"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,

A chariot in Seymour Place;

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise, The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,

By driving my favorite pace:

And they handle their reins with such a grace,

I have something for both at the end of their race.

"So now for the earth to take my chance:"
Then up to the earth sprung he;

And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp'd across the sea,

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hover'd a moment upon his way,
To look upon Leipsic plain;

And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well:

For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blush'd like the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he:
"Methinks they have here little need of me!"

But the devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day:

But he made a tour, and kept a journal
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,
Who bid pretty well-but they cheated him, though!

The devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,
Its coachman and his coat;

So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
And seized him by the throat:
"Aha!" quoth he," what have we here?
"Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!”

And Chatham, so like his friend Billy; And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes, Because the Catholics would not rise,

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard-which set Satan himself a staring-
A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing.
And the devil was shock'd-and quoth Le, “I
must go,

For I find we have much better manners below:
If thus he harangues when he passes my border,
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."

WINDSOR POETICS.

[1829]

Lines composed on the occasion of his royal highness the
Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of
Henry VIII. and Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor.
FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies:
Between them stands another sceptred thing-
It moves, it reigns—in all but name, a king:

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
-In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.

Ah, what can tombs avail!-since these disgorge The blood and dust of both-to mould a George.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy nɛme, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart

The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness cease?

We repent-we abjure-we will break from our chain,

We will part, we will fly to-unite it again!

-

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one!-forsake, if thou wilt;-
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it-whatever thou mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more
sweet,

With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign-
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.
{May, 1814)

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED
AT THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.
WHO hath not glow'd above the page where fame
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name;
The mountain land which spurn'd the Roman chain.
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No foe could tame-no tyrant could command?

That race is gone-but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath :
D'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine.
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free,
But now 't is only shed for fame and thee!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support-the world hath given him fame!

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led-
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath-'t is all their fate allows-
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
While, sad, she chants the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave!

'Tis Heaven-not man-must charm away the

woe,

Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

[May, 1814.]

CONDOLATORY ADDRESS

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE
REGENT'S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS.
MEE.

WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave, or just;
What most admired each scrutinizing eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus-for his was not there!
That absence proved his worth,-that absence fix'd
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze

Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness, Bright though they be, thine own had render'd

less:

If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits,
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart,
Could with thy gentle image bear to part;
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?
A garden with all flowers-except the rose ;-
A fount that only wants its living stream;
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam.
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;

MOORE.

"WHAT say I?"-not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man" of all measures," dear Tom-so here goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, And Southey's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep; That" Felo de se "who, half drunk with his malm

sey,

Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never

man saw.

Than all he shall not force on our applause.

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, The symmetry of youth-the grace of mienWith all that Virtue asks of Homage thine: The eye that gladdens and the brow serene; Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than The glossy darkness of that clustering hair,

fair!

Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws
But turn to gaze again, and find anew
A spell which will not let our looks repose,
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright,
Some charm that well rewards another view.
And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone,
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;
To please the paltry heart that pleases none;-
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by;
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.
[August, 1814.]

TO BELSHAZZAR. BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn, Nor in thy sensual fullness fall; Behold! while yet before thee burn The graven words, the glowing wall. Many a despot men miscall

Crown'd and anointed from on high;
But thou, the weakest, worst of all-
Is it not written, thou must die?

Go! dash the roses from thy brow-
Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them:
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,
More than thy very diadem,

Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem:-
Then throw the worthless bauble by,

Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn;
And learn like better men to die!

Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,
And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth:
But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth-
Unfit to govern, live, or die.

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF

SIR PETER PARKER, BART.*

THERE is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,

All earth becomes their monument!

A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue :
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.

For them the voice of festal mirth

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound;
While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.

A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,

Who would not share their glorious lot?

Who would not die the death they chose?

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined

Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;
And early valor, glowing, find

A model in thy memory.

But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In woe, that glory cannot quell;

And shuddering hear of victory,
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name?
Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.

Alas! for them, though not for thee,

They cannot choose but weep the more;
Deep for the dead the grief must be,
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
[October, 1814].

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."
GRAY'S Poemata.

THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;

ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.
ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes.
[March 27, 1815.]

ODE FROM THE FRENCH.

I.

We do not curse thee, Waterloo!
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;
There 't was shed, but is not sunk-
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion-
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost Labedoyère-
With that of him whose honor'd grave
Contains the "bravest of the brave."
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 't is full 't will burst asunder-
Never yet was heard such thunder,

As then shall shake the world with wonder-
Never yet was seen such lightning

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,
Show'ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.

II.

The Chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!
When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow men-
Save in deeds that led them on

Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son-
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed? Who could boast o'er France defeated, Till lone Tyranny commanded? Till, goaded by ambition's sting, The Hero sunk into the King?

Then he fell:-so perish all,

Who would men by man enthrall!

III.

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume,*
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb; †
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee-
Of the fate at last which found thee:
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?

Once-as the Moon sways o'er the tide,
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendency-
And as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.

* "Poor dear Murat, what an end! His white plume used to be a rallying-point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage; so would neither suffer his soul nor body to be bandaged."-Byron Letters.

+ Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.

"Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, pray look at the conclusion of my Ode on Waterloo,' written in the year 1815, and, comparing it with the Duke de Berri's catastrophe in 1820, tell me if I have not as good a right to the character

There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle's burning crest-
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest-
Victory beaming from her breast ?)
While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

IV.

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch-
But let Freedom rejoice,

With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;

France hath twice too well been taught
The "moral lesson" dearly bought-
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon!

But in equal rights and laws,

Hearts and hands in one great cause-
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,

With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand

Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!

V.

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion-

And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued-
Man may die-the soul 's renew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit-
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble-
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimson tears will follow yet.‡

FROM THE FRENCH. MUST thou go, my glorious Chief,? Sever'd from thy faithful few? Who can tell thy warrior's grief, Maddening o'er that long adieu? Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, Dear as both have been to meWhat are they to all I feel, With a soldier's faith for thee?

Idol of the soldier's soul!

First in fight, but mightiest now: Many could a world control; Thee alone no doom can bow.

of Vates,' in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and Coleridge?— Crimson tears will follow yet;'

and have they not?"--Byron Letters, 1820.

"All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted."

By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell,
When their dying shout was heard,
Blessing him they served so well.

Would that I were cold with those,
Since this hour I live to see;
When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Dreading each should set thee free!
Oh! although in dungeons pent,
All their chains were light to me,
Gazing on thy soul unbent.

Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer,
Were his borrow'd glories dim,
In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,
All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine?

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!
Never did I droop before;

Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore: All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OF HONOR."

FROM THE FRENCH.

STAR of the brave!-whose beam hath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead-
Thou radiant and adored deceit !
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,-
Wild meteor of immortal birth!
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honor here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a volcano of the skies.

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
Of three bright colors,* each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom's hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes;
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.

Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But oh, thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.

*The tricolor.