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A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,

Die self-accused of life run all to waste ?

Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones :

The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin ;
Dew-drops may deck the turf that hides the bones,

But tears of godiy grief ne'er flow within.

Learn then, ye living! by the mouth be taught

Of all these sepulchres, instructors true, That, soon or late, death also is your lot,

And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

ON THE
QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON,

THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH MARCH, 1789.

[This piece, referring to the recovery of George III. was first

published in The World.]

When, long sequester'd from his throne,

George took his seat again,
By right of worth, not blood alone,

Entitled here to reign,

Then loyalty, with all his lamps

New trimm'd, a gallant show!
Chasing the darkness and the damps,

Set London in a glow.

'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares,

Which form’d the chief display,
These most resembling cluster'd stars,

Those the long milky way.

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,

And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires

Amid the vault of heaven.

So, fire with water to compare,

The ocean serves, on high Up-spouted by a whale in air,

To express unwieldy joy.

Had all the pageants of the world

In one procession join'd,
And all the banners been unfurl'd

That heralds e’er design’d,

For no such sight had England's Queen

Forsaken her retreat, Where George recover'd made a scene,

Sweet always, doubly sweet.

Yet glad she came that night to prove,

A witness undescried,
How much the object of her love

Was loved by all beside.

Darkness the skies had mantled o’er

In aid of her design, Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before

To veil a deed of thine !

On borrow'd wheels away she flies,

Resolved to be unknown, And gratify no curious eyes

That night, except her own.

Arrived, a night like noon she sees,

And hears the million hum, As all by instinct, like the bees,

Had known their sovereign come.

Pleased she beheld aloft portray'd

On many a splendid wall, Emblems of health, and heavenly aid,

And George the theme of all.

Unlike the enigmatic line,

So difficult to spell,
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine,

The night his city fell.

Soon watery grew her eyes and dim,

But with a joyful tear,
None else, except in prayer for him,

George ever drew from her.

It was a scene in every part

Like those in fable feign’d,
And seem'd by some magician's art

Created and sustain'd.

But other magic there, she knew,

Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,

Save love of George alone.

That cordial thought her spirits cheerd,

And through the cumbrous throng, Not less unworthy to be fear'd,

Convey'd her calm along.

So ancient poets say, serene

The sea-maid rides the waves, And, fearless of the billowy scene,

Her peaceful bosom laves.

With more than astronomic eyes

She view'd the sparkling show, · One Georgian star adorns the skies,

She myriads found below.

Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once seen, suffice; Heaven grant us no such future sight,

Such previous woe the price!

THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.

[MAY, 1789.]

MUSE - Hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving house thou bring

For his sake into scorn,
Nor speak the school from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,

Nor place where he was born.

That such a man once was, may seem Worthy of record (if the theme

Perchance may credit win) For proof to man, what Man may prove, If grace depart, and demons move

The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild Disclaims him, Man he must be styled)

Wanted no good below, Gentle he was, if gentle birth Could make him such, and he had worth,

If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest
He shone superior at the feast,

And qualities of mind
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose

Possess'd of every kind.

Methinks I see him powder'd red,
With bushy locks his well-dress'd head

Wing'd broad on either side,
The mossy rose-bud not so sweet ;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat

As luxury could provide.

Can such be cruel ? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;

A tyrant entertain'd
With barbarous sports, whose fell delight
Was to encourage mortal fight

'Twixt birds to battle train'd.

One feather'd champion he possess’d,
His darling far beyond the rest,

Which never knew disgrace,
Nor e'er had fought, but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,

The Cæsar of his race.

It chanced, at last, when, on a day,
He push'd him to the desperate fray,

His courage droop'd, he fled. The master storm'd, the prize was lost, And instant, frantic at the cost,

He doom'd his favourite dead.

He seized him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit,

And, “ Bring me cord,” he cried ; The cord was brought, and, at his word, To that dire implement the bird,

Alive and struggling, tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil,
And all the terrors of the tale

That can be, shall be, sunkLed by the sufferer's screams aright His shock'd companions view the sight

And him with fury drunk.

All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate :

He, deaf to pity's call,
Whirl'd round him rapid as a whol
His culinary club of steel,

Death menacing on all.

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