Fearless he risks that cranium thick

At cudgelling and singlestick;

It is the country's chiefest pride!

Ah! had his steed no firmer brains

Than the mere thing that holds the reins, Grief soon would bid the beer to run, Because the squire's mad race was done, Not less than now it froths away, Because "the squire's of age to-day.”

Far different pomp inspired of old
The youthful Roman's bosom bold,
Soon as a father's honoured hand
Gave to his grasp the casque and brand,
And off the light prætexta threw,

And from his neck the bulla drew,
Bade him the toga's foldings scan,
And glory in the name of Man;
Far different pomp lit ardour high
In the young German's eager eye,
When, bending o'er his offspring's head,

An aged sire, half weeping, said --
"Thy duty to thy father done,

Go forth, and be thy country's son!"
Heav'ns! how his bosom burned to dare

The grim delight of manhood's war,
And brandish in no mimic field
His beaming lance and osier shield!
How his young bosom longed to claim,
In war's wide tumult, manhood's name,
And write it, 'midst the battle's foam,
In the best blood of trembling Rome!

Such was the hope, the barbarous joy,
That nerved to arms the German boy;
A flame as ardent, more refined,
Shall brightly glow in Julio's mind;
But yet I'd rather see thee smile
Grimly on war's embattled file,

I'd rather see thee wield in strife
The German butcher's reckless knife,
Thinking thy claims to manhood grow

From each pale corse that bleeds below, —

I'd rather view thee thus, than see

A modern blockhead rise in thee.

Is it a study for a peer

To breathe soft vows in lady's ear?

To choose a coat

or leap a gate?

To win an heiress

or a plate?

Far nobler studies shall be thine,
So friendship and the Muse divine:
It shall be thine, in danger's hour,
To guide the helm of British power;
And 'midst thy country's laurelled crown
To mix a garland all thine own.

Julio, from this auspicious day,

New honours gild thine onward way;

In thee posterity shall view

A heart to faith and feeling true,

And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend

For virtue's and the

poor man's friend!

TO JULIA

PREPARING FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN

JULIA, while London's fancied bliss

Bids you despise a life like this;

While Chiswick and its joys you leave,

For hopes that flatter to deceive;

You will not scornfully refuse,

(Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse,)

To look upon my line, and hear

What friendship sends to Beauty's ear.

Four miles from town, a neat abode
O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road;
A paling, cleaned with constant care,
Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre,
Where dusty ivy strives to crawl
Five inches up the whitened wall.

The open window, thickly set

With myrtle and with mignonette,

Behind whose cultivated row

A brace of globes peep out for show,
The avenue, the burnished plate

That decks the would-be rustic gate,

Denote the fane where Fashion dwells, — “Lyce's Academy for Belles.”

"T was here, in earlier, happier days,
Retired from pleasure's weary maze,
You found, unknown to care or pain,
The
peace you will not find again.
Here friendships, far too fond to last,
A bright but fleeting radiance cast
On every sport that mirth devised,
And every scene that childhood prized,
And every bliss that bids you yet
Recall those moments with regret.

Those friends have mingled in the strife
That fills the busy scene of life,

And pride and folly, cares and fears,
Look dark upon their future years;

But by their wrecks may Julia learn