Of such who, trusting to the gloom of Nox Steal to the well-known booth to tipple ale.

Within each tent of flimsy canvas made,

Where knapsacks rise in many a scatter'd heap, Twelve men on narrow beds, till morning laid, Refresh their senses with the dews of sleep.

The cannon's roar that through the vale resounds,
The reveillée's harsh echoing in their ears,
The sergeant's voice that ever rudely sounds,
Again shall wake them to their humble cares.

For them again the kitchen fires shall burn,
And busy matrons their saloop prepare,
The butcher's loaded wain from town return,
And quarter-masters loaves and mutton share.

Oft do their hardy hands the hatchet wield,
And vig'rous knees the stubborn faggot break;
How steadily they tread the rugged field,

How quick a column, or a square they make !

Let not lac'd loungers mock their thankless toil, Their homely meals and toilets thrifty plan; Nor 'broider'd gen'rals hear with scornful smile The simple annals of a private man.

The salutations which to rank are due,

And all that gold e'er bought, or favor gave, Cannot the worn-out wheels of life renew, Promotion's high way leads but to the grave.

Nor you, ye beaus, forget that they are men,
If no white dust their soapy locks disguise;
If on their brawny limbs coarse cloth you ken,
And from their cloaths no musky scent arise.

Can kerseymere, or scarlet bought on trust,

Compel the lungs to stay the fleeting breath? Can fun'ral vollies wake the slumb'ring dust,

Or gleaming gorget ward the dart of death?

Perhaps on tatter'd pillow now is laid,

Some head by nature fashion'd for command, Whose solid sense in council might have sway'd, And led to victory a num'rous band.

But science from their mind, with piercing rays,
The fogs of ignorance did ne'er dispel,
Mechanic toil consum'd their youthful days,
And scarcely left them time to scrawl or spell.

Full many an acre of uncultur'd land
Fertility within its womb contains,
Full many a rugged mass of sordid sand

Conceals of virgin gold the latent grains.

Some Wolfe that ne'er shall see pale Gallia fly,
Nor in bright victory's arms resign his breath,
Some Marlborough inglorious here may lie,
Some Coote unskilful in the art of death.

Th' applause of hoary vet'rans to command,

The bribes and threats of monarch's to despise, To raise the glory of their native land,

And read their praises in an army's eyes,

Their lot forbids ;-nor circumscribes alone

Their martial genius, but their crimes restrain,

Forbids to place a tyrant on a throne,

And forge for free-born men dire slav'ry's chains.

Unmov'd to mark the frantic widow's woe,

And hear her orphans wail their slaughter'd sire, Or swell of guiltless blood the crimson flow, With fury kindled by ambition's fire.

Fix'd in the fav'rite seat of noise and strife, They never can enjoy one tranquil day, Along the rough walk of an irksome life

They keep the restless tenor of their way.

Yet from grave thoughts their feelings to protect, Frail temporary huts erected nigh,

With uncouth phrase and wretched daubing deck'd, Invite their lips a cordial draught to try.

Their mantling mug, their song's sonorous swell,
The place of port and repartee supply;

And many a smutty tale around they tell
That teach the social hour with speed to fly.

For who, within the ranks by reason led,
The joys of Bacchus to his soul denies,
Treads the gay precincts of a sutler's shed,
Nor cast upon the door his longing eyes?

On some base hearts gold has a sov'reign sway,
Some pious minds delight in sighs and tears,
Fame can the poet's midnight toil repay,
But ale and brandy sooth a soldier's cares.

For thee who by thy natal stars compell'd,
Dost touch with artless hand the warbling lyre,
If chance, by friendship's soft regard impell'd,
Some kind companion shall thy fate inquire;

Haply some brother sub, shall smiling say:

"Oft in his tent retir'd the youth was seen, "Scribbling with hasty hand a hum'rous lay, "To fill a page in Urban's magazine.

"There in that field, beside that holy pile,

"That rears his Gothic steeple to the sky "Each noon beneath those elms he mus'd awhile, "Then por'd upon a book with greedy eye.

"Along the mazes of yon murm'ring stream, "With pensive pace at ev'ning would he stray, "Till wrapt in wand'ring fancy's airy dream "He mutter'd metre to the lunar ray.

"One morn I sought him vainly through the line, "Among the elms and o'er the verdant lea, "Another came, nor near the house divine, "Nor by the stream, nor in his tent was he.

"The next he wrote that, prompted by his muse, "In rural mansions Pegasus he pac'd,

"To camps and courts had made his last adieus, "And o'er his antique gate these verses trac'd."

THE INSCRIPTION.

HERE let me rest in this sequester'd cell,

Where pomp and noise and riot are unknown, Where raptur'd Contemplation loves to dwell,

And whose low roof Contentment calls her own.

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ELEGY.

Written in a College Library.

THE chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound, Awakes the fellows, slumbering o'er their fires; Roused by the 'custom'd note, each stares around, And sullen from th' unfinish'd pipe retires.

Now from the common hall's restriction free,
The sot's full bottles in quick order move,
While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea,
And barbers' daughters soothe with tales of love.

Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,
Save where the broken battlements among
The east wind murmurs through the shatter'd panes,
And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.

Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight,
Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows,
In peaceful pomp and undisturb'd retreat,
The labours of our ancestors repose.

For them no more shall booksellers contend,

Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim; Beneath their weigh no more the press shall bend, While common sense stands wondering at their fame

Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage,
While still they found each meaning but the true;
Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page,
And give to Virgil words he never knew:

Yet ere the partial voice of critic scorn

Condemn their memory, or their toil deride, Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn A waste of words, and learning ill applied?

Can none remember? Yes: I know all canWhen readings against different readings jarr'd, While Bentley led the stern scholastic van,

And new editions with the old ones warr'd.

Not ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed, Unmindful of the graver moral part, Condemn these works, if, as you run and read, You find no trophies of the engraver's art.

Can Bartolozzi's all-enrapturing power

To heavy works the stamp of merit give? Could Grignion's art protract oblivion's hour, Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?

In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrew'd, Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade, Some wondrous legend, fill'd with death and blood, Some monkish history, perhaps, is laid!

With store of barbarous Latin at command
Though arm'd with puns, and jingling quibble's might,
Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless hand
Or save their labours from eternal night.

Full many an Elegy has mourn'd its fate,

Beneath some pasty cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd;
Full many an Ode has soar'd in lofty state,
Fix'd to a kite, and quivering in the wind.

Here too perhaps, neglected now, may lie
The rude memorial of some ancient song,
Whose martial strains and rugged minstrelsy
Once waked to rapture every listening throng.

To trace fair Science through each wildering course,
With new ideas to enlarge the mind,
With useful lessons, drawn from classic source,
At once to polish and instruct mankind,

Their times forbade : nor yet alone repress'd
Their opening fancy; but alike confined
The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest,
And each low triumph of the vulgar mind.

Their humbler science never soar'd so far,
In studious trifles pleased to waste their time,
Or wage with common sense eternal war,
In never ending clink of monkish rhyme.

Yet were they not averse to noisy fame,

Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast, But still aspired to raise their sinking name,

And fondly hoped that name might ever last.

Hence each proud volume, to the wondering eye,
Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's* urn;
Where ships, wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,
And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.

For who with rhymnes e'er rack'd his weary brain,
Or spent in search of epithets his days,
But from his lengthen'd labours hoped to gain
Some present profit or some future praise?

Though folly's self inspire each dead-born strain,

Still flattery prompts some blockhead to commend; Perhaps e'en Timon hath not toil'd in vain, Perhaps e'en Timon hath as dull a friend.

For thee, whose muse with many an uncouth rhyme
Dost in these lines neglected worth bewail,
If chance (unknowing how to kill the time)
Some kindred idler should enquire thy tale ;

Haply some ancient Fellow may reply

"Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day, E'en till the western sun went down the sky Lounging his lazy listless hours away :

"Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat;
At noon at Tom's he caught the daily lie,
Or from his window looking o'er the street
Would gaze upon the travellers passing by ;

"At night, encircled with a kindred band,

In smoke and ale roll'd their dull lives away; True as the college clock's unvarying hand, Each morrow was the echo of to-day.

"Thus, free from cares, and children, noise and wife, Pass'd his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command, A lethargy assail'd his harmless life,

And check'd his course, and shook his loitering sand.

"Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise, And shed around each soph a deeper gloom, Beneath the centre aisle interr'd he lies,

With these few lines engrav'd upon his tomb"

THE EPITAPH.

OF vice or virtue void, here rests a man

By prudence taught each rude excess to shun;
Nor Love nor Pity marr'd his sober plan
And Dulness claim'd him for her favorite sor,

By no eccentric passion led astray,

Not rash to blame, nor eager to 'commend,
Calmly through life he steer'd his quiet way,
Nor made an enemy, nor gain'd a friend.

Seek not his faults-his merits-to explore,
But quickly drop this uninstructive tale!
His works-his faults-his merits-are no more,
Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil,

SIR J. H. Moore. From Elegant Extracts from the British Poets. 1824.

* Vide Admiral Tyrrel's monument in Westminster Abbey.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF Bow-FAIR, 1823. (Bow Fair was instituted by Charles II. in 1664.) THE Bow-bell tolls the knell of Bow-fair fun, And Richardson winds slowly out of town ; Poor old "young Saunders" sees his setting son,And Gyngell pulls his red tom-tawdry down.

Now three cart-horses draw the caravan,

O'er smooth MacAdams, to provincial fairs, And pining showmen, with companions wan, Make dreary humour, while the hawbuck stares !

No more shall cockneys don their Sunday coats, Stepney, Brook-green, or brighter Bow to fill, No folk shall row to Greenwich Hill in boats, And roll in couples adown One Tree Hill!

Girls shall no longer dance in gingham gowns,
Nor monkeys sit on organs at the door,
Gongs shall be turn'd to frying-pans; and clowns
Take to the country, and be clowns no more!

No learned pig, no veal, ro mutton pie,—

No heads be crack'd, no under garments won,No giants twelve no dwarfs just three feet highNo calves with two heads, shown to calves with one

At Scowton's dire destruction will be seen! The trumpet will give up its tragic truths! The magistrate desiring to be Keen,

Will put an end, as usual, to the Booths.

No lucky bags, no drums, no three-hand reels,
No cocks in breeches, no tobacco-sots'!
No more shall Wapping learn to dance quadrilles,
Or shake a hornpipe 'mid the pewter pots!

No more the Fairing shall the fair allure,

For fairs no more the fairing may expose ; In pleasure-lovers, work shall work a cure; And Sundays only show the Sunday clothes!

The magistrates decree that "fair is foul,"
And put a stop to profitable sport;
They exercise the Lion's shilling howl,
And cut the Irish giant's income short.

No more the backy-box, in dark japan,
Shakes on the stick, and lures the rabble rout;
No more the lemon, balanced by the man,

Flies at the touch and flings its toys about;

Take warning then, ye fair! from this fair's fall! One Act (the Vagrant Act) has been its ruin! Listen, oh listen, to Law's serious call, For fun and pleasure lead but to undoing! From The Mirror. 1823.

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THE LONG VACATION.

My Lord now quits his venerable seat,
The six clerk on his padlock turns the key,
From business hurries to his snug retreat,
And leaves vacation, and the town to me.