INSCRIPTION

FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE, WHERE MRS. BROWNRIGG, THE 'PRENTICE-CIDE WAS CONFINED PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION.*

FOR one long term, or e'er her trial came,
Here BROWNRIGG linger'd. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as with shrill voice
She screamed for fresh Geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand;
Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?

SHE WHIPP'D TWO FEMALE 'PRENTICES TO DEATH,
AND HID THEM IN THE COAL-HOLE. For her mind

Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine

Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog

The little Spartans; such as erst chastised

Our Milton, when at college. For this act

Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repeal'd !

* INSCRIPTION BY SOUTHEY

FOR THE APARTMENT IN CHEPSTOW CASTLE, WHERE HENRY MARTEN, THE REGIUIDE, WAS IMPRISONED THIRTY YEARS.

For thirty years, secluded from mankind,

Here MARTEN lingered. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as with even tread

He paced around his prison: not to him

Did Nature's fair varieties exist;

He never saw the sun's delightful beams,

Save when through yoń high bars he pour'd a sad
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had REBELL'D AGAINST THE KING, AND SAT
IN JUDGMENT ON HIM; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal
Our Milton worship'd. Bless'd hopes! awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days

When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfill'd!

SONG.*

SUNG BY ROGERO IN THE BURLESQUE PLAY OF

FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN, 1798.

I.

WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U

-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his
eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds-

II.

Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda then was true!

At least I thought so at the U—

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen.

[At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.

III.

Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew

Her neat post-wagon trotting in!

Ye bore Matilda from my view;

Forlorn I languish'd at the U-

-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

IV.

This faded form! this pallid hue!

This blood my veins is clotting in,

* There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognizant of the proceedings of the "Anti-Jacobin" writers, he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot.

My years are many-they were few
When first I entered at the U-

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
-tor, law professor at the U—
-niversity at Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

VI.

Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in;
Here doom'd to starve on water gru-

-el, never shall I see the U

-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.

THE AMATORY SONNETS OF ABEL SHUFFLE

BOTTOM.

I.

DELIA AT PLAY.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

SHE held a Cup and Ball of ivory white,
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand,

As now, intent, in innocent delight,

Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with EAGLE sight,

Now on the pointed end infixed its fall.

Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed.

Methought the BALL she played with was my HEART ;
(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride !)
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn

Who on that dart IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?

II.

THE POET PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR

DELIA.

Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.

Far from my Delia now by fate removed,

At home, abroad, I view her everywhere:
Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,
My Goddess-Maid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR.
For Love annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary SoL around his bed
Closes the SABLE CURTAINS of the night,
SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When every sound is dead,
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE Comes then to roll
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my Body drags its chain,
But sure with Delia I exist a soul!

III.

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN

DELIA'S PARLOR.

I would I were that portly gentleman

With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlor! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the SUN-BEAMs of her eyes,
And he unblamed may gaze upon MY FAIR,
And oft MY FAIR his favored form surveys.
O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze;
I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the STRONG glance of those divinest charms
WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,
When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that portly gentleman,
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane!

THE LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

I.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKER

CHIEF.

'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare?

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,

That left the tempting corner hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,

After long travel to some distant shrine,
When at the relic of his saint he kneels,

For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with filching fingers I drew near,
Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein;
And when the finished deed removed my fear,
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind,
It only served a moment's qualm to move;
For thefts like this it could not be designed-
THE eighth commandment was NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here, when she took the maccaroons from me,
She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet!
Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee!

Lips sweeter than the maccaroons she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw,
That made my love so delicately sneeze,

Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,

And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,

SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane;

For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,
And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.