And proudly bear the beauteous maid
To Saltrum's venerable shade,-

Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum,
Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em,—
Then had I tasted bliss sincere,

And happy been from year to year.

How changed this scene! for now, my Granville,

Another match is on the anvil.

And I, a widow'd dove, complain,
And feel no refuge from my pain-
Save that of pitying Spencer's sister,

Who's lost a lord, and gained a Mister.

The Rt. Honble. George Canning.

CXC.

'Tis late, and I must haste away,
My usual hour of rest is near-
And do you press me, youths, to stay-
To stay and revel longer here?

Then give me back the scorn of care
Which spirits light in health allow,
And give me back the dark brown hair
Which curl'd upon my even brow.

And give me back the sportive jest

Which once could midnight hours beguile; The life that bounded in my breast,

And joyous youth's becoming smile :

And give me back the fervid soul

Which love inflamed with strange delight, When erst I sorrow'd o'er the bowl

At Chloe's coy and wanton flight.

'Tis late, and I must haste away,
My usual hour of rest is near-
But give me these, and I will stay-
Will stay till noon, and revel here!

William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne.

CXCI.

AN ODE TO THE EARL OF BATH.

GREAT Earl of Bath, your reign is o'er,
The Tories trust your word no more,
The Whigs no longer fear you;
Your gates are seldom now unbarr'd,
No crowd of coaches fills your yard,
And scarce a soul comes near you.

Few now aspire to your good graces,
Scarce any sue to you for places,
Or come with their petition,
'To tell how well they have deserved,
How long, how steadily they starved
For you, in opposition.

Expect to see that tribe no more,
Since all mankind perceive that power
Is lodged in other hands:
Sooner to Carteret now they'll go,
Or even (tho' that's excessive low)
To Wilmington or Sandys'.

With your obedient wife retire,
And sitting silent by the fire,
A sullen tête-à-tête,

Think over all you've done or said,

And curse the hour that you were made

Unprofitably great.

With vapours there, and spleen o'ercast,
Reflect on all your actions past

With sorrow and contrition:

And there enjoy the thoughts that rise
From disappointed avarice,

From frustrated ambition.

There soon you'll loudly, but in vain,
Of your deserting friends complain,
That visit you no more:
For in this country, 'tis a truth,
As known, as that love follows youth,
That friendship follows power.

Such is the calm of your retreat?
You thro' the dregs of life must sweat
Beneath this heavy load;

And I'll attend you as I've done,
Only to help reflection on,

With now and then an ode.

Sir Charles H. Williams.

CXCII.

THE STATESMAN.

WHAT statesman, what hero, what king,
Whose name thro' the island is spread,
Will you choose, oh, my Clio, to sing,
Of all the great living, or dead?

Go, my muse, from this place to Japan,
In search of a topic for rhyme;

The great Earl of Bath is the man

Who deserves to employ your whole time.

But, howe'er, as the subject is nice,

And perhaps you're unfurnish'd with matter,

May it please you to take my advice,

That you mayn't be suspected to flatter.

When you touch on his Lordship's high birth,
Speak Latin as if you were tipsy,

Say, we all are the sons of the earth,
Et genus non fecimus ipsi.

Proclaim him as rich as a Jew,

Yet attempt not to reckon his bounties; You may say, he is married-that's trueYet speak not a word of his Countess. Leave a blank here and there in each page, To enrol the fair deeds of his youth! When you mention the acts of his age,

Leave a blank for his-honour and truth.

Say he made a great monarch change hands;
He spake, and the minister fell;
Say he made a great statesman of Sandys ;--
O that he had taught him to spell !

Then enlarge on his cunning and wit,

Say how he harangued at the Fountain:
Say how the old Patriots were bit,

And a mouse was produced by a mountain.

Then say how he mark'd the new year
By increasing our taxes and stocks;
Then say how he changed to a Peer,
Fit companion for Edgcumbe and Fox.

Sir Charles H. Williams.

CXCIII.

ADVICE TO THE MARQUIS OF ROCKINGHAM
Upon a late Occasion.

WELL may they, Wentworth, call thee young;
What, hear and feel! sift right from wrong,

And to a wretch be kind!

Old statesmen would reverse your plan,
Sink, in the minister, the man,
And be both deaf and blind.

If thus, my Lord, your heart o'erflows,
Know you, how many mighty foes
Such weakness will create you?
Regard not what Fitzherbert says,
For though you gain each good man's praise,
We older folks shall hate you.

You should have sent, the other day,
Garrick, the player, with frowns away;
Your smiles but made him bolder:
Why would you hear his strange appeal,
Which dared to make a statesman feel?-
I would that you were older.

You should be proud, and seem displeased,
Or you forever will be teased,

Your house with beggars haunted
What, every suitor kindly used?
If wrong, their folly is excused,

If right, their suit is granted.

From pressing words of great and small
To free yourself, give hopes to all,
And fail nineteen in twenty:

What, wound my honour, break my word?
You're young again,-you may, my Lord,
Have precedents, in plenty!

Indeed, young Statesman, 'twill not do,-
Some other ways and means pursue,
More fitted to your station:

What from your boyish freaks can spring?
Mere toys! The favour of your king,

And love of all the nation.

David Garrick.

CXCIV.

PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.

ABOUT fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,
That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,
Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,
As good raw materials for settlers, abroad.
Some West Indian Island, whose name I forget,

Was the region then chosen for this scheme so romantic And such the success the first colony met,

That a second, soon after, set sail o'er the Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long look'd-for shore,
Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet,
And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,

They had sorrow'd to lose, but would soon again meet.

66

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came—
Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"
While Pat stood astounded, to hear his own name
'Thus hail'd by black devils, who caper'd for joy!

Can it possibly be ?-half amazement-half doubt,
Pat listens again-rubs his eyes and looks steady;
Then heaves a deep sigh, and in horror yells out,
"Good Lord! only think-black and curly already!"

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