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And shouted but once more aloud,
“My father, must I stay?”
The wreathing fires made way:
They caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound
The boy- oh! where was he?
With fragments strewed the sea !
That well had borne their part-
Was that young faithful heart !
THE DROOPING WILLOW.
Green willow! over whom the perilous blast
L. E. L.
PUNCH AND JUDY.
I sing of Punch, and therefore must I sing
Of feats familiar, yet for ever new; Of merry faces, gathered in a ring,
The magic, oft admired, again to view; While laughter, like a river from its spring,
Throws o'er the spirit its refreshing dew; And gushes on with unimpeded course, Exhaustless still from an exhaustless source.
What is that shrill, inimitable cry,
With joyous shouts of idle urchins blended ? What that strange curtained box, well poised on high,
With four long poles, by which its sides are ended ? What should it be, but Punch ?— who, passing by,
Comes, like a conqueror from his wars, attended By music, far on London echoes borne, Drum, or Pandean pipe, or clanging horn.
Little it matters, where that sound is heard,
Through this metropolis of Britain's isles; Whether, where thousands are almost interred
In smoky dens, and seldom sunshine smiles; Or where gay splendour revels:- in a word,
The parish of St. James, or of St. Giles, Starts
up alike ; and every being round Finds in his heart an echo to that sound.
And sparkling eyes, from door and window greet
The cavalcade, that moves with merry din, Or sudden stops in some gay square or street,
Or in the learned fields of Lincoln's Inn. Behold! the drama for no ear unmeet,
Most loved and most repeated, doth begin ; For, tell me, when was dipus — OthelloThe Cid - played half so oft as Punchinello?
But who shall paint that drama ?— 't would employ
Weeks, months, to go through all its operations ;-
Embraces, quarrels, reconciliations-
Falls, faintings, dyings, revivifications-
’T is done :— that stroke has slain the dame outright:
Now lay her out,—and o'er breathless corse
Weeps with full anguish of too late remorse.
Attacks the mourner with a fury's force :-
Hark! how his head is knocked against the floor!
Look, how he writhes his body, as in pain ! And widowed Judy must, in turn, deplore
Her lord,— who, in his turn, shall rise again : And now they roll and tumble o'er and o'er
And now, but gaze thyself— for words are vain :Punch hast thou seen ?- then thou anew wilt see,If not, life has some pleasure yet for thee.
Oh, Punch! no vulgar mountebank art thou,
That splits our ears at holiday or fair ; Thou dost not bring a frown upon the brow,
By pains inflicted upon dog or bear; Nor stands a theatre in Britain now,
Fit the first honours from thy front to tear; Nor gilded dome, nor stately structure, worth Thine unelaborate and itinerant mirth.
With seas and mountains thou hast nought to do,
Or simple nature in her savage mood,
'Mid variegated scene of rock and wood;
Nor where the learned pedant doth eschew
His fellow men in bookish solitude;
But where the stream of life flows fastest on,
Where boils the eddying vortex of the town,
The pausing porter throws his burthen down;
Some man of high and orthodox renown,
Thou art the child of cities, and art found
A wandering orb, with hundred satellites ;-
And listless gazers seek whate'er excites
Which thou hast charmed from all the gloomier sprites,
Thou mak'st one carnival throughout the year! European Magazine.
A PERSIAN PRECEPT.
Forgive thy foes;- nor that alone,
Their evil deeds with good repay,
And kiss the hand upraised to slay.
So does the fragrant sandal bow
In meek forgiveness to its doom ;
Sheds in abundance rich perfume.
ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON, ON THE PUBLI
CATION OF CHILDE HAROLD.
BY GRANVILLE PENN, ESQ.
Cold is the breast, extinct the vital spark,
Would joy to press that blest etherial ground,
I “ deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel,”
Would, Harold, I could make thee know full oft,
Is Harold “satiate with worldly joy?"
Vast is the privilege that man may gain;
Thou lovest Nature with a filial zeal,