel,
Or made his father's helmet ring
With beating up—“God save the King."
Those hours of youthful glee are fled;
The thin grey hairs are on his head;
Of youth's hot current nought remains
Within the ancient warrior's veins.

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