"Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here!
They grow still, too, from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here !"-Shakspeare.
THE sun hath shed a mellower beam,
Fair Thames, upon thy silver stream,
And air and water, earth and heaven,
Lie in the calm repose of even.
How silently the breeze moves on,
Flutters, and whispers, and is gone!
How calmly does the quiet sky
Sleep in its cold serenity!
Alas! how sweet a scene were here
For shepherd or for sonneteer;
How fit the place, how fit the time,
For making love, or making rhyme!
But though the sun's descending ray
Smiles warmly on the close of day,
'Tis not to gaze upon his light
That Eton's sons are here to-night;
And though the river, calm and clear,
Makes music to the poet's ear,
'Tis not to listen to the sound
That Eton's sons are thronging round.
The sun unheeded may decline,
Blue eyes send out a brighter shine;
The wave may cease its gurgling moan,
Glad voices have a sweeter tone;
For, in our calendar of bliss,
We have no hour so gay as this,
When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes
Of those we know, and love, and prize,
Are come to cheer the captive's thrall,
And smile upon his festival.
Stay, Pegasus, and let me ask,
Ere I go onward in my task,
Pray, reader, were you ever here
Just at this season of the year?
No?-then the end of next July
Should bring you with admiring eye,
To hear us row, and see us row,
And cry-"How fast them boys does go!"
For Father Thames beholds to-night
A thousand visions of delight:
Tearing and swearing, jeering, cheering,
Lame steeds to right and left careering,
Displays, dismays, disputes, distresses,
Ruffling of temper, and of dresses;
Wounds on the heart, and on the knuckles;
Losing of patience, and of buckles.
An interdict is laid on Latin,
And scholars smirk in silk and satin; VOL. II.-8
And dandies start their thinnest pumps,
And Michael Oakley's in the dumps;
And there is naught beneath the sun,
But dash and splash, and falls and fun.
Lord! what would be the cynic's mirth, If fate would lift him to the earth, And set his tub, with magic jump, Squat down beside the Brocas clump! What scoffs the sage would utter there, From his unpolished elbow-chair, To see the seamstress' handiwork, The Greek confounded with the Turk, Parisian mix'd with Piedmontese, And Persian joined to Portuguese; And mantles short, and mantles long, And mantles right, and mantles wrong, Misshaped, miscoloured, and misplaced, With what the tailor calls-a taste. And then the badges, and the boats, The flags, the drums, the paint, the coats; But more than these, and more than all, The pullers' intermitted call
"Easy!"--"Hard all!"-"Now pick her
"Upon my life, how I shall sup!"
Would be a fine and merry matter,
To wake the sage's love of satire.
Kind readers, at my laughing age,
I thank my stars I'm not a sage;
I, an unthinking, scribbling elf,
Love to please others,-and myself;
Therefore I fly a malo joco,
But like desipere in loco,
Excuse me that I wander so;
All modern pens digress, you know.
Now to my theme! Thou Being gay,
Houri or goddess, nymph or fay,
Whoe'er, whate'er, where'er thou art,
Who, with thy warm and kindly heart,
Hast made these blest abodes thy care;
Being of water, earth, or air,
Beneath the moonbeam hasten hither,
Enjoy thy blessings ere they wither,
And witness, with thy gladdest face,
The glories of thy dwelling-place!
The boat puts off!-throughout the crowd
The tumult thickens; wide and loud
The din re-echoes; man and horse
Plunge onward in their mingled course.
Look at the troop: I love to see
Our real Etonian Cavalry;
They start in such a pretty trim,
And such sweet scorn of life and limb.
I must confess, I never found
A horse much worse for being sound,
I wish my Nag not wholly blind,
And like to have a tail behind;
And though he certainly may hear
Correctly with a single ear,
I think, to look genteel and neat,
He ought to have his two complete.
But these are trifles! off they go
Beside the wondering River's flow;
And if, by dint of spur and whip,
They shamble on without a trip,
Well have they done! I make no question
They're shaken into good digestion.
I and my Muse,-My muse and I, Will follow with the Company, And get to Surly Hall in time To make a Supper and a Rhyme. Yes! while the animating crowd, The gay, and fair, and kind, and proud, With eager voice and eager glance Wait till the pageantry advance, We'll throw around a hasty view, And try to get a sketch or two.
First in the race is William Tag,
Thalia's most industrious fag:
Whate'er the subject he essays
To dress in never-dying lays,-
A chief, a cheese, a dearth, a dinner,
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