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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 ;
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.
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,
Entitled here to reign,
Then loyalty, with all his lamps
New trimm'd, a gallant show!
Set London in a glow.
'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares,
Which form’d the chief display,
Those the long milky way.
Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,
And rockets flew, self-driven,
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,
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,
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,
The night his city fell.
Soon watery grew her eyes and dim,
But with a joyful tear,
George ever drew from her.
It was a scene in every part
Like those in fable feign’d,
Created and sustain'd.
But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
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.
MUSE - Hide his name of whom I sing,
For his sake into scorn,
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
And qualities of mind
Possess'd of every kind.
Methinks I see him powder'd red,
Wing'd broad on either side,
As luxury could provide.
Can such be cruel ? Such can be
A tyrant entertain'd
'Twixt birds to battle train'd.
One feather'd champion he possess’d,
Which never knew disgrace,
The Cæsar of his race.
It chanced, at last, when, on a day,
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
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,
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
He, deaf to pity's call,
Death menacing on all.