ODE. "I'll give him dash for dash." J****N farewell! farewell to all I cannot live an Author long! No small inditer of reviews Or lay his sonnets waste; The smallest bird that wings the sky, The peace which shuns may board and bed And dwell, "St. John, with thee!" I aimed at higher growth; and now What can I christen thy review The very man that sought me once- But who, save me, will fret to find EPIGRAM. As human fashions change about, The Naturals are coming in! * "Mr. Hood bestows his tediousness on that most sage and chaste of periodicals, the Literary Gazette, where he celebrates David Laing, or any other blacksmith that may happen to die."-Public note of the London Weekly Review." 'The Editor would be sorry indeed to part with Mr. Hood's occasional contributions, if he could possibly secure them."-Private note of the London Weekly Review. "This is very like the ancient fable of the Fox and the Sour Grapes; but it is surely not rigidly impartial to quarrel with an Author because he refuses to hide his light under your tub, and prefers writing where he must be generally read, to where he has no chance of being read at all."— London Literary Gazette, Aug. 25th, 1827. SONG FOR THE NINETEENTH.* THE morning sky is hung with mist, The rolling drum the street alarms, So now to arms! to arms! to arms! Our evening bowl was strong and stiff, The straw was hard, the maid was soft. So now to arms! to arms! to arms! And if they ask who won your charms, FRAGMENT. PROBABLY WRITTEN DURING ILLNESS. I'm sick of gruel, and the dietetics, In short, within a word, I'm sick of sickness! * "I forgot to say I composed a song for the 19th, which made them all laugh. I send it for you."-Potsdam, Oct., 1836. MIDNIGHT. UNFATHOMABLE Night! how dost thou sweep And forth at the late dark, outspreadeth wide His dusky wings, whence the cold waters weep! How peacefully the living millions lie! Lull'd unto death beneath his poppy spells; There is no breath-no living stir-no cryNo tread of foot-no song-no music-callOnly the sound of melancholy bellsThe voice of Time-survivor of them all! BIRTHDAY VERSES. GOOD morrow to the golden morning, I have brought no roses, sweetest, It was when all sweets were over Thou wert born to bless the year. But I've brought thee jewels, dearest, They have learn'd that look of mine! ADDRESS.* HUSH! not a sound! no whisper: no demur! Full fathom five, a FATHER lies indeed! Yes! where the foaming billows rave the while To all he hoped, or feared, or loved, of old— He, who could move the passions, moved by none, * The address was written by my father at the request of Mr. Dickens. It was delivered by the late Mrs. Warner, at a theatrical benefit night, at the Haymarket Theatre. The proceeds went to the fund raised for the children of poor Elton, the actor, who was wrecked off the Fern Islands.Memorials. |