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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 FANCIES AND FRAGMENTS
 
 Jfanrks anb Jfragmmts : 
 
 INXLUDING IMITATIONS OF 
 
 FAVOURITE PASSAGES 
 
 FRQM 
 
 THE GREEK, LATIN, AND FRENCH, 
 
 WITH SPECIAL ALLUSIONS TO 
 
 THE LOCALITY OF HEREFORD. 
 
 BY 
 
 FREDERICK HOSKYNS MATTHEWS, 
 
 M.A , and sometime Scholar, of Trinity College, 
 Cambridge. 
 
 quod tentabam dicere versus erat." — Ovid. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PROVOST AND CO., 
 
 36, HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 1878.
 
 Af f3 
 
 > ^ 
 
 Xa tils i^euersd il^tBmory 
 
 OF 
 
 THOMAS HEWITT KEY, M.A., F.R.S., 
 
 FOR MANY YEARS PROFESSOR OF LATIN, 
 
 AND AFTERWARDS OF COMPARATIVE GRAMMAR 
 
 IN UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON, 
 
 AND HEAD MASTER OF THE SCHOOL THERETO ATTACHED ; 
 
 TO WHOM THIS LITTLE WORK 
 
 WAS, WITH HIS KIND PERMISSION, INTENDED 
 
 TO HAVE BEEN DEDICATED DURING HIS LIFETIME, 
 
 AS A RELIEF TO HIS GRAVER PURSUITS, 
 
 AND IN TOKEN OF A FRIENDSHIP 
 
 WHICH, BEGUN AT CAMBRIDGE, HAD CONTINUED 
 
 THROUGH MORE THAN HALF A CENTURY.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The little Pieces (now for the first time collected) 
 formed, with the exception of a few at the end of the 
 volume never before printed, a series of gratuitous 
 contributions to a Provincial Journal, extending over a 
 period of more than twenty years. Many Herefordians 
 will recollect that a considerable number of these bore 
 the signature of M. A. 
 
 The writer, though far from wanting in appreciation 
 of the products of his Muse, would probably have deemed 
 them of too trifling a nature to be thus offered to public 
 criticism, had not a friend to whom he had presented 
 slips, struck off before the newspaper types were dis- 
 persed, expressed his intention to bind them together. 
 This suggested the idea that perhaps other friends might 
 be gratified to possess a less fugitive memorial of himself 
 than such Sibylline leaves, which are difficult to preserve.
 
 VIU PREFACE. 
 
 He even ventures to hope that they may be received with 
 favour by the general reader, and he trusts that, in any 
 event, it may not have to be said that — 
 
 " hae nugse seria ducunt 
 In mala." 
 
 It only remains to mention that the Pieces, excepting 
 the first six with which it was thought best to commence, 
 have been arranged in the order in which they were first 
 produced, so that anyone curious in such a matter may 
 trace "the Progress of Poesy" in its gradual decline or 
 improvement, as the case may appear to be. The 
 answers to Enigmas, four in number, . signed K, were 
 furnished by the Rev. James Bullock, sometime Fellow 
 of Worcester College, Oxford, and Rector of High Ham, 
 Somerset, whose melancholy decease is noticed and 
 deplored in "Silurian Sisters," an imitation of Moschus. 
 
 Appended are a few specimens of Latin composition.
 
 TO JANUS. 
 
 We bring thee, Janus, as thy dues, 
 The first fruits of our homely muse, 
 
 If thou canst Hst to rhyme; 
 Who, keeping the big keys of fate. 
 Future and past dost contemplate, 
 And of years dost ope and shut the gate. 
 
 Porter to father Time. 
 
 Say, didst thou slumber at thy post 
 When entrance gained that blust'ring host,. 
 
 On havoc bent and ruin ; 
 Or were they smuggled in a bag. 
 As once of old, by some foul hag. 
 Whose besom is her steady nag, 
 
 'Mid storms of her own brewing?
 
 TO JANUS. 
 
 Bifrons ! thou hast good right and reason 
 To stand God-father to this season, 
 
 Thy double face that borrows : — 
 Now chill'd by frost, with tempest rough, 
 A chimney flying at every puff. 
 And now with sunny smiles enough 
 
 To soothe a world of sorrows. 
 
 But what with thy clear nights can vie, 
 Spangled with gems of brilliancy, 
 
 More than were ever told ! 
 Now look we out before we sup, 
 To see how, bright as May's best cup, 
 Orion rubs his armour up, 
 
 And girds his loins with gold.
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 (To a Friend.) 
 
 O TAKE, my friend, if you are wary, 
 A febrifuge for February, 
 
 Now breathe a vein or never; 
 For though they trace the month's hard name 
 To purifying rites, the same 
 As Candlemas, I hold it came 
 
 From "febris," which means^ — fever. 
 
 It is a feverish time, no doubt. 
 
 When now fresh flaming Sol comes out 
 
 To stir rebellious natures ; 
 Now Ministers must meet the nation, 
 And e'en the fair can find occasion 
 To have their little agitation. 
 
 The dangerous darling creatures ! 
 
 On the qui vive are all the Nine 
 To greet the gay St. Valentine, 
 
 Whose smiles soft passion move; 
 With opera waked the feathered choir 
 Catch those bright sparks of heavenly fire. 
 Such as sweet overtures inspire 
 
 Of melody and love.
 
 WINTER ON THE MARCH. 
 
 So too, methinks, this season lent 
 To thee its febrile temperament, 
 
 E'en in thy natal hour; 
 But spirits quick as thine disarm 
 Resentment, by the counter charm 
 Of a heart that's open, free, and warm, 
 
 Boon Nature's richest dower. 
 
 WINTER ON THE MARCH. 
 
 As on the lines of Torres Vedras 
 
 Rested the Chief whose firmness freed us 
 
 From Boney's spleen and spite ; 
 So Winter often leaves the plain 
 To sweep it with fresh force again, 
 And hugs wild Cambria's mountain chain. 
 
 Making the black one — white. 
 
 •h 
 
 But now for good he quits our borders, 
 At least he's under marching orders. 
 
 Such is the month's fair warning; 
 Though to take a hint is not his manner, 
 He 'gins to furl his snowy banner. 
 While Flora with light airs to fan her 
 
 Comes on the blush of morning.
 
 DERIVATION OF APRIL. 
 
 March ! a most martial name is thine, 
 And Aries thy brave ensign, 
 
 BeHke a battering-ram ; 
 Yet as the gallant god of war 
 For Paphian couch oft changed his car, 
 Our nerves so thou canst soothe or jar, 
 
 A lion or a lamb. 
 
 O dearer than Olympic dust 
 
 Is that which finds thy searching gust 
 
 Accounted by the sage, 
 Precious as gold — thus Nature draws 
 Blest consequence from simple cause, 
 'Tis well we can't amend her laws. 
 
 Albeit behind the age. 
 
 DERIVATION OF APRIL. 
 
 At school, as worst of all vexations, 
 1 always hated derivations. 
 But now, perverse, I love to moot 
 The question of a doubtful root ; 
 And sure 'tis useful, as "tis curious, 
 To know the genuine from the spurious,
 
 DERIVATION OF APRIL. 
 
 Mushrooms were else in sooth a sad dish, 
 
 Nor could we e'en enjoy a radish ; 
 
 But other fare now lies between us, 
 
 A matter relative to Venus : 
 
 Let not this startle or affright ye, 
 
 For as March is got from Mars the mighty, 
 
 April they father on Aphrodite. 
 
 Unfair you think or far to go ? 
 
 Why then we must come to " aperio," 
 
 Which, gentles, I most humbly hope 
 
 You know, when construed, means " to ope ; " 
 
 And certes open all appears 
 
 In Nature's face 'twixt smiles and tears : 
 
 Heaven opes its portals to supply 
 
 Sunshine and soft humidity; 
 
 And weary now of dust and drouth 
 
 Good mother Earth opes wide her mouth, 
 
 To catch the genial showers sent, 
 
 After the stringent air of Lent, 
 
 By way of a mild aperient. 
 
 Look out! 'tis "open sesame" 
 With hedge and herb, and bush and tree,. 
 See blossom burst, and leaf expand. 
 As a gentle infant opes its hand ;
 
 MAY. 
 
 See the bo..ny blade the bright dew quaffing, 
 Fresh in her cups see Flora laughing, 
 How her heart dilates with each fine petal, 
 As china smooth, or rich as metal ! 
 In chorus opes Heaven's choir — and hush 
 Now the blackbird answers to the thrush ; 
 Not to ope our ears were a grave offence. 
 As, little more than a few days hence, 
 The cuckoo comes into residence. 
 
 MAY. 
 
 That rosy streak — was it dawn of day, 
 
 Or the first soft blush of the maiden May ? 
 
 For May means maid, but some have thought her 
 
 Bright Maia's pretty pet God-daughter : 
 
 Maia who once, as pledge of love, 
 
 Bore Mercury to puissant Jove, 
 
 One of those sprightly sparkling Pleiads, 
 
 (Unlike the sombre sister Hyads) 
 
 In each of whom you might discover 
 
 Traces of an immortal lover,
 
 8 MAY. 
 
 Save Merope, to whom is given, 
 As lowlier bride, of all the seven. 
 Least of the brilliancy of Heaven. 
 
 As the fair sponsor, such the maid, 
 In her Hawthorn's green and white array'd. 
 Nor looks she, beaming from afar, 
 In lustre less than a lovely star. 
 As she moves she makes each heart rejoice, 
 Fragrance her breath, and song her voice. 
 And who can tell but the heavenly muse 
 • Her bright complexion's varied hues ? 
 In aspect mild, and modest too. 
 Though she sometimes flirts with you know who, 
 Old Winter, who, behind his time. 
 Half frights the lass in Beauty's prime 
 With his whiskers fringed with hoary rime. 
 
 But why to prattle thus be staying, 
 
 When we should have been out a Maying ? 
 
 Of yonder park the parchment roll 
 
 Conveys the care with the control; 
 
 But each enthusiast owns the flood. 
 
 And the golden flush of that brave wild wood. 
 
 Glisten alike for me and you 
 
 Those ruby buds, and those bells so blue.
 
 JUNE. 
 
 Ours from clear spring, or covert spray, 
 Sweet ripple, or sweet roundelay ; 
 Nor lose we the rich bank's perfume, 
 Its velvet, and its downy bloom, 
 Embroidery fresh from Flora's loom. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 'TwAS Janu'ry, and lo, 'tis June ! 
 
 Like the brief space from morn to noon, 
 
 Half of the year has sped ; 
 While we debate, or dream, or doze. 
 On with the movement Nature goes, 
 Howbeit conservative of those 
 
 By her blest bounty fed. 
 
 Blithe is the time, so let us try 
 To trace its etymology. 
 
 Seated this old elm under ; 
 Junius occurs, but neither Brutus, 
 Nor t'other litteris imbutus. 
 Will in point of time exactly suit us, 
 
 'Twould be a chronic blunder.
 
 lO TO . 
 
 As May, we're told, was for the Majors, 
 Not the sons of Mars, but those old stagers, 
 
 Time-honoured heads of grey, 
 Which not to reverence were treason, 
 So the Juniors, too, must have their season. 
 And June brings with it, for this reason, 
 Midsummer holiday. 
 
 'Tis vastly well — and yet do you know 
 I must believe June comes from Juno, 
 
 For whom these warbled matins ; 
 Her royal heart did love display, 
 And her peacock's plumes so rich and gay — 
 But in all their glory what are they 
 
 To June's bright silks and satins ? 
 
 TO 
 
 It is not that thy face is fair. 
 Thy sylph-like shape all symmetry ; 
 
 It is not that thy floating hair 
 Plays o'er thy neck so gracefully ;
 
 1 837- 
 
 TO . H 
 
 It is not that thi'"' eye's bright beam 
 Still tempers joy with gentleness ; 
 
 It is not that youth's golden gleam 
 Lends thee its glossy loveliness; 
 
 'Tis not the smile that lights thy cheek, 
 With sweetness fraught and sympathy- — 
 
 'Tis not thine air, majestic, meek, 
 With softness blending dignity; 
 
 It is the charm we cannot tell. 
 
 That steals our hearts' idolatry — 
 The mystic power, the secret spell, 
 
 Of Beauty's nameless witchery. 
 
 TO 
 
 From Gadda's top descending fast 
 The faithless Zephyr's withering blast 
 
 Has swept the glades below ; 
 But Beauty's spirit lingers still 
 On the brown wood and tufted hill. 
 Where, mix'd with more than painter's skill, 
 
 The tints of Autumn glow.
 
 12 OUR BIRTHDAY. 
 
 Nature awhile, without a breath, 
 Suspended as 'twixt Hfe and death, 
 
 To listless languor yields ; 
 And tranquil as the glassy deep 
 When winds are hushed, or childhood's sleep. 
 Or the pale bier where mourners weep, 
 
 A stillness wraps the fields. 
 
 Let us, my love, so learn to live. 
 Nor spurn the lesson seasons give, 
 
 That in our riper stage, 
 In life's November dark and drear. 
 The bright review of many a year 
 Well spent, may calm each anxious fear, 
 
 And gild our sinking age. 
 
 OUR BIRTHDAY. 
 
 A BIRTHDAY dawns — to youth's impassion'd ear 
 A sound how grateful, and a name how dear ! 
 How gay the sun then lights with ruddy streak. 
 Beloved as home, the distant mountain's peak;
 
 OUR BIRTHDAY. I3 
 
 Up and abroad let joy have boundless sway, 
 No task, no care, no thought shall mar to-day. 
 The fond caress and lavish boon shall tell 
 That happy parents love their darling well ; 
 And merry meetings round the festive hearth 
 Shall crown at eve the fairest scene on earth. 
 
 But in life's onward march, as years have flown, 
 And friends have vanished, or are colder grown, 
 Then, natal day, to us that linger here 
 Thou art, indeed, a sad remembrancer ! 
 Thou bring'st of all we loved the shadowy form. 
 Cold as the dead, but in our fancy warm ; 
 For hope's bright gleams indulged to boyhood's eye, 
 Thou giv'st us truth and stern reality ; 
 Show'st us of years defunct the dismal train. 
 How many wasted, and how few remain — 
 One solace hast thou yet, and one alone, 
 Thou bring'st us nearer to the loved ones gone.
 
 H 
 
 TO A CERTAIN FAIR MAIDEN 
 
 UNUSUALLY LATE IN MAKING HER ENTREE, 
 
 Reluctant, late, and lingering yet, 
 Blighted with frost, with snow-storms wet. 
 
 Is that fair Spring I see ? 
 Albeit displaying many a trace 
 Of rude old Winter's rough embrace, 
 With something like her wonted face 
 
 She trips along the lea. 
 
 Why this demur, coy maiden, say. 
 To deck thee in thy best array. 
 
 When now thy Zephyr woos ? 
 Why loth to don thy favourite green, 
 With virgin white and sapphire sheen, 
 Crimson and radiant gold between, 
 
 And glisten as he sues ? 
 
 The feathered choir expecting long 
 Have tuned their blithest, sweetest song
 
 DINEDOR. 15 
 
 When love and joy are rife ; 
 And luckless mortals breathe awhile 
 To catch thy soft and soothing smile, 
 And feel thy first approach beguile 
 
 Half of the load of life. 
 
 We have little Spring in England, except in "Thompson's 
 Seasons." — Diary of an Invalid. 
 
 DINEDOR. 
 
 DiNEDOR ! in childhood's careless hour 
 
 I joy'd thy brow to gain, 
 In triumph snatch'd a token flower, 
 
 To prove my toil not vain ; 
 But soon with other eyes I went, 
 O'er traces of past ages bent, 
 On Nature's treasures gazed intent, 
 Till from thy haunts my ripen'd fancy drew 
 Treasures exhaustless yet, and interest ever new,
 
 l6 THE NATURAL PROVINCIAL. 
 
 Sweet crested upland ! beauteous knoll ! 
 
 Loved in life's early stage, 
 So, as the dark years downward roll. 
 
 The solace of my age ; 
 Still let me find some unknown nook, 
 Still by thy side read Nature's book, 
 Still on the varied landscape look — 
 The leafy ringlets round thy summit curl'd, 
 And spreading at thy feet the garden of the world. 
 
 THE NATURAL PROVINCIAL. 
 
 While banks of every sort and size 
 
 Are now in constant cry, 
 Above them all I greatly prize 
 
 The ba7iks of lovely Wye. 
 
 Boon Nature keeps a balance there 
 
 She never draws away ; 
 Her stock accounts beyond compare. 
 
 Her gold is bright as May. 
 
 f 
 
 i
 
 THE NATURAL PROVINCIAL. 17- 
 
 Ever deposits rich accrue 
 
 From Vaga's silver stream ; 
 The branches thrive, though some, 'tis true, 
 
 Have vanished like a dream. 
 
 Then thither haste, and leave behind 
 
 All care and vain vexation ; 
 Security you there will find, 
 
 And true acconinwdation. 
 
 No check is offered, you may make 
 
 At will your own demand ; 
 But good fresh draughts, and no mistake, 
 
 Are ready to your hand. 
 
 The mint is there the sweetest thing, 
 
 And mintage not required ; 
 There all around is interesting-. 
 
 Though interest not desired. 
 
 The feathered ministers attend 
 
 Furnished with bills in plenty, 
 And ever as their quills they mend 
 
 Pour fiotes forth to content ye. 
 
 c
 
 l8 MUSIC AND MEMORY. 
 
 Surely no current counterfeit 
 Could there escape detection, 
 
 The water-mark's so clear and neat, 
 And matchless on inspection. 
 
 Such dividends then lest you lose, 
 Haste to this fairy ground ; 
 
 Should you a private conference choose, 
 A partner might be found. 
 
 No panic there, but all is peace. 
 
 Or if a rush betides. 
 Quickly the frothy troubles cease, 
 
 The overjlow subsides. 
 
 MUSIC AND MEMORY. 
 
 I LISTENED to the Nightingale 
 In winding Vaga's witching vale, 
 While soft from slumbering waters borne 
 The wild notes rose to Cynthia's horn,
 
 MUSIC AND MEMORY. 1 9 
 
 That mildly beaming from the sky 
 Look'd down upon the minstrelsy; 
 And then my wandering thoughts recurr'd 
 To days long past when that same bird, 
 With others linked, I fondly heard. 
 
 In Wye's smooth mirror every spray 
 Was deep reflected clear as day, 
 And now the morning concert o'er, 
 When lark and linnet piped no more, 
 As if enamoured of seclusion 
 She poured her breath in sweet profusion : 
 Thus, when the louder chorus ceases, 
 Titiens, so soft thy solo pleases. 
 While warbled yet the fair unseen. 
 How wide, methought, the gulf between 
 Me and the friends of years more green. 
 
 But hark ! a new and wilder strain 
 
 That richly swelling dies again ! 
 
 Is that the tone of grief or gladness. 
 
 Or charged with both, like fell love's madness ? 
 
 Or does it nought from either borrow. 
 
 Too grave for joy, too gay for sorrow. 
 
 Of doubtful gender, like to-morrow ?
 
 20 SUMMER. 
 
 Howe'er this be, I lingered long, 
 And supping full of siren Song, 
 Felt how in hearts that stricken be 
 Music can waken Memory. 
 
 SUMMER. 
 
 " Time hastens on, the Summer goes too soon." — Old Song. 
 
 'Tis sweet to scent the tufted hay. 
 While Summer, now succeeding May, 
 
 Leads on the joyous year ; 
 The full-fledged boughs have lost, in sooth, 
 The freshness and first gloss of youth. 
 Sad fleeting gifts, but still a smooth 
 
 And lovely face they wear. 
 
 See there the mower grim advance, 
 With measured step and tuneful prance 
 
 His blade destructive fling; 
 Stern leveller of short and tall, 
 Daisy and dandelion fall 
 Before his sturdy stroke, and all 
 
 The pride of downy spring 1
 
 THE SEDGE BIRD. 21 
 
 So too, methinks, old Time I see 
 At work with equal energy, 
 
 Nor stop to whet his sc3'the — 
 His hand is laid on young and old. 
 On those that lingering years have told. 
 Nor less on those of softer mould. 
 
 The blooming and the blythe. 
 
 Now while his touch is yet so light, 
 Spend we the smiling hours aright, 
 
 Which else were void and vain ; 
 In life's long course black storms may rise, 
 So let us most the present prize, 
 And make our hay, if we are wise. 
 
 Ere sunshine shift to rain. 
 
 THE SEDGE BIRD. 
 
 " It mocks me." — Echo Song. 
 
 There is a little mimic bird. 
 Gentles, the same you might have heard 
 From eve the dead night long ;
 
 22 THE SEDGE BIRD. 
 
 I've heard him too at early morn 
 When dew-drops spangled every thorn, 
 And still, by late hours nothing worn, 
 He plied his jocund song. 
 
 Well now I've heard him too by day, 
 When does he rest then, prithee say, 
 
 For sure he has some sleep ? 
 Since all things animate must live 
 By Nature's sweet restorative, 
 And lungs, that strain like these can give^ 
 
 May ne'er such vigils keep. 
 
 Taking the compass of his throat. 
 He hardly seems to have a note 
 
 That strictly is his own ; 
 Of keys he rattles every sort, 
 For imitation is his forte, 
 And ever as it were for sport 
 
 He changes time and tone. 
 
 Sparrow and skylark now he apes, 
 And then his glee takes other shapes, 
 As shifts his fitful mood ;
 
 THE FAIR POTENTATE. 23 
 
 And now he plays the nightingale, 
 With make-believe chagrin and wail, 
 Then seems to tell a natural tale 
 Of joy and gratitude. 
 
 Note. — With a very slight allowance for the language of poetry 
 it is believed that the above is a pretty accurate description of the 
 vagaries of this little songster, sometimes called the withy bird, and 
 sometimes the sedge bird, which, unlike the mocking bird of tropical 
 climates, boasts little beauty of plumage. He may be heard to most 
 advantage from half-past nine throughout the night, when there is 
 little wind, on the bank of a river not one hundred miles from 
 Hereford ; but, like other celebrated performers, he is not always 
 disposed to sing at the moment when it might be most convenient 
 or agreeable to listen to him. — See Index of " Whitens NaUira 
 History of Selborne.^' 
 
 THE FAIR POTENTATE. 
 
 There is a golden and a silver moon — 
 A silver moon I saw, a crescent bright, 
 When evening softly spread her veil, and soon. 
 Dimly obscured at first, were lost to sight 
 The last expiring rays of gorgeous light,
 
 24 OLD ENGLAND. 
 
 Which Phoebus, sinking to the western wave, 
 Had thrown behind him o'er the pall of night, 
 As if from dull oblivion to save 
 His fondly cherish'd name that such remembrance 
 gave. 
 
 'Twas then that growing moon a chaste gleam shed 
 Which for the traveller sweet guidance made — 
 The fleecy clouds were floating round her head, 
 Like frost-work upon sculptur'd urn o'erlaid — 
 Herself in virgin purity array'd 
 Look'd downwards as a newly-sceptred queen 
 In meekest lustre rising o'er the shade 
 Of Majesty just set — with all the sheen 
 The light and lively grace of beautiful eighteen. 
 
 June, 1837, ^^^^ "/ ^^'' Majesty Queen Victorians accession. 
 
 OLD ENGLAND. 
 
 Old England is the land at last, 
 
 Whoe'er may please to fly or flout it, 
 
 And sane the folks who there stand fast, 
 Though one in Hamlet chose to doubt it,
 
 OLD ENGLAND. 25 
 
 i 
 
 The Germans are not always civil, 
 
 Parisian polish soon wears off, 
 The Russ — I wish him at the d 1, 
 
 Or at the least with old Platoff. 
 
 Italians, Turks, and Portuguese — 
 
 A plague upon them altogether. 
 Your Spanish Dons — sad fellows these. 
 
 All but their liquorice and leather. 
 
 Britons their native oak resemble — 
 
 Their outsides as the bark for roughness. 
 
 But in the hour when flesh must tremble 
 Their hearts are like the core for toughness. 
 
 Nay, they are courteous when they choose, 
 And ever kind — of men I'm speaking; 
 
 But of the ladies — O my muse 
 
 For metaphors we shall be seeking. 
 
 Can figure choice, or specious name 
 
 Match the mild looks with which they greet us. 
 Light eyes or dark — 'tis all the same. 
 
 For black and blue they're sure to beat us.
 
 26 
 
 A POETICAL CHARGE. 
 
 Yet Speedwell is the flower for me, 
 
 With deference let the trope be spoken, 
 
 Since imaged there methinks I see 
 The British Beauty's truest token. 
 
 A POETICAL CHARGE. 
 
 Non metis hie sermo est, sed qncs prcecepit Of elltis.— Horace. 
 
 The air we breathe, the light which gladdens life, 
 
 Are things we little prize, because so rife, 
 
 (This not my own, but what his Lordship* said,) 
 
 And though of vital consequence their aid, 
 
 To all existence, health and happiness — 
 
 Yet grown familiar, we mark nothing less. 
 
 Thus in the body politic, how great 
 
 Soe'er the blessings of our happy state — 
 
 Freedom confirm'd, and honest wealth increasing, 
 
 Larceny quite scarce, and lawsuits almost ceasing- 
 
 A sceptre passing in profoundest peace 
 
 From a mourn'd Monarch to his blooming Niece: 
 
 * The late Sir John Taylor Coleridge.
 
 FORCE OF EARLY IMPRESSIONS. 1'J 
 
 All this creates no wonder or surprise, 
 More than we feel when planets set and rise. 
 But still the wise and good will surely pause, 
 And of such benefits ask what the cause, — 
 What, but our constitution and our laws ? 
 O happy days at which we seem arriving, 
 When circuits shall be merely pleasant driving — 
 None left for us to try, and none to try us, 
 " No business now " succeeding " Nisi Prius " — 
 When Clerks at fault, and Counsel in a fury, 
 Judge shall sit down and chat awhile with Jury, 
 Pass a few compliments, the carriage order, 
 And roll away at ease to the next county's border. 
 
 FORCE OF EARLY IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 One day entire St. Swithin poured. 
 Depressing grain, but cheering sward 
 
 That seems for ever dry; 
 And though the Saint his fury spent 
 In pumping out the firmament. 
 Yet every hour still finer went 
 
 The stream of winding Wye.
 
 28 FORCE OF EARLY IMPRESSIONS. 
 
 Howbeit, if half such torrent fall 
 
 From mountain tops, where gaunt and tall 
 
 Cambria her nursling rears, 
 The fair flood, troubled at its source, 
 Abruptly swells, and flows with force, 
 While through its whole discoloured course 
 
 The early taint appears. 
 
 'Tis thus with Man — when fully grown, 
 The habits formed, and all the tone 
 
 Of feeling brac'd aright. 
 No rude assaults his purpose shake, 
 No fouler influences make 
 Impression on his. soul, or take 
 
 From him its guiding light. 
 
 But in soft Childhood's ductile hour 
 Boundless insinuation's power 
 
 To bias and engage ; 
 And they, the tender lamb that fold. 
 The key of all his fortunes hold, 
 Colour his riper years, and mould 
 
 The fashion of his age.
 
 29 
 
 STANZAS IN SEASON. 
 
 O WHAT is like a harvest sky 
 For true transcendent brilliancy ? 
 Flushes of gold that pierce the glade, 
 With contrast sweet of lengthening shade, 
 The light clouds swept before the breeze, 
 The upturn'd curls of crispy trees. 
 Yon hills that dyed this morning seem, 
 The purple tint on freshened stream — 
 Such joys as these new rapture bring. 
 Though Summer now is on the wing. 
 And rival even beauteous Spring. 
 
 But not for idle pageantry 
 
 Beams forth the sun so gorgeously. 
 
 The golden rays of gladness born 
 
 Alike advantage and adorn. 
 
 Nature's wise purposes require 
 
 The warmest aid of fervent fire. 
 
 Since man, her pride and prodigy, 
 
 Cheer'd though his heart, and charm'd his eye. 
 
 Has yearnings yet to satisfy — 
 
 Therefore this lavish splendour shed, 
 
 'Tis kindly done to give him bread.
 
 30 A HARVEST NIGHT. 
 
 scheme divine that thus diffuses 
 Enjoyment ever link'd with uses ! 
 The waving ears like ocean roU'd 
 'Twas sweet to trace from green to gold, 
 The sheaves that now rich spoil contain 
 With beauty deck the field again, 
 And mid the straw the lurking brood 
 Shall furnish sport as well as food. 
 Might I a word in season preach — 
 Let Heav'n's blest bounty feeling teach : 
 Keen sally forth in fustian dight, 
 But wanton wound not for mere spite, 
 'Tis harm enough to kill outright. 
 
 A HARVEST NIGHT. 
 
 The Sun had set, and yet it seem'd not night. 
 But rather day refin'd, an orb so fair, 
 
 Full, and as large to view as that from sight 
 Withdrawn, straight out of earth uprose in air,
 
 TO MY PARTNER. 3 1 
 
 Of mien majestic as commanding there, 
 And still aloft and higher still it soar'd, 
 
 Yet softer than with Phoebus might compare, 
 As lovely woman's form, albeit ador'd, 
 When measur'd by her mate, creation's lofty lord. 
 
 Like Beauty's eye, that orb enchantment threw 
 
 Water and wood and winding walk around, 
 And all that there had charm'd more charming grew, 
 
 By her sweet looks as chain of magic bound; 
 Wye's vale seem'd silver gilt, so richly crown'd 
 
 With increase, while blithe chants of harvest-home. 
 Wafted on high mid nature's peace profound, 
 
 Were gently lost in Heav'n's o'erarching dome — 
 Meet incense such as well from grateful heart might come. 
 
 TO MY PARTNER. 
 
 Lady! last night — oh no, this morning, 
 I trust with mutual pleasure. 
 
 We sped, despite Aurora's warning. 
 To the same time and measure ;
 
 32 TO MY PARTNER. 
 
 The scene so bright, so brisk the tune, 
 That dance seem'd over much too soon, 
 
 And then methought at leisure. 
 How many charms, unmark'd till past, 
 Had made the minutes fly so fast. 
 
 What if through life's more tangled maze 
 
 We thus could trip together, 
 And find as sweet its winding ways, 
 
 In clear or cloudy weather; 
 If thou couldst softly still engage. 
 And I be faithful e'en in age. 
 
 How long soe'er its tether — 
 Then, unlike some that scour the plain, 
 Our galop had not been in vain !* 
 
 * On the occasion of a hunt ball.
 
 33 
 
 QUESTION AND ANSWER. 
 
 " Party is the madness of many for the gain of a few.''— Swift. 
 
 " Pray, Sir, if haply I mayn't chanoe to bore ye, 
 Are you a Whig, a Radical, or Tory ? — 
 Every true Briton ranks as one of these, 
 Therefore you'll answer me at once with ease." 
 Sir, of your question I would not be shy. 
 Though urged with less fair-spoken courtesy. 
 But as the times are not a little changed 
 Since you and I gay gallant schoolboys rang'd — 
 Witness, in proof that this no feign'd romance is. 
 Sir James* in Cumberland, in Wilts Sir Francis — f 
 The subject in one word 'tis hard to meet. 
 Besides nicknames of which we herein treat 
 Are now, or should be, somewhat obsolete. 
 Yet as you use them still to mark fresh schism, 
 I'll answer with their aid your Catechism. 
 While borough-mongers aim'd to bring this nation 
 Within their own snug sole appropriation. 
 
 * Graham. f Burdett. 
 
 D
 
 34 QUESTION AND ANSWER. 
 
 Then was I wholly Whig — and when they cry 
 
 To old abuses backward let us fly, 
 
 Then growing strangely Radical am I. 
 
 But when some fierce fanatic innovators 
 
 Would, on the other hand, become dictators, 
 
 Pull down the Church and Throne about our ears 
 
 And to the devil packing send the Peers, 
 
 A Tory then I shout, the Queen long live — 
 
 Or at the least a staunch Conservative, 
 
 Hold, hold, I cry, not onward quite so fast. 
 
 All but the reckless must pull up at last. 
 
 Falkland, of Charles's age the brightest name. 
 
 Judged, you will find, and acted much the same. 
 
 No mean time-server or apostate he — 
 
 Yet with the times he changed his policy, 
 
 His life and death hallow'd by memory ! 
 
 Why then do terms still live unmeaning quite, 
 
 For good why should not all the good unite ? 
 
 My doctrine this— no friend to revolution — 
 
 Crown, Lords, and Commons, make the Constitution, 
 
 The weaker still I aid, and as they jar 
 
 I'm each in order W. T. R.
 
 35 
 
 A PROLOGUE. 
 
 Day bursts with streaks warm as the tints of Titian 
 
 On our good city's maiden Exhibition. 
 
 What wight so graceless but must fain acknowledge 
 
 The thousand thanks we owe our noble College, 
 
 Whose hospitable doors still open fly — 
 
 And now of art the choice academy ! 
 
 That hall, which oft through winter evenings long 
 
 Has echoed to the voice of Syren song, 
 
 To-day presents us with a different treat; 
 
 For there, if no unhoped mischance she meet, 
 
 Haply 'mid Fashion's flower, and Beauty's bloom, 
 
 The sister muse shall hold a drawing-room. 
 
 And know ye not who both have fondly tried, 
 
 How near to music painting is allied ? 
 
 Have ye not felt, what speech itself confounds, 
 
 The tone of hues, the brilliancy of sounds ? 
 
 Can ye decide between the ear and eye 
 
 Which has the finer sense of harmony? 
 
 But to the levee — where await your bow 
 
 Touches of master hands — all moulder'd now —
 
 36 TO THE CATHEDRAL. 
 
 Sparks of the soul sublime, by genius fir'd, 
 
 Or hope of immortality inspir'd — • 
 
 Lights of old days, to pass unfading yet 
 
 From sire to son, when our brief star has set. 
 
 There curious scan the boldly shadow'd face, 
 
 See, caught from life, high mind or winning grace. 
 
 Of smiling nature mark each lovely trait, 
 
 Or of her horrors all the dread array. 
 
 Then wherefore, say, in this proud age of ours. 
 
 Of intellect which boasts enlighten'd powers, 
 
 With the same force while beats the human heart. 
 
 Why stunted halts the imitative art. 
 
 Yet, if with colours less divine they glow, 
 
 To modern efforts kindly favour show ; 
 
 View native talent with indulgent eye. 
 
 And give it — grateful meed ! — your sympathy.
 
 37 
 
 TO THE CATHEDRAL. 
 
 Shrine of the Sainted Ethelbert, 
 Whose lordly tower with woodland girt 
 
 Glistens in pride of place ! 
 Viewed by thy giant-like career, 
 What are the days we number here, 
 The sport of hope, or prey of fear, 
 
 For this brief being's space ? 
 
 In sooth, fair fane, a different scene 
 From that of yore thy walls, I ween, 
 
 On every side survey ; 
 For the deep-trenched encampment's mound, 
 And battlements that sternly frowned, . 
 See gentle slopes by Ceres crowned, 
 
 Or meads the pride of May. 
 
 Thou that hast seen the star decline 
 Of Edward's and of Henry's line, 
 
 And both their roses fade ; 
 Seen, too, full many an earlier sight 
 Of border broil and feudal fight, 
 -Say, hast thou looked on one more bright 
 
 Than that e'en now displayed ?
 
 38 MY NATIVE VALE. 
 
 Oh, while long spent our drop of time. 
 Fond lichens yet shall freely climb 
 
 O'er thy brave ribs of stone, 
 Long as thine arches live, oh there 
 Still may soft Charity repair, 
 And, soothed by breath of heavenly air. 
 
 Unbind her silken zone ! 
 
 MY NATIVE VALE. 
 
 I've looked on many a lovely scene 
 In divers climes, and far between. 
 
 Rock, river, down, and dale ; 
 But none had ever charms for me. 
 Nor highland crag, nor lowland lea, 
 Like those that only dwell with thee. 
 
 Mine own, my native vale. 
 
 On Heidelberg's fam'd height I've stood, 
 Commanding water, vineyard, wood, 
 Varied as fancy's dream ;
 
 MY NATIVE VALE. 39 
 
 Llangollen's gorge I've viewed with zest, 
 Once laid my head in Baden's nest, 
 And have been well content to rest 
 By Usk's attaching stream. 
 
 Which Avon 'twas I won't be sure 
 That struck me most — I've sat by Yure, 
 
 Sweet Wensley's modest flood ; 
 I've seen Sol shed his latest smiles 
 On steep Lodore, which foamed the whiles, 
 Till fast they died along the isles 
 
 That Derwent's basin stud. 
 
 But still a Naiad sweeter yet 
 Haunts the lov'd spot I can't forget 
 
 Till life itself shall fail ; 
 If not in Fame's bright lists enroU'd, 
 Yet cast in Nature's happiest mould, 
 Nor tamely smooth, nor rudely bold, 
 
 Mine own, my native vale.
 
 40 
 
 A WINTER PIECE. 
 
 Old Winter at last with his bleak biting blast 
 
 The landscape has stript of its sheen ; 
 Upon Wye's fair flood, and o'er Rotherwas wood 
 
 His influence fatal is seen. 
 
 He has rifled those bowers of their fruits and their flowers, 
 
 And spread desolation and death ; 
 Of what Autumn had left those banks are bereft 
 
 By his pitiless pestilent breath. 
 
 His looks are most bitter, and he makes a sad litter, 
 Strews his spoils like a woodman around; 
 
 He has need of a score of stout workmen and more 
 His rubbish to clear from the ground. 
 
 His air is so freezing he sets us all sneezing, 
 
 And makes e'en the blithest look blue ; 
 He chills ev'ry fountain, and compels yon black mountain 
 
 To wear quite an opposite hue.
 
 A WINTER PIECE. 4I 
 
 Can this be the land where with Classic in hand 
 
 We saunter'd beside the bright stream, 
 Where the thrush's shrill voice bade the light heart rejoice, 
 
 And all smil'd as a Summer night's dream ? 
 
 But let us be merry though old Aconbury 
 
 Shake his wild hoary locks at our mirth. 
 Over lorn Ladylift though the snow-storms they drift, 
 
 The yule log shall blaze high on our hearth. 
 
 Round Robin Hood's butts though the wind keen it cuts, 
 For good cheer it but sharpens our zest; 
 
 Though fromDinmore to Dinedorthe prospect's not kinder, 
 Where's the view like an old English feast ? 
 
 If our Mails are all stopping, and our Mercuries dropping, 
 
 We can wait for the news from afar, 
 And with stout or stire toasting^ and with Christmas 
 cakes roasting. 
 
 We'll bring Fahrenheit fast up to par. 
 
 Then as music and dancing our revels enhancing 
 
 Shall banish the foul fiend dull Care, 
 Let us think of the labours of our poor shiv'ring neigh- 
 bours. 
 
 And let them our warm feelings share.
 
 A DIRGE. 
 
 Heard ye a moan, a mournful cry, 
 As the wild gust came sweeping by — 
 
 Again it caught my ear; 
 My soul feeds dark imaginings, 
 Or 'tis the knell that Nature rings, 
 The funeral wail the welkin sings 
 
 For the departing year. 
 
 Yes, one more year is fading fast, 
 To join the ranks of those long past. 
 
 And swell the debt we owe ; 
 As mist before the breath of Heaven, 
 Quick melts away old Thirty-seven, 
 A favourite still with all its leaven 
 
 Of vanity and woe. 
 
 Their annual share of pain or grief 
 Though all have had, in bold relief 
 
 Now happier moments rise, 
 And a fond retrospect compel : 
 On such bright spots we fain would dwell, 
 As of a friend remember'd well 
 
 The finer qualities.
 
 A WINTER EVENING S ENTERTAINMENT. 43 
 
 Christmas in sooth its merry meetings 
 Has timely brought with jocund greetings — 
 
 The shock we yet must feel ; 
 And scarce e'en joyous sprigs of holly, 
 With holidays and feastings jolly, , 
 
 Can chase the clouds of melancholy 
 
 That o'er our spirits steal. 
 
 A WINTER EVENING'S ENTERTAINMENT. 
 
 In a cold frosty night, what with slipping and sliding, 
 
 I got to the College without ill betiding ; 
 
 Then of various gases I learnt the relations, 
 
 In air and in water their nice combinations; 
 
 The learned Professor, so patient and placid, 
 
 Unfolded the secrets of each salt and acid : 
 
 To please and inform all his powers exerted. 
 
 By experiment proving the fact he asserted. 
 
 While thus on combustion he went on to treat, 
 
 I forgot I was freezing from head down to feet. 
 
 " For cooking with ice," he cried, " here is my Patent," 
 
 The heat, and I felt he spoke truth, being latent.
 
 44 A PASSAGE FROM JUVENAL. 
 
 'Twas a portable, neat, and unique apparatus, 
 Its possessor deserves to be called Fortunatus. 
 In a drawer he placed cutlets as palpably raw 
 And of genuine mutton as ever you saw ; 
 Nor had we ceased lauding th' invention of Davy, 
 Which he show'd us meanwhile, ere they floated in gravy. 
 Thus, without pan to fry, and without fire to burn. 
 The chops in ten minutes were done to a turn. 
 Now this, my good friends, I call going to College 
 For science that's useful, and practical knowledge. 
 How complete would have been our delight. Dr. Warwick, 
 Had you thrown in amongst us a little caloric ! 
 Jan., 1838. 
 
 A PASSAGE FROM JUVENAL. 
 
 Felices proavornm atavos,feUcia dicas 
 ticecida, quce qiioHdam sub regibiis atgue tribunis 
 Viderunt uno contcntam carcere Romam. 
 
 O HAPPY days, while loathing prate and puff, 
 Our city thought one Paper quite enough ! 
 Days of our good old jolly Corporation, 
 Before unbounded change upset the nation.
 
 A PASSAGE FROM JUVENAL. 45 
 
 When certain folks were kept at proper distance, 
 And names of streets were known without assist- 
 ance. 
 Ere education taught to beard one's betters, 
 Or tinctured yet the very walls with letters. 
 When, usefulness more prized than empty space, 
 Caswall still flourished in her pride of place. 
 Before philosophy reveal'd foundations, 
 And deeply trenching scared the congregations. 
 While Broomy Hill preserved its elms intact, 
 Nor shady lane, nor slope of verdure lack'd. 
 Ere soirees met, and, what methinks much worse is, 
 People were doom'd to audit their own verses.* 
 Ere Widemarsh yet for editing was ripe. 
 Or Packer's lane could boast a single type. 
 Then Sunday shone a Sabbath day indeed, 
 No dregs of yesterday still left to read. 
 For mind no less than body grateful rest. 
 Such as might sound discourses well digest. 
 Of days profane that cares and pastime mix 
 All welcom'd Wednesday merriest of the six. 
 Then issued forth the unpretending Print, 
 Your modern wits would cry, " there's nothing in 't." 
 
 * The preceding piece was read out at the next soiree.
 
 46 A PASSAGE FROM JUVENAL. 
 
 So for dram-drinkers if you chance to cater, 
 They call good generous juices milk and water. 
 Yet did it always bring the latest news, 
 And much to edify, instruct, amuse ; 
 With even hand upheld the balance true 
 'Twixt rabid Tories and the Movement crew ; 
 No comments gave by factious zeal distorted, 
 No squabbles dire by friend or foe reported ; 
 Alike to all dispensing fact or fun, 
 No party favour'd, yet offended none. 
 
 Such simple fare, I say, did once content 
 Our Sires, who found it wholesome nutriment. 
 And such, my friends, I think would suit us too. 
 Still once a week for politics might do. 
 Sick of your double-sheet the dose eternal. 
 Give me for seven whole days a single journal. 
 
 *.,(.* The Jen iVcsprit from our kind friend does not exactly suit our 
 columns, for reasons which a little reflection will explain to 
 him, but we feel greatly indebted for the communication.
 
 47 
 
 THE RETORT COURTEOUS. 
 
 What, not suit your columns ! how's this, Mr. Editor, 
 
 While yet for the verses you vote me your creditor ? 
 
 And what's this besides, that a little reflection 
 
 Will fully resolve me your secret objection ? 
 
 Now really this notice is one of the oddest — 
 
 The real fact, Sir, is, you're a little too modest. 
 
 But as this is a foible myself much besetting, 
 
 The fate of my " Jeu" I am far from regretting. 
 
 So, not knowing how or to whom to return it, 
 
 By far the best thing you can do is to burn it, 
 
 And though for that end it were tost to the Devil, 
 
 An anonymous writer has no right to cavil. 
 
 Yet perhaps without offering flatt'ry a premium, 
 
 You might have admitted so just an encomium, 
 
 And after a few first and natural flushes, 
 
 The compliment faced without any more blushes. 
 
 But uneasy sensations I ne'er would be raising. 
 
 Or by censure too smart, or by awkwardly praising ; 
 
 Unwilling with eulogy gross to bespatter, 
 
 As to pass the fair bounds of legitimate Satire. 
 
 With the verdict believe me then wholly contented. 
 
 And indeed to your judgment I've always assented.
 
 4^ A HARD FIGHT. 
 
 Only let not your readers (a dunce I'd be sooner) 
 
 Suppose me a horrid hard-hitting lampooner. 
 
 For some folks, expert at an interpretation, 
 
 Of my piece might so construe your late castigation. 
 
 And if I were really so pungent a poet, 
 
 I must own I should not wish the county to know it. 
 
 But in all, as of all the acknowledged dispenser. 
 
 You are doubtless the rightful and reasonable Censor. 
 
 Now farewell, and next after the pages diurnal. 
 
 Be assured I esteem most the Hereford jfaurnal. 
 
 A HARD FIGHT. 
 
 'TwiXT Frost and Thaw a difference rose 
 Which threaten'd to proceed to blows, 
 
 For thus the matter stood : — 
 Frost gave a bite and then a pinch, 
 While Thaw would not give ground an inch. 
 Nor seem'd the least inclined to flinch, 
 
 Albeit of melting mood.
 
 A HARD FIGHT. 
 
 In fact Frost was the sharper wight, 
 Harden'd in frequent watch by night, 
 
 Though hoary, not v/ith age ; 
 Thaw little cared to court the moon, 
 And seldom ventured out till noon, 
 But to it then they buckled soon. 
 
 And fought with furious rage. 
 
 Frost might be term'd the hardest hitter, 
 A cool hand too, withal so bitter 
 
 To face, that none beside 
 Could so make lads and lasses scamper; 
 Yet Thaw contrived his aims to hamper, 
 And now and then threw in a damper 
 
 That turn'd the battle's tide, 
 
 So warm this champion, that so keen, 
 A better fight did ne'er, I ween, 
 
 From mid-day last till dinner; 
 Both reeking wet, both shocking raw. 
 The contest they appear'd to draw, 
 Nor on my life, from all I saw, 
 
 Could I declare the winner. 
 
 49
 
 50 
 
 TO VAOA. 
 
 As captive loos'd from durance vile 
 Leaves his dark cell, and laughs the while, 
 So, Vaga, burst thy icy chain, 
 Gaily once more thou smil'st again ; 
 Still thy complexion grows more bright, 
 Thy smooth cheek dimpling with delight, 
 Now that no rough rude blusterer woos, 
 But thine own zephyr softly sues ; 
 O by thy side then let me stray. 
 Where lambkins in the sunshine play, 
 Keeping unbounded holiday. 
 
 Not such thine aspect, fairest flood. 
 When sometime on thy banks I stood, 
 Viewing with mingled awe and wonder 
 Thy current break its bonds asunder. 
 Then into countless fragments riven 
 The thick-ribb'd mass was downward driv'n 
 And seem'd by magical device 
 Thy surface paved with floating ice ; 
 Oh, 'twas a scene with marvel fraught, 
 As if McAdam here had brought 
 His tools, and rugged ruin wrought.
 
 THE EQUINOX. ^I 
 
 But now such startling visions o'er, 
 Thou ghdest beauteous as before ; 
 Past the dull reign of desolation, 
 And waked each fond anticipation 
 By the first flush of vernal bloom, 
 Dame Nature's newest, best costume. 
 Ere yet her toilet's cares complete. 
 What makes her looks so passing sweet ? 
 The charm, coy nymph, well understood 
 By Naiads of thy changeful mood — 
 The charm of blest vicissitude. 
 
 THE EQUINOX. 
 
 " Where we lay 
 Our chimneys were blown down." — Shakespeare. 
 
 Oh next to fluctuating stocks 
 I dread the fitful Equinox, 
 
 So did my good aunt Bridget, 
 And she was right — autumnal, vernal, 
 'Tis all the same, a plague eternal, 
 Twice every year by Frank Moore's Journal 
 
 It puts me in a fidget.
 
 52 THE EQUINOX. 
 
 But least I like it in the spring, 
 When Nature's choir about to sing 
 
 To tunes of love and joy, 
 Beneath the shifting sky's dark scowl 
 We only catch the whirlwind's growl — 
 Nor hiss of snake, nor hoot of owl, 
 
 Could so my nerves annoy. 
 
 What if the days and nights are equal, 
 To my taste better is the sequel 
 
 When darkness rules or light ; 
 Whether in nature or the nation, 
 Equality's my detestation, 
 In both we mark precise gradation. 
 
 And difference infinite. 
 
 I dearly love the long, long days, 
 My bed candle the sun's last rays. 
 
 No fuss withal or pother; 
 And dear to me the long, long night. 
 So snug my chair, my hearth so bright, 
 But on tJie line is nothing quite, 
 
 Nor one thing nor the other.
 
 :)5 
 
 A RAMBLE. 
 
 As late I rambled t'wards the Callow Hill, 
 My thoughts, too, ranging at their own free will ; 
 Catching from scenes on either hand display'd 
 Impressions ting'd with every light and shade; 
 Rous'd from ideal worlds mine eye soon bent 
 On the fair tower that crowns the steep ascent. 
 High o'er the vale with cheerly look it smil'd, 
 Just symbol of a creed humane and mild. 
 'Mid natural beauties rich and rare enshrin'd 
 To their great Cause it lifts the lowly mind : 
 So doubly stirr'd o'erflows each grateful sense 
 With worship of divine beneficence. 
 
 From such reflections sage I turn'd again 
 To think of him who rais'd this graceful fane.* 
 Alas no more of mortal flock the Pastor, 
 No more the zealous friend, or kindly master. 
 Snatch'd hence, ere reach'd the licens'd term of men, 
 Ere yet completed three score years and ten. 
 But who shall say what length of days is best ! 
 Life's feast he left a well-contented guest. 
 
 * The Rev. F. H. Brickenden.
 
 54 
 
 THE CALENDS OF APRIL. 
 
 His last hours solaced by the care of those 
 He held most dear, and calm the final close. 
 Sav'd from long lingering pains, yet timely warn'd, 
 Softly he sank to rest, sincerely mourn'd, 
 On the lov'd spot he cherish'd and adorn'd. 
 With such a fate who would not be content, 
 And temple such as this to be his monument ! 
 
 THE CALENDS OF APRIL. 
 
 To greet the festive first of April 
 Won't be employing foolscap paper ill. 
 So day of rite facetious hail, 
 Although thy tricks are somewhat stale. 
 Sanctioned by use they keep their stand 
 Like other follies through the land. 
 'Twere wisdom, then, of gibe and jest, 
 As of mishap, to make the best ; 
 And to pass judgment calm and cool, 
 I'd rather be an April fool, 
 Than one of any other school.
 
 THE CALENDS OF APRIL. 55 
 
 Now if I were a good grammarian, 
 Or rather a sound antiquarian, 
 Back I might lead you to the birth 
 Of this droll custom on our earth ; 
 Give you a paper at the soiree. 
 Deciding whether Whig or Tory 
 Its funny founder, what the date — 
 Perhaps some Minister of State, 
 During an Easter-tide vacation. 
 Invented, for mere relaxation, 
 This postscript to his occupation. 
 
 Howe'er this be, we can't now choose, 
 As Michaelmas must have its goose, 
 Christmas its misletoe and holly. 
 So April must begin with folly ; 
 And happy we and all our friends, 
 If on the first with us it ends ! 
 Many more months I fear besides. 
 Whether on Calends, Nones, or Ides, 
 May furnish instances much graver — 
 Let us, then, if my verse find favour, 
 For this day keep the fool's behaviour.
 
 56 
 
 A FAVOURITE HAUNT. 
 
 " How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green !" — Goldsmitli. 
 
 Of fruit trees rich in many a bower. 
 Of rustic hamlets fairest flower, 
 
 Pomona loves thee, Marden ! 
 She spied, in silver sunbeams set, 
 Thy fane's light sparkling minaret. 
 And soon did all her griefs forget 
 
 In thy deepbosom'd garden. 
 
 Lug freshens the lone cemetery, 
 And murmurs a sweet lullaby, 
 
 Inspiring calm and peace; 
 Late answering from the hallow'd yew 
 I heard the dove a requiem coo. 
 Fearless of harm, as if he knew 
 
 That here fierce passions cease. 
 
 The spot by memory sacred made. 
 Where first our goodly Saint was laid, 
 Elfrida's destin'd Lord,
 
 THE MARCH OF IMHROVEMENT. 57 
 
 What time proud Offa's palace stood 
 High o'er the crest of Sutton's wood, 
 Fronting both butts of Robin Hood, 
 Those leafy spheres adored. 
 
 Long since on that commanding brow 
 The touch benign of busy plough 
 
 Has banish'd every trace 
 Of the dark walls where bad faith dwelt : 
 But there, sweet hamlet, oft I've felt 
 The stillness of thy looks, and knelt 
 
 To worship thy smooth face. 
 
 THE MARCH OF IMPROVEMENT. 
 
 ^' Your courts are all wrong," quoth the learned Baron, 
 "One complete misconception and blunder;" 
 
 Oh had he but known those of our old high town, 
 What would he have said then, I wonder !
 
 58 THE MARCH OF IMPROVEMENT. 
 
 y 
 
 Of each sterling good fellow, like myself somewhat mellow, 
 Sure the sympathies beat to one tune all; 
 
 For those rather more green, or who less may have seen, 
 I venture to sketch that tribunal. 
 
 Then his lordship imagine along the bench fagging, 
 
 Till he elbows his way to the centre, 
 Since by the same door as every rude boor, 
 
 With witness and bar he must enter. 
 
 With a witness indeed for much there was need 
 
 Of Javelin-man's stoutest assistance; 
 And each long-robed brother had a glimpse of the other. 
 
 As he figured on high in the distance. 
 
 But whate'er might be bad, this advantage it had. 
 For our taste who shall dare to decry us ? 
 
 Seated at the crown bar, you could catch from afar 
 What was passing amid Nisi Prius. 
 
 'Twixt both buzz'd the gabble of the feverish rabble. 
 
 Giving verdicts by anticipation ; 
 Though as well from the window, as those who squeeze 
 in do, 
 
 Of black cap they might take observation.
 
 » THE LAND WE LIVE IN. 59 
 
 Yet here genius and fancy, here Plomer and Dauncey, 
 
 Of rhetoric display'd all the graces; 
 Here Le Blanc and old Lawrence sat without much 
 abhorrence, 
 
 Or at least without many wry faces. 
 
 Till some master mind a new fabric design'd, 
 
 How graceful I need not assure ye ; 
 Now, are we awake, it turns out a mistake, 
 
 Condemn'd without trial by Jury. 
 
 THE LAND WE LIVE IN. 
 
 Why still, my friend, for strange shores pine, 
 Italia's lakes, or banks of Rhine ? 
 Rove as you will, to me 'tis clear 
 That what you seek is round us here. 
 Beyond those dark tempestuous seas 
 Do lovelier blossoms scent the breeze ? 
 Can scenes be found on Rhine or Rhone 
 Surpassing those we call our own ?
 
 6o THE LAND WE LIVE IN. 
 
 'Tis thankless, sure, to overlook 
 The page prescribed of Nature's book ; 
 Those gems that with a lavish hand, 
 Unnumber'd as the salt or sand, 
 She scatters o'er this favourite land. 
 
 Here woo her then, at home you'll find her, 
 Whether at Lady-lift or Dinedor. 
 For curious form, or crowning woods, 
 Where are such butts as Robin Hood's ? 
 Or what retreat on earth can cope 
 With thy recesses, sweet Fownhope ? 
 What clime has brighter streams adored 
 Than those that meet at Mordiford ? 
 I only ask those meads among, 
 A radius five or six miles long, 
 My centre Ethelbert's fair shrine. 
 Then what a noble field is mine ! 
 So gang with me, with such a tether 
 I'll match you, at small loss of leather, 
 Tyrol and Lombardy together. 
 
 For foreign gem we'll find its fellow. 
 And Belmont set 'gainst Montebello. 
 By bolder beauties are you won, 
 To Holm we'll speed or Tillington ;
 
 ANOTHER JOVIAL TUESDAY. 6l 
 
 And who so dull, or out of joint, 
 
 That is not struck with Badnage point ! 
 
 Or, as 'mongst much 'tis hard to choose all, 
 
 Dinmore select or happy Dewsall. 
 
 Do softer scenes delight thy soul ? 
 
 Seek Breinton bank, or Foxley knoll ; 
 
 See Vaga make for the old Weir, 
 
 Then, with caprice in her e'en rare. 
 
 Veer round, and straight to Eaton dart, 
 
 To rocks and woods of her own heart, — 
 
 Then tell me, must we really part ? 
 
 ANOTHER JOVIAL TUESDAY. 
 
 BiDDULPH and Burr have had their day, 
 
 Now comes your turn, all beauteous May; 
 
 Preceded by as tuneful airs, 
 
 And decked with colours bright as theirs; 
 
 Crimson and gold of vivid hue. 
 
 With green as fresh, as staunch a blue.
 
 62 ANOTHER JOVIAL TUESDAY. 
 
 Not fewer votaries adore thee— 
 No meaner treat is spread before thee, 
 On cloth of turf as damask fine, 
 Embroider'd with all flowers divine, 
 That sweetly blush, or gaily shine. 
 
 No schism or shades of difference here 
 
 With such choice revels interfere : 
 
 Ever unite in feelings hearty 
 
 The vernal and autumnal party. 
 
 While May's fair favours head the pole 
 
 Who hesitates to drain the bowl ? 
 
 No plea to-day for sitting sober, 
 
 Though you keep one vote for October. 
 
 Then luscious cov/slip forth we'll pour. 
 
 And freely her return encore 
 
 With five times five, and one cheer more. 
 
 O favourite of the sprightly Muse, 
 'Mid sunshine nurs'd and gentlest dews, 
 Delicious month, the smiling hours 
 Attend thee in those blossom'd bowers. 
 With all the loves and graces crown'd. 
 That Nature in her teens surround.
 
 THE CUCKOO. 63 
 
 The promise of the youthful year — 
 Nor less to British bosoms dear, 
 That thou didst shed the brilliancy 
 Of blooming hope, and radiant joy, 
 On their lov'd Queen's nativity ! 
 
 THE CUCKOO. 
 
 How merry is the music-meeting 
 Soon as the Cuckoo gives us greeting 
 
 Amid the feathered choir ! 
 For then we know that frost is gone, 
 That fields their loveliest gear will don. 
 Sure that nought less could tempt him on 
 
 To this odd land of stire. 
 
 Blithe vocalist, free joyous ranger, 
 Of seas that bravest every danger, 
 
 Whence dost thou come and why ? 
 Is it from Araby the blest, 
 Of buds and blossoms still in quest, 
 Or from some bright isles further west, 
 
 Is it as friend or spy ?
 
 64 A LAMENT. 
 
 Family matters, though the strangest, 
 We mind not which way thou arrangest, 
 
 That is thy own affair : 
 And though, for two months that thou stayest, 
 Two words are all thou sing'st or sayest. 
 Yet are those truly of the gayest 
 
 That ever banish'd care. 
 
 The purple bell, the crimson fold. 
 The cup, the pendent chain of gold. 
 
 Are things thou lov'st to view ; 
 But when the witching woodland scene 
 Melts into one dull sombre green. 
 Thou fliest with the landscape's sheen, 
 
 Whistling a shrill adieu. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 What ! sha'nt we see mair of our nine days' fair, 
 One for each muse so graciously smiling? 
 
 Sure those sisters will leave us, if the powers bereave us 
 Of all that is bland or beguiling.
 
 A LAMENT. 65 
 
 Ah ! blest was the day when we had our own way, 
 Then, methinks, brighter far shone the sun, 
 
 When for more than a week, all was flourish and freak. 
 And of business was little or none. 
 
 Then the drum it did sound, and the merry-go-round, 
 
 If not giddy before, turn'd each pate ; 
 And the lion and leopard had more charms for the 
 shepherd 
 
 Than the lambkins he left to their fate. 
 
 From his namesake in town learnt the rough country 
 clown 
 
 How to dissipate savings and sorrows ; 
 For 'mid horses all prancing and syrens all dancing 
 
 He dream'd not of wants like to-morrow's. 
 
 Are such fine doings past, and can these be the last 
 
 That of bitters shall sugar our cup ? 
 On tithes and on taxes (those no one relaxes) 
 
 Are we henceforth then only to sup ? 
 
 Alack, and alas ! things are come to a pass ! 
 
 Time was when folks bowed to their betters, 
 Before education unsettled the nation. 
 
 Or the walls were yet tinctured with letters.
 
 ■66 A NEW VERSION. 
 
 Then mutton found grace beyond empty space, 
 
 Secure rights and interests vested, 
 No dread revelations developed foundations. 
 
 And e'en rubbish was left unmolested. 
 
 Philosophical soirees then were embryo glories, 
 Reserved for an age 'cute and knowing. 
 
 Then flared no gas taper, and steam did but vapour- 
 Whither now has it set us all going ? 
 
 A NEW VERSION. 
 
 Ehiii fugaces. — Horace. 
 
 Yes, yes, be sure my own dear friend, 
 This passing scene shall have an end, 
 
 We cannot live for ever : 
 Prayers are good things, but merely breath. 
 When urged 'gainst wrinkles, age and death- 
 Stern trio, that whate'er he saith 
 
 To man's voice hearken never.
 
 A NEW VERSION. 67 
 
 Though dail}', doing nought by halves, 
 You victimised a hundred calves, 
 
 'Twould not avert thy doom ; — 
 'Tis no use being superstitious, 
 Pluto will not soon grow propitious — 
 Peasant or prince, devout or vicious, ' 
 
 Still you must face the tomb. 
 
 In vain we shun the field of Mars, 
 The platform frail of jolly tars, 
 
 Or shrink from damp and cold — 
 It is no heated Poet's dream. 
 We all must cross that stagnant stream, 
 Where breaks no Sun's enlivening gleam — 
 
 No flowers soft bloom unfold. 
 
 Thy park or plot, 'tis all the same. 
 House of thy choice, and charming dame, 
 
 I Shall lose their puny Lord, 
 Nor one of fondly cherish'd trees 
 Save willow weep — then quick shall seize 
 Some worthy that big bunch of keys, 
 And drain thy cellar's hoard.
 
 68 
 
 A SKETCH FROM NATURE. 
 
 At eve, when Music's melting strain 
 
 Steals on the ravish'd sense, 
 And smiling Beauty weaves her chain 
 Of magic influence : 
 Then fires each eye in transport gleaming. 
 Swells every heart of rapture dreaming, 
 And cares and griefs from Memory driv'n. 
 The passing scene becomes a Heav'n. 
 
 Again as all too swiftly gliding 
 
 The minutes ebb away, 
 And now, those dulcet chords subsiding. 
 The loiterer must not stay: 
 How painful then is thought's reaction, 
 How dark the o'er-wrought soul's abstraction, 
 Stillness and silent gloom succeeding 
 To honied hours so gaily speeding! 
 
 But gentle sleep, a cordial bringing. 
 The spirit's waste supplies, 
 
 The freshened fount of joy still springing 
 With ceaseless energies ;
 
 A CONTRAST. 69 
 
 And balmy airs to strength awaken 
 The nerves by sweet delirium shaken, 
 Thick fancies born of midnight taper, 
 Fast rolling off like mountain vapour. 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 I SOUGHT the house of feasting 
 With mirth and music gay — 
 
 There jollity and jesting 
 Crown'd careless holiday. 
 
 How fair the scene to view, 
 
 Light hours when pleasure chases, 
 Such happiness how true. 
 
 If hearts are blithe as faces ! 
 
 I sought the house of mourning — 
 There death had spread dejection. 
 
 But brighter from his warning 
 Shone love and soft affection.
 
 70 TO CHLOE. 
 
 Meek was the manly mind, 
 Patient sat pensive Beauty, 
 
 Remembering yet resigned, 
 And mindful each of dut}'. 
 
 Serene though sad the sight 
 
 As pencil e'er depicted, 
 Seem'd then the Scripture right — 
 
 'Tis good to be afflicted. 
 
 In allusion to a death in the family at Moraston, near Ross, while 
 the residence of the late Whaley Armitage, Esq. 
 
 TO CHLOE. 
 
 Or tints that colour May and June, 
 
 Or delicate or showy. 
 Which with thy taste is most in tune,. 
 
 Come tell me, charming Chloe.
 
 TO CHLOE. 71 
 
 The lustre meek of pale primrose, 
 
 Thy brooch's amber matching, 
 Or trefoil that more richly glows, 
 
 Thy locket's splendour catching ? 
 
 Or is it lilac's tender streak, 
 
 Like that new slip, first flushing, 
 
 Or orchis brilliant as thy cheek. 
 At whispered praises blushing ? 
 
 Perchance laburnum's pendent chain 
 
 Like that thy neck adorning, 
 Or, as its ivory fair again, 
 
 Thorn steep'd in dews of morning ? 
 
 Or yet the bell's deep purple hue. 
 
 Like that thy silk sash dyeing. 
 Or haply speedwell's lighter blue, 
 
 With those orbs vainly vying ? 
 
 j«^o ? — then thy heart doth most rejoice 
 
 In Nature's favourite green, 
 I guess it by that riband's choice 
 
 That mocks the sylvan scene.
 
 72 A POST-CORONATION ODE. . 
 
 My love is still the virgin white 
 
 Of sweet anemone, 
 Chaste as thy soul's soft beaming light, 
 
 And spotless purity. 
 
 A POST-CORONATION ODE. 
 
 It was a bland, a beauteous night, 
 Ere, fading fast, had wasted quite 
 
 The merry month of June — 
 Then heav'n and earth made brilliant show, 
 Stars shone above and stars below, 
 Crescent from crown 'twas hard to know, 
 
 They dazzled you so soon. 
 
 Yon sky's chief sign the rolling Bear 
 Seem'd rising fiercely from his lair 
 
 With tail of vivid flame. 
 When glancing from such dire alarms, 
 Of gas I caught the floating charms. 
 And then methought the City arms 
 
 Orion's put to shame.
 
 A POST-CORONATION ODE. 73 
 
 So turning from his blazon'd belt 
 Letters of glowing fire I spelt, 
 
 And figures summ'd with care, 
 But still V. R. my homage drew, 
 Outshining that fam'd W, 
 Which pensive sages love to view, 
 
 Cassiopea's chair. 
 
 O doubly named in either sphere, 
 Venus on high, Victoria here. 
 
 Smile ever thus, fair Regent, 
 Thy phases clear, thy transit light. 
 And haply thy conjunction bright. 
 Till full of years thou wing'st thy flight 
 
 Beyond this shifting pageant.
 
 74 
 
 OUR PATRON SAINT. 
 
 Where lazy Lug is lost in Wye, 
 Frowns like some sea-girt promontory 
 
 A headland bleak and bold ; 
 There Ethelbert in pride of youth 
 And lusty strength, if fame speaks truth, 
 Elfrida's ear came bent to soothe 
 
 With tale so often told. 
 
 But first to breathe his band awhile, 
 Nor loth to see boon Nature smile 
 
 'Mid meads so rich and rare, 
 He halted on this rugged height, 
 From Dinedor gazing with delight 
 Far as the walls that beaming bright 
 
 Contain'd his Lady fair. 
 
 Oh ill-starr'd Prince, to death betray'd, 
 While yet the fatal march was stay'd. 
 
 Could not thy camp afford 
 Some gifted sage, some goodly seer. 
 To whisper thee of danger near. 
 Or was thy soul too great for fear, 
 
 East Anglia's noble Lord .-'
 
 A PROTEST. 75 
 
 Now if those ancient aisles along, 
 The lingering notes of sacred song 
 
 Thy injured shade appease, 
 Haply it loves the borders neat 
 Which blossom in that blest retreat,* 
 Where age finds rest, the guerdon meet 
 
 Of faithful services. 
 
 A PROTEST. 
 
 Say, ye Protestant lads, or ye Protestant lasses. 
 What business have we to be meddling with masses ? 
 On our books while such remnant of Popery lingers, 
 What wonder if haply we all burn our fingers. 
 Lucky, too, if there follow no worse a disaster. 
 Since we know where they go to who serve such a master. 
 Why can't we get rid of these Catholic errors, 
 Which make e'en our almanacs so many terrors ? 
 
 * St. Ethelbert's Hospital.
 
 76 A PROTEST. 
 
 Of saints they have truly as fine a collection 
 
 As if we lived under their special protection ; 
 
 And most sporting colours in aspect the same 
 
 As a Cardinal's hat, or the horrid old dame. 
 
 But Michaelmas, Candlemas, Christmas, and Lammas, 
 
 Such names I protest are sufficient to us. 
 
 Now for Popes I had never much liking I own. 
 Save the sweet Swan of Twickenham and merry Pope 
 
 Joan, 
 As to J)iy ear, whatever themselves may have worn, 
 Their bulls always sounded of hoof and of horn ; 
 Yet if Heaven smile propitious on column and dome, 
 Whether those of St. Peter, or those nearer home, 
 Methinks this reflection might keep down our gall: — ■ 
 We're a little bit Popish ourselves after all. 
 
 Lammas, 1838.
 
 77 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 - (From the Greek.) 
 
 Should I ever be tempted to libel the ladies, 
 
 In a blanket I wish they may toss me to Hades. 
 
 What ! impugn those engaging and innocent creatures, 
 
 As exalted in mind, as angelic in features. 
 
 Oh monstrous ! — sure all the sweet music of life 
 
 Is distill'd in that one darling syllable — wife ; 
 
 Our solace in sickness, our comfort in care. 
 
 Our rudder, our anchor, and bright polar star! 
 
 If hist'ry presents some indifferent samples. 
 
 It ever supplies us with counter examples. 
 
 Thus Medea, perhaps, was a virulent witch, 
 
 Yet Penelope truly in virtues was rich ; 
 
 She who, never despairing when darkest her future. 
 
 Still preferr'd her lost lord to each beef-eating suitor. 
 
 Clytemnestra, I grant, might be crafty and cruel, 
 
 But then in Alcestis we meet with a jewel : 
 
 Rare rib, that lived up to her conjugal vows, 
 
 Nor refused on occasion to die for her spouse. 
 
 Phaedra, true, was a bad one, it can't be denied. 
 
 But then we've that pattern to place by her side —
 
 78 THE SEASON. 
 
 Let me see — ay, who was it ? — you know who I mean, 
 Well, how very provoking ! — who could it have been ? 
 Oh help or I perish, oh Mem'ry thou traitor. 
 In a crisis to fail of this delicate nature ! 
 Three to two I am beat, and shall ne'er be forgiven — 
 Grant me only one name just to make the score even — 
 Ah, then, clearly all's up, I'm abandoned by Heaven : 
 Wretched mortal, when anxious I always have founder'd — 
 Of the sort I don't want I could quote you a hundred. 
 
 THE SEASON. 
 
 Oh not more welcome is the ray 
 
 That greets young Zephyr's birth, 
 When all with hope and promise gay 
 The hours prolong the genial day 
 
 To cheer the budding earth ; 
 Nor yet more blest the solemn noon 
 That marks the gorgeous close of June, 
 When Sirius with awakening ire 
 Doggedly 'gins to blow his fire —
 
 THE SEASON. 
 
 Nor one, nor both, shed HveHer joy, 
 
 If such poor mortals find, 
 Than beams from that bright Hquid sky, 
 The Virgin's glorious canopy. 
 
 Their sheaves when reapers bind ; 
 When now, her magic work completing, 
 Nature makes goodly show of treating, 
 Howbeit, by life's severe condition. 
 With toil and trouble comes fruition. 
 
 Pomona see with blush betraying 
 
 Her bosom's inward glee ; 
 See now her golden locks arraying. 
 Into her partner's hands now playing. 
 
 Whose horn takes frequent fee. 
 With Copia link'd the sun-burnt Ceres, 
 From whom alike our bread and beer is. 
 Brave lass, that needs no veil's protection, 
 Nor thinks of saving her complexion. 
 
 79
 
 8o 
 
 THE PENCIL. 
 
 Oh pretty toy, oh brave utensil, 
 
 The smooth, the round, the taper pencil, 
 
 Some fairy's rolling pin 1 
 Though it be not for vulgar hand 
 To have thy uses at command. 
 Yet, gently touch'd, thou seem'st a wand 
 
 Whose virtue lies within. 
 
 Cunning cylindric rod of cedar, 
 
 Of arts humane come, faithful leader. 
 
 Thy latent powers display; 
 For no pernicious purpose dread 
 Thy tiny tube was charged with lead — 
 The Muses loaded thee, to shed 
 
 Light o'er life's rugged way. 
 
 Lo ! at the call of Inspiration 
 O'er that bald chart a new creation, 
 
 Drawn from thy secret vein, 
 Fills up the void unmeaning waste' — 
 But, unlike those by Old Time traced, 
 Slight effort has the marks effaced, 
 
 And all is blank again.
 
 WHAT IS IT ? 8l 
 
 Of scenes that once familiar were 
 We hail thee sweet remembrancer, 
 
 And soother bland of sorrow; 
 Thy lines are cold and colourless, 
 Yet with a force sometimes express 
 Stern will, or yielding gentleness, 
 
 That limners fain would borrow. 
 
 WHAT IS IT? 
 
 Gramercy 'tis a noble prize 
 
 That sweeping o'er the champaign flies. 
 
 Or, now promoted to the wall, 
 
 A cherish'd trophy hangs in hall. 
 
 Ye gallants who so bravely woo it. 
 
 Oft may you win, and seldom rue it. 
 
 I envy less than I admire 
 
 The merriment your feats inspire — 
 
 But it is time, pray no offence, 
 
 To take it in another sense. 
 
 So hark away, choice spirits hence !
 
 82 WHAT IS IT ? 
 
 Again, how infinite its uses 
 
 To him or her who ne'er abuses — 
 
 Ay, there's the rub — so great a treasure, 
 
 With mercy wielding it and measure. 
 
 To beautify the teeth or hair 
 
 What nostrum can with ours compare ? 
 
 What recipe so potent, whether 
 
 For beaver, board, for cloth, or leather ? 
 
 Nay gentles it improves the skin. 
 
 You'll bear it soon, do but begin, 
 
 Nor need, save with delight, to grin. 
 
 'Tis last, not least, an instrument 
 Kind Heav'n to finer souls has lent, 
 That can with magic power transfuse 
 Morn's rosy streaks, or eve's rich hues; 
 Catch, ere it pass, each brilliant light. 
 Or borrow blackest gloom from night ; 
 Now in harmonious maze combine 
 The lovely landscape's traits divine, 
 Now seize the varying looks that play 
 O'er fairest features grave or gay, 
 And, as if spell-bound, bid them stay.
 
 83 
 
 "WHAT IS IT?" 
 
 " Thou comest in such a Questionable Shape, 
 
 That I will Answer thee." 
 
 "Gramercy! what is It?" Each Nimrod repHes, 
 From yon cover sly Reynard, lo ! bears off " the prize !" 
 But full soon shall the "Trophy" hang high on "the wall," 
 A glorious accession to " TAe Tales of the Hall !" 
 Hark forward, choice spirits ! while eager ye rush — 
 They who " scoiir the plains," win, meet guerdon — " The 
 Brush /" 
 
 Certain words bear two meanings, as ladies do twins — 
 (Misconception, no doubt ! but some say for their sins !) 
 And yours though't add grace to the skin, teeth, and hair, 
 ("There's the rub,") has about it an equivocal air! 
 Still, for beaver, board, leather, cloth, velvet, or plush, 
 What nostrum can vie with " What is it ?" your Brush ! 
 
 When the Painter to canvas delights to transfuse 
 "The Morn's rosy streaks, or the Evening's rich hues," 
 Bids the landscape in all its soft loveliness glow. 
 Mantles pleasure in sunshine, in solemn gloom woe. 
 What spell could recall smile, frown, wrinkle, or blush. 
 Were the Limner denied your "What is it ?" His Brush !
 
 84 "what is it ?" 
 
 Thus we've ''brusJi'd up" our wits to reply to "What is 
 
 it?" 
 And mischance 'twere indeed should we now chance tO' 
 
 miss it. 
 Nor wonder our wares we presume to commend, 
 (Like your Buy-a-broom Nymphs as they " brush by " each 
 
 friend !) 
 And since, Sir, ^^Consistency " Critics will tell ye, 
 Is a sine qua non or in Epic or Jelly, 
 *' Sibi consteVs" our motto — our course Palindromic — 
 Not commencing with Grave, then concluding with 
 
 Comic — 
 Nor dare we, Sir, set at defiance a Rule 
 By Buvi-Brushers en-taiVd on each Tyro at School — 
 Not ours at the "Qualis ab incepto'" to scoff — 
 We began with a Brush, and hence beg to ^^ brush off F' 
 
 K.
 
 85 
 
 THE ENIGMA DISCOVERED. 
 (Poeta loquitur.) 
 
 What region of Oidipus knows not the fame, 
 
 Who bore sceptre in Thebes, both its glory and shame 
 
 Into riddles he saw with the eye of a lynx. 
 
 Confounding that monster th' enigmatical Sphinx. 
 
 She who questions propounded with this stringent clause. 
 
 That all whom they foiled should be ground in her jaws — 
 
 Fauces worse than Caudine — 'tis said those of a woman, 
 
 And such to provoke in his senses dares no man. 
 
 So fearful an object ne'er faced bold Orion — 
 
 With the tail of a serpent, the paws of a lion. 
 
 Hawk's wings gave her onset additional force. 
 
 Her tongue it was human, and /e)iiale of course. 
 
 On the prowess of Greece such dire pest was a stigma. 
 
 Herself than her riddles a greater enigma. 
 
 But the Prince had no sooner discovered her puzzle. 
 
 Than her death-dealing mouth found a permanent muzzle; 
 
 For so keenly her sensitive nerves felt the shock. 
 
 That she dashed out her curst busy brains on a rock.
 
 86 THE ENIGMA DISCOVERED. 
 
 So of some unknown wit by the brilliant solution, 
 (Though no monster myself) I am put to confusion. 
 Quick I stride 'cross my study, and throw up the sash — 
 When this sudden bright thought checks intent madly rash ; 
 "On a paving stone wherefore seek fate's certain doom? — 
 They'll lay one, methinks, fast enough on my tomb. 
 Life little resembles the poor poet's song. 
 For there's no sort of fear of its lasting too long." 
 One dizzy look out makes the logic so plain, 
 That I heartily shut down the window again. 
 I wonder the Sphinx didn't take the same view, 
 But in those days wits went not by steam — it is true. 
 Then how else in a manner more worthy the age, 
 Thus under eclipse, can I best prove my rage? 
 Shall I lay down my lyre, shall I hang up my fiddle- 
 No ! magnanimous rather, I'll make a fresh riddle.
 
 87 
 
 AUTUMNAL THOUGHTS. 
 
 With stealthy step like age approaching, 
 Old Autumn on our woods encroaching 
 
 Wins his insidious way; 
 E'en while the landscape's florid bloom 
 Might seem exempt from fate's hard doom, 
 He softly spreads a baneful gloom 
 
 Gilded by Beauty's ray. 
 
 His features, now familiar grown, 
 Appear as those of one well known, 
 
 Sure we have seen him come 
 With the same sombre look before, 
 A hundred times, you'd say, or more — 
 Alas ! the longest life's whole score 
 
 Will hardly make that sum. 
 
 What, then, is life ? — a turbid dream 
 Of objects fair that only seem. 
 
 Or tale of woe too true ; 
 If blithe its march, then, ah ! how brief— 
 For, lurking like a midnight thief, 
 Bursts by surprise the autumnal leaf, 
 
 And darkness bounds our view.
 
 88 A REFLECTION. 
 
 Oh ! might I thus decHne in years, 
 Brightening my hope, composed my fears. 
 
 Though graver, still serene, 
 As now mild Nature's mellow face 
 Shows no tumultuous passion's trace. 
 But e'en in withering beams with grace 
 
 Unknown to days more green. 
 
 A REFLECTION. 
 
 In former times, far back beyond our ken, 
 
 Old Homer classed with leaves the race of men. 
 
 Ages on ages since have roll'd away, 
 
 And yet the simile holds good to-day. 
 
 In ceaseless sequence still they come and go, 
 
 Whither or whence alike we do not know; 
 
 Of both alike in sorrow 'tis confest. 
 
 Too soon we lose the fairest and the best ; 
 
 Beauty declines, and nipt is merit rare. 
 
 As the first tints of Autumn melt in air:
 
 A REFLECTION. 89 
 
 But Strangely blinde(J is each human eye 
 To thy still lengthening bills, Mortality! 
 On Death's forewarning voice we merely dwell 
 To mark the annoyance of a passing bell ; 
 Like gallant troops that reel, and form again, 
 Gaily uniting o'er their comrades slain, 
 So on the gaps of fate our chairs we close — 
 Narrower our circle, but not graver grows. 
 
 Yet are there seasons when the Tyrant's stroke 
 Has minds most careless to reflection woke ; 
 When from the page of life he blots a name 
 Knit with our little polity's whole frame — 
 One whom to us fond Memory endears,* 
 A name familiar from our earliest years ; 
 Mingled with recollections of our sires, 
 And scenes enacted round those merry fires ; — 
 One graced with gifts to life that polish lend, 
 A pleasing speaker and convivial friend ; 
 Some useful art skilled haply to dispense, 
 With active zeal, and free benevolence ; 
 In sore misfortune's hour who might command 
 Of ministering friends a faithful band ; 
 
 * The late Mr. Samuel Cam.
 
 go THE VALLEY RE-VISITED. 
 
 Nor yet unknown, perhaps, 'mid public men, 
 
 The independent, upright citizen; 
 
 Add this, and thus the tale of grief exhaust, 
 
 Suddenly stricken, and untimely lost ; 
 
 That such occasions are, must all allow — 
 
 Who does not deeply feel that such with us is — now 1 
 
 THE VALLEY RE-VISITED. 
 
 The sun was just about to drop 
 On the lonely hamlet's mountain top; 
 The breeze and busy hum of day 
 Languished awhile, then died away; 
 And now mild eve began to spread 
 Her light grey mantle fringed with red : 
 Eyeing the vale, Sol lingered yet. 
 As one who parted with regret. 
 But must away — when on a mound. 
 The village steep that graceful crown'd, 
 A wanderer halting look'd around.
 
 THE VALLEY RE-VISITED. C 
 
 His brow by Nature arched sublime 
 
 Bore traces more than those of time ; 
 
 Feeling and thought had jointly there 
 
 Kept true and faithful register; 
 
 Much weighty matter fill'd that book, 
 
 And knowledge various charged his look; 
 
 By very wondering seem'd his eyes 
 
 No longer subject to surprise; 
 
 Withal ah air of weariness 
 
 About him was, that might confess 
 
 He'd sought, nor found, the things that bless. 
 
 'Twas long, in sooth, ere he did cease 
 
 To gaze upon that rural peace ; 
 
 Whether the scene's strong admonition 
 
 Of rapture waked some early vision ; 
 
 Or \yhether, galled by frequent smart. 
 
 That calm sank down into his heart, 
 
 An anodyne for deep wounds bringing. 
 
 O'er the dried fount youth's freshness flinging; 
 
 Of life, perchance, a pleasant stage 
 
 It promised yet, though sloped to age; 
 
 Proffered for strange folks, strangely drest, 
 
 Old friends which after all are best — • 
 
 For change, content — for rough ways, rest.
 
 92 
 
 NOVEMBER LIFE. 
 
 Cheerless, November, are thy days, 
 Yet on this ground deserving praise, 
 
 That they are short withal ; 
 For did they last like those of June, 
 What could we do all the afternoon. 
 With that sun looking like the moon, 
 
 Or with no look at all ? 
 
 But, happily for us, betimes 
 The jolly god seeks other climes. 
 
 Fond of a clearer view; 
 We, too, Heaven's graceless vault forsaking, 
 And within doors ourselves betaking. 
 To a little world of our own making, 
 
 Bid fields and fogs adieu. 
 
 That central flame there blazing bright. 
 And cloudless the soul's inward light, 
 
 What can disturb or sadden ? 
 What matters it how wind and weather 
 Sweep round the house in league together, 
 Those bosoms buoyant as a feather 
 
 While mirth and music gladden ?
 
 A WISH. 93 
 
 But what does he, the lonely elf? 
 He finds resources on his shelf, 
 
 His closet's stock is choice ; 
 The paper-knife, brisk pioneer, 
 Opens for him blithe winter cheer, 
 Or the Muse breathes into his ear 
 
 Sounds sweet as Syren's voice. 
 
 A WISH. 
 
 I WISH I was like thee, oh Moon, 
 Cheerfully rising late or soon 
 
 To climb the path of duty ; 
 Somehow thy gentle nature nerving, 
 Nor a moment from the right way swerving, 
 But in each change and chance preserving 
 
 A face of placid beauty. 
 
 Blending with lowly looks the mien 
 Majestic of a virgin Queen, 
 
 Soft grace with motions free
 
 94 A WISH. 
 
 Though changed to sight, in truth the same, 
 Budding with horns still mild and tame, 
 As when thou com'st the radiant dame 
 Of blithe rotundity. 
 
 How blest, thus throned in no one spot, 
 Ever to have an imperial lot 
 
 Cast in a starry dome; 
 What joy to thrive like that young crescent. 
 Growing so fast, and then how pleasant 
 At seasons to be evanescent. 
 
 To the whole world " not at home !" 
 
 'Twould soothe through liquid air to glide, 
 And sometimes on the tempest ride, 
 
 In glare alike or gloom 
 With meekness girt — nor could I say 
 'Twas hard to wane and waste away, 
 So in the vital beam of day 
 
 Might I my lamp relume.
 
 95 
 
 WHAT AM I ? 
 
 At Christmas am I most in season, 
 So that not lacking rhyme or reason, 
 I come — a trifle it is true, 
 But still to the occasion due. 
 To know me you already seem 
 (Not me myself, but me my theme), 
 No ? to be candid then I fear 
 . Sometimes I harshly meet the ear : 
 When fate or fortune rules the cast, 
 I help reviving hope to blast ; 
 But now I bring a cordial balm, 
 As carol bright or proper psalm. 
 To soothe the green and withered palm 
 
 In many a case 'tis my mishap 
 
 To be reckoned a close sort of chap ; 
 
 And yet while guarded from intrusion 
 
 I'm open to a contribution. 
 
 A higher post anon I hold, 
 
 To which oft climbs the aspirant bold, 
 
 Doomed with a shrug or sad grimace 
 
 To yield at last this pride of place.
 
 96 
 
 WHAT AM I i 
 
 Whereas in gayer circles, bright 
 With forms of loveliness and light, 
 By a mysterious graduation. 
 The lower I descend in station, 
 I rise in rank and reputation. 
 
 The scene once more be pleased to change. 
 
 And amid paths of gladness range, 
 
 In that delicious region, where 
 
 A thousand sweets perfume the air, 
 
 A thousand different colours vie 
 
 To dazzle and delight the eye ; 
 
 There as the soft and showy mix 
 
 See me nice bounds and barriers fix, 
 
 O'erleapt with ease, but still respected — 
 
 Ever be beauty so protected ! 
 
 Now of what kind this fair domain, 
 
 And who I am that thus restrain, 
 
 Come, gentles, guess — and guess again.
 
 97 
 
 "WHAT AM I?" 
 
 Merry Christmas rolls round — ragged urchins a score 
 Beg we'll open our purse as we open our door — 
 And ill-timed were rebuff, when they wish us good cheer, 
 Should we send them, not thee, but "a box'' on the ear ! 
 
 The gamester who hazards his all on the cast — 
 (His fortunes nipped, blighted, like buds by the blast !) — 
 Flies for refuge to thee — and, too late, sighs to find — 
 (Unlike poor Pandora's) — no hope lurks behind. 
 
 From intrusion secured, contributions you draw, 
 And though sometimes as " close" as a wight with "lock"- 
 
 jaw, 
 In a twinkling, with tact only touch the right key. 
 And e'en Charity's self not more "open" can be ! 
 Though not gifted with eyes to behold what is hid. 
 In thy sacred recess, you can still raise "a lid;" 
 And though, nailed to the wall, you repose quite untwinged, 
 There are times when we've seen you a little " unhinged !" 
 
 The guard sounds his horn, and what words can betoken 
 Young Jehu's despair, should he ?\r\d you bespoken ! 
 'Stead of curbing his steeds, he sits bridling his rage, 
 And "frets" (though no player) "his hour on the stage /" 
 
 H
 
 98 " WHAT AM I ?" 
 
 When Tragedy sweeps in her pall o'er the scene, 
 Or Comedy beckons with mirth- moving mien, 
 Or the Spirit of Harmony, quitting her sphere, 
 From her mansion descends to lead captive the ear, — 
 While "the gods" in the gallery make up a show, 
 Each scion of fashion and ton — belle or beau — 
 Ever finds you receiving dress circles — below! 
 And there seated securely as knave in the stocks. 
 Enthroned see! John Bull — a true ^'Jack-in-the-box I'' 
 
 Quitting opera and stage for yon fragrant parterre. 
 Like Young Love among Roses, yoti lurk even there ! 
 And while Flora light waving her sunny bright locks 
 Cries "Cull garlands, ye nymphs, but oh spare, spare 
 
 my box,'' 
 The grim gardener growls gruffly to call them to order, 
 Sighing, "All the blue bonnets" are over ''the border T' 
 Thus your riddle we've read, and tho' " Sphynx v. Rock," 
 Sir, 
 (A case lately cited), might ffidipus shock, Sir ! 
 Modern Sphynx, grown more knowing than namesake of 
 
 yore, 
 ** Runs her head 'gainst a wall," (like "the talents,") no 
 
 more ! 
 And convinced that life's lease no renewal admits, 
 She most wisely determines to live — by her wits !
 
 " WHAT AM I ?" 
 
 99 
 
 Nor sees why ^Enigma's solution should bring 
 Dissolution to her — so continues to sing ! 
 
 Indeed, were she bent dread destruction to rush on, 
 She'd her puzzling-cap change for a cap styled " percus- 
 sion," — 
 And dismay'd by the blow we had aimed at her strains, 
 Not 'gainst rocks, but with ^'powder-puff'' "blow" out 
 her brains ! 
 Merry Christmas comes wing'd with kind wishes and 
 
 And our greetings we proffer, Sphynx, quite en aiiiie ! 
 And though mystery's mantle around thee is spread, 
 Oh remote be the day ere you're " knock'd on the head !" 
 Thus free pardon we grant, tho' she merits hard knocks, 
 Sir, 
 For selecting a theme that proclaims her "a box-er /" 
 
 K
 
 lOO 
 
 WHAT'S THE TRUMP? 
 
 The Premier had tendered his resignation, which was unexpectedlj- 
 accepted by Her Majesty. 
 
 Whichever party wins or loses 
 
 Our Queen can play just what she chooses. 
 
 Whether the game be longs or shorts, 
 
 Still as she likes her hand she sorts; 
 
 And hard would seem the mh indeed, 
 
 Should you tell her she was not to lead. 
 
 A trump she is, and when in doubt 
 
 Can she be blamed for playing out ? 
 
 When some are sorry, others sick, 
 
 And o'er wise heads come fancies thick, ^ 
 
 She follows Hoyle and takes the trick. 
 
 Now which with her the favour'd suit, 
 Is a question I may hardly moot. 
 Oh ! may she never quickness lack 
 To spy a knave in either pack ! 
 But as I view'd her levee's sheen. 
 Of Diamonds I thought her Queen.
 
 what's the trump? , lOI 
 
 Escap'd from Court, and crowd, and riot, 
 To scenes of rural calm and quiet, 
 Where fails not health, nor beauty fades. 
 Her cultured hills and garden glades 
 Made me suppose her Queen of Spades. 
 
 A friend who haunts the Athenaeum 
 
 And Travellers' — (did'st ever see 'em ?) — 
 
 Her Majesty, facetious, dubs 
 
 A female Herc'les, Queen of Clubs ; 
 
 " No," cries a Cockney, all attention, 
 
 " What marks her era is invention ; 
 
 By steamer, now, we move at ease, 
 
 Now by the Aellopodes ; 
 
 One scheme scarce ripe, another starts, 
 
 Her strength must clearly lie in Arts " — 
 
 " You mean," said I, " her people's hearts." 
 
 1839.
 
 I02 
 
 CORK. 
 
 To England when he comes for work, 
 Won't Paddy tease you about Cork, 
 
 Fast with his subject warming ? 
 But my brief song is of a tree, 
 So curious and so rare to see. 
 That folks will with the bark make free. 
 
 By bit and bit deforming. 
 
 'Tis proper stuff, scarce all the Muses 
 Together could recount its uses, 
 
 Elastic spring of motion ; 
 Brisk ardent spirits it keeps under. 
 Like magic seal, and, more's the wonder, 
 It buoys up those who else would founder,. 
 
 In streamlet whelm'd or ocean. 
 
 That luckless wight has lost a pin, 
 Cork soon supplies a bran new shin, 
 
 Nor need we fear to graze it ; 
 Look how he hops without a staff, 
 Fond Israelite ne'er bowed to half 
 So natural or neat a calf, 
 
 And 'tis no sin to praise it.
 
 ENIGMA, 103 
 
 But shrewd was he, into whose noddle 
 It came to make of cork a model, 
 
 Smoothing old walls long wasted ; 
 Our good St. Peter rubs his eyes, 
 'Twixt admiration and surprise, 
 To see such fairy ruins rise. 
 
 With Smirke's fresh front contrasted. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 An Enigma again ! and why not, Mr. Censor ? 
 The Journal of wit is the lawful dispenser; 
 And if such you can't find in this poor contribution. 
 You'll have it no doubt in a sparkling solution ; 
 At least if it's half as well turn'd as the last one — 
 And on us no grave charge graver critics can fasten ; 
 For chaste is our Muse, nor to low passion panders, 
 Nor ventures a glance upon veils or verandahs. 
 
 Some mild afternoon, within reach of the breeze. 
 On a sofa it soothes to be stretched at one's ease.
 
 I04 ENIGMA. 
 
 What's that on your coat as you lie thus reclining, 
 
 In the rich western beam so deliciously shining? 
 
 As the changeful cameleon varies its hue, 
 
 From dark purple it shifts to a delicate blue. 
 
 But oh tyranny baneful of weather and years, 
 
 Like all pets of this world, how it wastes and it wears ! 
 
 Then tell me again pray of whom are you reading, 
 Your fancy with grandeur's bright images feeding, 
 As upward through clouds plies the eagle his pinion. 
 On Victory's wings lo ! he mounts to dominion. 
 But the plaudits that hail him are mingled with curses, 
 And the star of his glory o'ercast by reverses ; 
 Thus Fortune abridged her own favourite's fame — 
 We merely take leave just to shorten his name. 
 
 But what o'er your senses is this that comes stealing. 
 Ere a thraldom so soft you are conscious of feeling ? 
 Though sweet seem'd your page, yet seems this still more 
 
 pleasant, 
 And lull'd is all care of the past and the present. 
 Till the vol. by its gravity brought to the floor 
 On your tympanum strikes as the reflux of war; 
 Then figures flit round you, and visions the while 
 Of conquest, and empire, and gloomy exile.
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE "HEREFORD JOURNAL." IO5 
 
 How Stands our account then good folks ? you will see 
 That our triple-mill'd puzzle has parts one, two, three. 
 But for your gentle sakes 'tis that thrice we have spun. 
 What in strictness and fact is indeed only one, 
 So attain but a third and your whole work is done. 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE HEREFORD 
 JOURNAL. 
 
 Sir, — Although Judge and Jury may claim a full share 
 of your Journal, a corner may perhaps be found for a 
 solution of the Enigma in your last. 
 
 Your obliged, 
 
 K. 
 
 While Judges robe, and Rogues grow pale. 
 As Justice balances her scale. 
 We'll on the Jury cite the Muses — 
 (When Poet summons, who refuses !) 
 And since Enigma rare you've sent us 
 We '11 ne'er return writ — " non inventus !"
 
 I06 TO THE EDITOR OF THE " HEREFORD JOURNAL." 
 
 Nor, whatsoe'er your verdict, halt, 
 
 And " suffer judgment by default !" 
 
 Though then Miss Sphinx would blind our eyes 
 
 With broad cloth stout of varied dies, 
 
 Or pointing to Ambition's grave, 
 
 Where Saint Helena stems the wave, 
 
 Warn us of Glory's fading beams — 
 
 Then lure us to the land of dreams ! 
 
 Still we'll pursue the wordy chase — 
 
 A single form with triple face — 
 
 And spite of all her mystic wrapping. 
 
 We've fairly caught the lady " Napping !" 
 
 Your Enigma we'd solve, but our fancy, I vow, 
 
 Like your comatose third's rather " nappy " just now ! 
 
 And, indeed, like your treble-mill'd coat and stout hero. 
 
 Who on Waterloo's field found his fame fall to Zero ! 
 
 Nor e'er quite recovered that Wellington rap — 
 
 She'd feel scarcely herself, if deprived of her "Nap!" 
 
 And since on one word triple changes you ring. 
 
 And now point to the loom — now to Sleep's drowsy wing — 
 
 And anon to a hero — the third of whose name 
 
 Will your Riddle unfold to inquisitive dame ! 
 
 Further prattling declining, we'll call for our " cap," 
 
 Not to " puzzle our brains," but indulge in a " Nap !"
 
 APOLOGY FOR THE WEATHER. 
 
 107 
 
 For Enigma that's " nappy " from beginning to end, 
 Should ne'er, like Macbeth, "murder sleep," witty friend! 
 So, good night ! while my muse full of frolic presumes 
 That you've '' Thirded"* your words — as Oxonians do 
 rooms ! 
 
 APOLOGY FOR THE WEATHER. 
 " Mirandtim est wide ille oculis suffecerit Juniior." — Juvenal. 
 
 'Tis well observed in ancient satire 
 That laughing is an easy matter, 
 
 Nor costs the censor mickle; 
 The wonder was how Sage could cry 
 For ever, and yet find supply 
 Of tears, by what philosophy 
 
 The fount he still made trickle. 
 
 * When a Freshman comes into residence in College, he generally 
 takes to the furniture of his predecessor at about a third of its original 
 cost — and hence the Oxford phrase, " What are your Thirds !"
 
 I08 APOLOGY FOR THE WEATHER. 
 
 So if Sol smile for weeks together, 
 
 And bright and beauteous be the weather, 
 
 'Tis a marvel not much bruited; 
 But whence, his forty days long out, 
 St. Swithin feeds his water-spout, 
 How in the world this comes about 
 
 Is a question often mooted. 
 
 Methinks such disposition savours 
 Of mind less apt to reckon favours 
 
 Than chronicle offences ; 
 Alike, if fair or foul the season, 
 Let us beware lest lacking reason 
 'Gainst Providence we mutter treason 
 
 On trivial pretences. 
 
 Haply kind Heav'n to earth and ocean 
 Imparts a salutary lotion. 
 
 Or needful fund is lending ; 
 And Vaga and Sabrina join 
 To succour the deficient brine, 
 As sisters in a work divine 
 
 Their goodly labours blending.
 
 log 
 
 MONODY, 
 
 " Qtiis causa indigna serenos 
 Foedavit vultus ? Atit cur hcEc vtdncra ccrno ?" — Virgil. 
 
 Kind colonade !* a refuge lending, 
 And room to trace sweet Vaga wending 
 
 Through meads of softest green ; 
 Tell me, for who can tell but thou, 
 What mean those scars upon thy brow, 
 So fair and foul a face till now 
 
 The natives have not seen. 
 
 Stern Stoic of the Portico 
 
 Were he, who thrice could come and go 
 
 The length of that smooth gravel, 
 Nor breathe a wish to know if Time 
 Thus rudely stamps thy front sublime, 
 Or deep remorse for some dark crime 
 
 Thy flock may ne'er unravel. 
 
 * The summer-house in Castle Green.
 
 I 10 MONODY. 
 
 Out, " damned spot," vile stigma hence ! 
 To damage we but add expense, 
 
 Thou tak'st it all in dudgeon ; 
 Can rouge supply the bloom of youth. 
 Quibbles repair a breach of truth, 
 Or baser substitute forsooth 
 
 Salve honour's wounded scutcheon ? 
 
 Like Bluebeard's wife aghast to see 
 Water disdain the bloodshot key, 
 
 Proof of her frailty bearing; 
 The painter to his task so true 
 Tries each cold shade and brighter hue, 
 Till all his colour comes, to view 
 
 The eye-sore re-appearing.
 
 Ill 
 
 NOVEMBER DOINGS. 
 
 " To see Presumption, turning pale, refrain 
 From further havoc." — Wordsworth's Warning. 
 
 At school, if rightly I remember, 
 Winter began not till November, 
 
 Whate'er the youngster's feeling; 
 But with the fifth of glorious name 
 Things brightened, each compliant dame 
 Fanning her faggot to a flame. 
 
 That gilded wall and ceiling. 
 
 So mindful of gunpowder treason 
 
 Jack Frost believed there was good reason 
 
 Now to be up and doing; 
 All milder ways he laughed to scorn, 
 And with looks as black as bitterest morn. 
 O'er fair Siluria's fields forlorn 
 
 He vow'd to scatter ruin. 
 
 But as by Nature's wholesome law 
 The hungriest air admits a thaw. 
 So was it at this juncture ;
 
 112 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Jack felt the force of warmer gales, 
 Melted his airy throne of Wales, 
 As heads will often turn to tails 
 
 When conscience feels a puncture. 
 
 Little I ween his subjects lose, 
 
 But what his rightful crown — the Muse 
 
 Moots not so grave a question ; 
 Yet as Guy Fawkes has had enough — 
 Of squibs and crackers quantum suff: 
 The lads may now find fitter stuff 
 
 To carry out combustion. 
 
 1839. 
 
 THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 We dropt a tear on the honour'd bier 
 Of the twelvemonth past and gone, 
 
 And it soothed to deck its lamented wreck 
 With branches that greenly shone.
 
 THE NEW YEAR. IIJ 
 
 Now hail to the day, that with hveher ray 
 
 Brings a festival free from alloy ; — 
 Like the laughing morn, a new year is born, 
 
 All radiant with hope and with joy. 
 
 If the last had its grief, we turn a new leaf. 
 
 And begin as it were o'er again ; 
 Of life a fresh stage, and of time one more page 
 
 Lies before us without blot or stain, 
 
 'Twould be worthy surprise if we were not more wise, 
 
 In experience grown something older ; 
 And we trust we may find Dame Fortune more kind. 
 
 So we throw off much blither and bolder. 
 
 Though much we have seen, and we're not quite so green. 
 
 Of life there's a residue still; 
 If too much has flown, the future's our own, 
 
 And yet may be moulded at will. 
 
 'Tis ours now to use it, e'en just as we choose it, 
 
 To make it a blessing or curse ; 
 For I think I may venture this judgment to enter, 
 
 We shall either grow better or worse.
 
 114 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 Since nothing stands still in this strange world of ill, 
 
 With good so harmoniously blended ; 
 Where we must move along, but if we move wrong. 
 
 The mischief is not so soon mended. 
 
 Then sweet follies adieu, and grave faults not a few, 
 
 In the light of to-day be not seen ; 
 Ye that memory haunt, grim shadows avaunt 
 
 To the tomb of the years that have been ! 
 
 Jan., 1840. 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 Ere the holidays close, a charade, Sir, permit, 
 Though latent, perhaps, both its wisdom and wit. 
 
 As to whence drops my first, all the learned are mum. 
 While of resins they talk, and swear largely — by gum. 
 My second's a mean, blest meridian of reason — 
 To be middling is all we can hope at this season ; 
 Each slippery match, like the glove which you doff, 
 Must needs be my next, or it can't well come off.
 
 KEY TO THE PRECEDING. II5 
 
 But here, gentle dames, let me put in a word, 
 If ye miss the two first, look about for a third. 
 
 Of old, in a mighty great confederation, 
 My whole was>a clansman of stern reputation. 
 
 KEY TO THE PRECEDING. 
 
 ^^ Quis talia fando 
 Myrmidonum, Dolopiiinve, ant dnri miles Ulyssei, 
 Tetnpcret a lacrymis ?" — Virgil. 
 
 How's this. Sir, is then our friend CEdipus puzzled, 
 Or absent, or sick, or by cruel fate muzzled ? 
 If the first, as most likely, for sure 'twas a hard one, 
 His former achievements demand a free pardon. 
 Since silent, however, is that sapient elf. 
 The Sphinx must now up and e'en answer herself. 
 
 Books that treat upon resins, or greatly I err, 
 Don't treat us with much of a hist'ry of Myrrh. 
 More's the pity, for those eastern sages of old 
 In their precious assortment combined it with gold.
 
 Il6 KEY TO THE PRECEDING. 
 
 Let me venture to hope, on this humble petition, 
 
 Our savans will kindly supply the omission. 
 
 And where could be found. Sir, a theme more prolific, 
 
 Or better adapted to tea scientific ? 
 
 A paper imbued with aroma so strong 
 
 Might enhance the best cup of high-flavoured souchong. 
 
 For the gum 's of sweet scent whencesoever it comes, 
 
 And a tincture affords very good for the gums. 
 
 But as to the spelling I trust to content ye, 
 
 H is but a breathing, and one R quite plenty. 
 
 Thus the middle we've reach'd, so here pause we for 
 breath, 
 A moment reposing, then on to the death. 
 
 Fair ladies that sport with the ring or the glove. 
 Or the much more mysterious matters of love, 
 'Tis a reas'nable rule, ere ye doff ye must don, 
 Nor can that well come off which has not first been on. 
 
 In the mighty great band of confederate forces 
 Proud Troy that encompass'd with chariots and horses, 
 'Gainst the Myr-mid-on, you must allow, a true bill is. 
 For sternness he learnt from his master Achilles.
 
 117 
 
 THE MUSIC MEETING. 
 
 Come we shall have our music meeting, 
 Nor need to go the bush a beating ! 
 For joyous bursts from brake and grove 
 The voluntary voice of love, 
 Whether it swells a bold soprano, 
 Or that whose forte is the piano — 
 Performers fresh spring up apace 
 As the Cuckoo sounds his double bass. 
 Just now I heard him — now be sure 
 We sha'nt lack song or overture. 
 Sonata, or soft symphony 
 With luscious stops, duet or glee. 
 Or any sort of harmony. 
 
 The Lark, I understand, will gaily 
 Favour us with a prelude daily. 
 Then you may listen every minute 
 For a choice andante from the Linnet. 
 Besides, I'm told, we have in petto 
 By the Thrush a charming allegretto. 
 The Blackbird is to take a second, 
 And a brave tenor he is reckon'd,
 
 Il8 THE MUSIC MEETING. 
 
 Only too fond of — let me see — 
 
 I think they call it the minor key. 
 
 We're bound to hear by moonlight pale 
 
 An obligato, without fail, 
 
 From the sweet plaintive Nightingale. 
 
 Amid some special recreations 
 The Sedge-bird will give imitations, 
 ' Mix'd with his own — you'd say 'twas sure a 
 
 Fantasia fine, or rich bravura, 
 Worth an encore, did not this feast 
 Of melody last two months at least, 
 And these kind vocalists, I hear. 
 Repeat it gratis every year. 
 As for the local, we shall have 
 By all accounts a glorious nave, 
 Long shadowy aisles the greenwood through,. 
 With sivches foliaged o'er anew. 
 Our roof the vault of Heav'n's own blue.
 
 iig 
 
 TO POMONA. 
 
 Welcome, Pomona, back again 
 
 To this thy favourite soil, 
 CHme of thy choice, and lov'd domain, 
 
 Where thou wast wont to smile ; 
 Two summers have we missed the flush 
 Of thy soft beauty's kindling blush. 
 What can thy spirit meek have frighted, 
 Or what our hopes so sadly blighted ? 
 
 Perchance, as invalided fair. 
 
 From home you chose to ramble, 
 To seek on sands a tepid air, 
 Or over rocks to scramble ; 
 Or haply glad to run away 
 From thy false, fickle friend, Miss May, 
 At times with ultra warmth so killing. 
 Her air at times so cold and chilling. 
 
 Howe'er this be, thy blest return 
 
 We hail with liveliest glee, 
 To compliment now yields concern, 
 
 Thy looks so bright to see ;
 
 120 CHARADE. 
 
 Health's genuine glow such lustre lending, 
 The lily with the rose so blending, 
 Each fair one begs for her collection 
 Thy recipe for a complexion. 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 If riddle rare be due to Christmas feast, 
 Whitsuntide merits a Charade at least — 
 And whether my stars ordered it or no, 
 I've a strong passion for the apropos ; 
 There soon or late my Pegasus must founder — 
 But the Charade — ah true, Sir, 'tis as under: 
 
 Inseparable always my Premier and place ; 
 
 On rent-day my second oft wears a long face; 
 
 By commission my whole sways the shire or the sword, 
 
 A subaltern sometimes, and sometimes a lord. 
 
 As a proof, gentle folks, that I don't love to tease ye. 
 See how simple your task is, how short and how easy, 
 For my aim ever is, not to plague but to please ye.
 
 121 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 (La Fontaine.) 
 
 Lovers, thrice happy lovers, would ye roam ? 
 Let it be by the stream that circles home, 
 Or up some easy slope for better view — 
 Be each to each a prospect ever new, 
 A world of interest, your souls would fain 
 Draw from incessantly, but cannot drain ; 
 Count ye have all things in each other blest. 
 In the list of cyphers reckon all the rest. 
 
 I, too, have loved — I would not then have ranged. 
 Nor e'en for worlds my whereabout have changed, 
 Not for the Louvre and its riches rare, 
 Not for Heav'n's dome and all the spangles there — 
 Lash'd to that spot with adamantine ties, 
 By the feet honour'd, brighten'd by the eyes, 
 Of the sweet maid in youth and beauty drest, 
 For whom I served, by my first oaths imprest. 
 Among the volunteers, a loyal band, 
 Under young Cupid's sovereign command.
 
 122 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 When, say Oh when, as onward still he flows, 
 Will Time reissue moments like to those ? 
 Must forms as bright as that I did adore 
 Leave me to brood my morbid fancies o'er? 
 Oh that this heart might freshen'd feel again 
 The double beat of pleasure and of pain ! 
 Are there no charms my stubborn breast for moving — 
 Or have I lived beyond the age of loving ? 
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. 
 
 Well, Cuckoo, now, upon my word. 
 Thou art a precious dainty bird ! 
 That feedest on the early flowers 
 Of Beauty and the smiling Hours, 
 Glad to escape when woods assume 
 The fulness of maturer bloom. 
 Already tired ? what, won't you stay 
 To see us gather in our hay ?
 
 TO THE CUCKOO. I23 
 
 Or, ere you quit the once-loved scenes, 
 Deign just to snuff our ripened beans ? 
 Hah ! hast thou fresher fragrance found, 
 Careering in one endless round 
 Of bursting buds on fairy ground ? 
 
 We laud thy taste, for after Spring 
 
 Midsummer is a sorry thing, 
 
 Reason compared with hope's bright gleam. 
 
 Reality to fancy's dream. 
 
 Where are those notes of thrilling joy, 
 
 With which no later strains can vie ? 
 
 Where now those twice ten thousand hues 
 
 That waked to song the slumbering muse ? 
 
 Gone, merry truant, gone with thee 
 
 Some softer region's boast to be. 
 
 Oh how imagination roves 
 
 'Mid citron bowers and cedar groves, 
 
 Where thou dost chant thy foreign loves 
 
 Yet on the palate palls the treat 
 That offers only what is sweet. 
 For who would lose the genial sense 
 Of the shifting season's influence ?
 
 124 A MEDITATION. 
 
 Unhonoured we may not pass by 
 The gorgeous splendour of July; 
 Nor, sated with rich harvest feast, 
 Does Autumn's languor soothe us least; 
 Grateful the very gloom that forces 
 To fall back on our own resources, 
 Our closet's literary store — 
 That pause which, dreary winter o'er. 
 But makes us welcome spring the more. 
 
 A MEDITATION. 
 
 Look here, upon this picture, and on this."'^ — Hamlet. 
 
 Unfathomed by the good and wise 
 
 Religion has her mysteries — 
 
 In beatific beams too bright 
 
 If wholly bared to mortal sight ; 
 
 Then wherefore pry, or seek to gaze 
 
 On what is wisely wrapt in haze ?
 
 A MEDITATION. I25 
 
 But hence weak wits have found occasion 
 
 To aim their shaft at revelation ; 
 
 And led astray by human pride 
 
 Take Nature for their only guide ; 
 
 As if to her, forsooth, 'twas given, 
 
 Of sin transferred with all the leaven, 
 
 To marshal us the way to Heaven. 
 
 But tell me, upon nearer view. 
 
 Has Nature not her riddles too ? 
 
 Come, meditate with me the scene 
 
 Of spotted mead and margent green — 
 
 Where, lucid as the eye of Truth, 
 
 Sweet Vaga lays her mirror smooth. 
 
 What time pleased Zephyr hold his breath — 
 
 Then turn and look upon the bed of death, 
 
 See there the fairest, finest ray 
 
 Of intellect fade fast away ; 
 
 That gifted tongue a babbler grown. 
 
 From that clear mind, wit, judgment flown ; 
 
 A wreck of faculties o'erthrown ! 
 
 Ah me ! as wastes a summer's sun, 
 Ere well enjoy'd, Man's race is run.
 
 126 A MEDITATION. 
 
 For this then mounts he from his birth, 
 To drop into his parent earth ? 
 Beyond that bourn of joy and sorrow 
 Is there for us no beamy morrow ? 
 Then sophist say, is't yet so clear 
 Why fashion'd thus we trifle here ? 
 If such the rise, the sequel such. 
 We have too little, or too much. 
 Oh no ' some spark escapes the pall — 
 Or vain is that we noblest call, 
 And this fair world a mockery all. 
 
 In allusion to the late Rev. Canon Matthews, brother of the 
 Author, who died at Ross, October, 1840.
 
 127 
 
 AN INTERPRETATION. 
 
 " Nee verbum verba curabis rcddere Jidus 
 InterprcsJ" — Horace. 
 
 A LAME line or two can those columns excuse 
 With which now converses the Mantuan muse ? 
 Where each erudite urchin may read as he runs 
 Of that notable leader the King of the Huns — 
 Oh ! spirit of gallantry, warm my dull breast 
 For less learned ladies to render the rest ! 
 
 Rude Boreas puffing pour'd out a thick swarm 
 That rush'd o'er the Alps like a deluging storm ; 
 Such fury from long-cherish'd hatred broke forth, 
 For Pompey drove Odin far into the north. 
 Ah, how did war's preluding echoes come home 
 To the poor sinking heart of Imperial Rome ? 
 Where then was her Scipio, where her Metellus, 
 Where Fabius, her shield, or her sharp sword Marcellus ? 
 The world's mighty mistress sits crouching and craven. 
 The once famous eagle quite cowed by the raven. 
 Mark the terrible looks of those hordes as they pass, 
 Of figures gigantic a dark moving mass.
 
 128 AN INTERPRETATION. 
 
 Stern triumph play'd over fierce Attila's brow, 
 
 As he cried " My brave fellows, be true to me now! 
 
 One interest ours, the same risk, you may note. 
 
 For are we not here all embark'd in one boat ? 
 
 Though tide now befriends, and I trust wind and weather. 
 
 Let us still have a last hearty pull all together. 
 
 As a pledge of success see this glittering sword, 
 
 Presented by Mars as you slept — on my word." 
 
 He said, and those thousands were instantly fired 
 
 With an ardour their chief's well-known accents inspired. 
 
 Then the Capitol's base had been smooth as our Green, 
 
 And mincemeat been made of the Cities' fair Queen, 
 
 Had not Leo found food for the wolf's deglutition. 
 
 Or the victor been scared by a blest apparition. 
 
 Now presto pass quick, and choice revels succeed, 
 With nuptials, of conquest the motive and meed. 
 No roses are here, or sweet sheltering grove, 
 Orange bower, or the myrtle, mild Italy's love ; 
 That palace of wood no bright paintings adorn, 
 Ah ! cheerless the climate, the landscape forlorn ! 
 Yet home still is home wheresoever our fate is. 
 And here chose our hero to fix his Penates. 
 Girt with many a trophy the proud monarch sups. 
 Mid goblets and gold mounting fast in his cups ;
 
 A SUPPLEMENT. I2g 
 
 Until triumph is quench'd, and evaporates pride, 
 Before the soft looks of his young lovely bride ; 
 Then ho-ws the stern conqueror, lost for a while 
 In Song's syren notes, or in Beauty's bland smile. 
 But a still sterner tyrant beside the rich bed 
 Grim Death grinning waits, or prowls round with soft tread. 
 Yet on goes the dance, as no mischief were brewing. 
 And gay laughs the bridegroom regardless of ruin ; 
 Till Hymen himself the last scene darkly closes — 
 Ah, who now will list to jny muse as she proses ? 
 Dec, 1840. 
 
 The original, of which the above is a somewhat satirical version, 
 was the prize exercise of a scholar at Hereford Cathedral School 
 inserted in a preceding jfournal.'] 
 
 A SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 "A PART surely, Sir, of your version was lost, 
 Bad as leaving out Hamlet, you left out the Ghost, 
 Or you did but just hint at some interposition — 
 What ! was Attila stopt by a mere apparition ?"
 
 130 A SUPPLEMENT. 
 
 Why, Ma'am, I protest by that very blue ribbon, 
 
 I made sure, at the least, you were deep read in Gibbon ; 
 
 So I spared you — besides it was not in my brief — 
 
 But to give your anxiety present relief, 
 
 Let me add (if 'tis lawful to hitch into metre 
 
 Such reverend names) that the good Paul and Peter, 
 
 Those blest brother Saints, were believed to have come, 
 
 The tutelar guardians of Christian Rome, 
 
 By holy compassion evoked from the dead, 
 
 Each waving his hand, and each shaking his head — 
 
 Ah, me ! 'twas a scene with the marvellous rife, 
 
 As never your Ladyship saw in your life. 
 
 Then faltered the victor, why wonder should we then 
 
 That the thing was too much for the nerves of a Heathen. 
 
 " My comrades," he cried, " 'twere best give o'er the 
 
 chase, 
 See Heaven forbids, so now — right about face." ' 
 Thus triumphed Religion o'er barbarous mind. 
 And thus ever assistance may faithful flock find. 
 It were wrong to discredit those services sainted. 
 Which the pious aver, and which Raphael has painted.
 
 131 
 
 THE TOKEN. 
 
 It was a January eve, 
 
 The terrace I was loth to leave, 
 
 A star so bright did glow ; 
 Vaga lay still as sleepy snake. 
 And Dinedor like a huge twelfth cake, 
 Fresh fashion'd for the season's sake. 
 
 Was sugar'd o'er with snow. 
 
 'Twas then that close beside me stood 
 A grisly form, my very blood 
 
 It chill'd to look upon ; 
 I knew him in a moment's time, 
 By the cheek that told of cheerless clime, 
 And those moustachios dropping rime, 
 
 Rude Boreas' surly son. 
 
 Quoth he, " I will a token give, 
 Which wearing you may mindful live 
 
 Of Winter's potent sway;" 
 While whistling thus in bitter tone, 
 He laid his finger on my own — 
 Blighting it fell — and quick was flown 
 
 That phantom far away.
 
 132 TO THE STRANGER. 
 
 But ah there seems, oh impress dread, 
 On my luckless hand a seal of lead, 
 
 Fierce contraries uniting ; 
 As plague spot angry now it burns, 
 Now to an icy coldness turns — 
 The paw of power thus folly learns 
 
 The penalties of slighting. 
 
 TO THE STRANGER. 
 
 (From the Greek. Soph. (Ed. Col.) 
 
 Stranger ! thy steps have haply found 
 The clime for cattle so renowned ; 
 Travel thou may'st full many a mile, 
 Nor rest perchance on a fairer soil. 
 These are the blooming meads that skirt 
 The precincts of St. Ethelbert, 
 Whose lordly tower, high throned above, 
 Looks round on orchard, lawn, and grove, 
 Where revelling blithe buds among 
 Warbles the thrush his choicest song ;
 
 TO THE STRANGER. I33 
 
 Now nestled in the ivy oak, 
 Now in some sweetly sheltered nook, 
 One of Pomona's brilliant bowers, 
 What time she pearl and ruby showers, 
 Attendant on the smiling hours. 
 
 Nurtured by soft delicious dew. 
 
 See flowrets here of every hue ; 
 
 Thick scattered without care or stint. 
 
 Rich trefoil and refreshing mint. 
 
 Nor are the rills a moment dry 
 
 That feed the course of lovely Wye, 
 
 Whose waters still fantastic flow, 
 
 Still fertilising as they go. 
 
 By verdant slope or feathered knoll, 
 
 Her placid reach, or lively shoal. 
 
 Nor loth, unless we fondly dream, 
 
 The Muses haunt this sparkling stream ; 
 
 And pondering those sweet fair faces. 
 
 Which on its banks our joy to trace is, 
 
 In duty let me add — the Graces. 
 
 But what I think boon Nature's bounty 
 Has lavished on no other county.
 
 134 "^O "^"^ STRANGER. 
 
 Here thrive in combination rare 
 The Hop, the Apple, and the Pear, 
 The envy each of our good neighbours — 
 Bitter or sweet they sweeten labours. 
 What charms the sight, or cheers the soul, 
 Like the plant that gaily heads the pole ? 
 The pole* indeed 's the very thing 
 Our youth are skilled in managing. 
 They rear it now in stiffest fallows, 
 Now don't they dart it mid the shallows ! 
 Frighted from rock, and crystal seat, 
 The Naiads sound a quick retreat, 
 To the tune of fifty pair of feet. 
 
 * The epithet in the original is tuTrcoAoy, conveying a compliment 
 of which the imitation claims to preserve at least the sound.
 
 135 
 
 PARODY. 
 
 On Friday, though 'twas somewhat low. 
 The citizens got up a show, 
 Our streets parading to and fro 
 
 With colours flying cheerily. 
 
 But our city saw another sight, 
 When Monday dawned with rosy light, 
 Summoning each true-hearted knight 
 To muster all his cavalry. 
 
 By horn and hautboy fast arrayed. 
 Each whipster swelled the cavalcade, 
 And every hack impatient neighed 
 
 To join the gladsome revelry. 
 
 Then shook the walls with plaudits riven, 
 Then rushed the steed to Tupsley driven, 
 And brighter than the blue of heaven 
 
 Far streamed the purple drapery. 
 
 But livelier yet the sun shall glow 
 On favour rich, and brilliant bow. 
 And gayer yet the refluent show 
 
 Of colours flying cheerily.
 
 136 FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 'Tis ten, but scarce the gates are won 
 By those proud cars slow rolling on, 
 While Whig and Tory shout " Well done " 
 So noble was that pageantry ! 
 
 The concourse thickens, on ye brave 
 Conservatives combined to save, 
 St. Owen, all thy vestments wave. 
 
 And waive thy charge of infancy, 
 
 Few, few shall swerve, though many meet. 
 As winds the column round the street. 
 And every stone beneath their feet 
 
 Tells of their gallant loyalty. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK. 
 (Moschus.) 
 
 When Zephyr gently stirs the sea so blue. 
 My timid temper feels a fillip too ; 
 No longer finds in fields their wonted balm, 
 So much more dulcet seems old Ocean's calm.
 
 FROM THE GREEK. 1 37 
 
 But when "the green one" chafes in royal wrath, 
 Heaves from his bed, and vents his rage in froth, 
 On turf and trees again I peep around, 
 And terra-firma view as one choice pleasure-ground. 
 How charms the wood, how fascinates the glade. 
 What lovely lights, what grateful depth of shade ! 
 If 'chance a fresher gale uprises there, 
 The pine-tree sings a second to the air. 
 Oh ! sad the whaler's lot, condemn'd to roam. 
 The waves his helpmates, and a bark his home ; 
 Fix'd in his grasp while now he deems his prey, 
 The blubbering monster slyly slips away. 
 To me, not dreaming of the stormy main, 
 Sweet slumber give beneath a spreading plane ; 
 LuU'd by the lapse of streamlet murmuring near, 
 Those sounds t)iat soothe, not vex, the rural ear.
 
 138 
 
 FROM THE GREEK. 
 (Mosclnis.) 
 
 Joseph on Susan cast an amorous eye, 
 But Susan breathes for Sam the secret sigh; 
 Now Sam on Sally doats, and she's as fond, 
 Though not of him who will with love respond. 
 As much as Susan makes poor Joseph smart, 
 So Sam commoves soft Susan's gentle heart; 
 So Sally Sam's ; — at this unhappy rate 
 'Twas theirs in order cross to love and hate : 
 Each scorn'd to soothe the wound each proudly dealt, 
 While justly each the pang inflicted felt. 
 
 Ye luckless lovers ! 'tis for your relief 
 I cite this instance with a comment brief. 
 Since love you must, were it not, think ye, better 
 To buckle on a less uneasy fetter ? 
 If pleasure you would fairly mix with pain. 
 Take counsel, and love those that love again.
 
 139 
 
 CHARADE. 
 
 To a classic stream, 
 Our youth's fond theme, 
 
 The proper weight append ; 
 A mansion will rise 
 To your gladdened eyes, 
 
 Fair seat of a worthy friend. 
 
 SOLUTION TO THE ABOVE. 
 
 Your charade teased me sadly, 
 'Till approaching by Madley 
 
 I came to our land's blithest corner; 
 There lit by the sun 
 Rose the fair Tiber-ton, 
 
 Need I mention its kind lord
 
 140 
 
 TO THE PLANET VENUS. 
 
 NOW AN EVENING STAR. 
 
 (From the Greek. Bion.J 
 
 Fair star of eve, in softest twilight seen, 
 Bright as the eye of Beauty's fabled queen; 
 Fair radiant star, indulged to mortal sight, 
 Solace of gloom, and ornament of night ! 
 Second to her that orders time and tide. 
 But well worth all the glittering orbs beside; 
 Be thou my faithful pilot o'er the lea, 
 And play the part of Cynthia's self for me. 
 She, budding yet, with youthful haste has sped, 
 For early up must off betimes to bed. 
 No spoiler rude, or dark assailant I, 
 Mine is the gentler art of minstrelsy. 
 To chant my love I go, with love I burn, 
 Love that of all things needs — a brisk return.
 
 141 
 
 MONODY. 
 
 In memory of an old and esteemed domestic, for thirty years Nurse 
 and Housekeeper at Belmont, while the residence of its founder, the 
 late John Matthews, Esq., the Author's father. She died at St. Ethel- 
 bert's Hospital in the autumn of 1843. 
 
 The classical reader will be the last to censure this pious recogni- 
 tion, remembering — - 
 
 " Tu quoque littoribus nostris ^neia Nutrix'' — Viro-H, 
 
 When beside her cell 
 
 The prone willow fell, 
 'Twas the single warning given ; 
 
 Then, as dark and drear 
 
 Faded fast the year, 
 She bowed to the will of Heaven. 
 
 While green was our grief, 
 
 With the falling leaf 
 She went to her last long home; 
 
 And the rude wind blew 
 
 As the earth they threw 
 In the jaws of her cold deep tomb.
 
 142 TO THE RIVER WYE, 
 
 Yet a solace we had 
 
 To see Nature sad, 
 And to hear the wild wind sigh ; 
 
 Since not hers this gloom, 
 
 But the radiant bloom. 
 That bursts for blest spirits on high. 
 
 TO THE RIVER WYE, 
 (classically named vaga), in a season of unusual 
 
 DROUGHT. 
 
 How comes it, Vaga, thou canst stand 
 
 Upon thy banks this brisk demand ? 
 
 No income now, but efflux all. 
 
 And living on thy capital. 
 
 The head and source of thy existence, 
 
 While Heaven-sent showers are slight assistance. 
 
 Yet are thy issues prompt and steady, 
 
 Wondrous they hav'n't stopt already! 
 
 Thy currency so much restricted. 
 
 Favours from Radnor interdicted ;
 
 TO THE RIVER WYE, 143 
 
 Left in thy hold so poor a pittance. 
 And every day to make remittance, 
 Ah ! happy shouldst thou find a quittance ! 
 
 The branches cannot aid thee now, 
 For they are going as fast as thou ; 
 And, Vaga, if thy means thus ebb it, 
 What after all must be thy debit ? 
 No bonus now such boons are voted. 
 When bills come back upon you noted ; 
 Birds of ill omen sure they are, 
 Freely returning from afar ; 
 With notes in numbers so well known. 
 You must acknowledge them your own, 
 For where are any half so pleasing ? 
 Yet this is far your wants from easing; 
 What now avails thy matchless mint ? 
 No more than an oft-promised rint, 
 Or a strong safe with nothing in't. 
 
 Public attention it enforces, 
 The more, the less are thy resources ; 
 And gravest heads hold inquisition. 
 And gaze upon thy sunk condition ; 
 But, Vaga, what hast thou to fear. 
 Whose secret ways are all so clear ?
 
 144 
 
 IMPROMPTU. 
 
 Unlike accounts obscure and miry, 
 
 Thou rather seem'st to court inquiry. 
 
 Still to thy purposed object true, 
 
 All obstacles still struggling through — 
 
 Crooked thy courses are perchance, 
 
 Yet downright, though they look askance. 
 
 And gain thee credit — at a glance. 
 
 A WORD FOR THE LATE CONVENTION. 
 
 C/ESAR, some thought, though thrice he seem'd to frown, 
 Still long'd to take that royal bribe, a Crown ; 
 Then spare, good Sirs, your cavilling and choler, 
 For what's a crown, compared to — many a dollar ! 
 
 Oct., 1841.
 
 H5 
 
 IMPROMPTU 
 
 SUGGESTED BY AN ACCIDENT. 
 
 Vulcan with envy spied the lambent flame 
 That softly played about a maiden's eye ; 
 
 Forging a bolt, he took malignant aim, 
 
 And sought to quench that fair orb's brilliancy. 
 
 In vain — kind Nature shields attractive grace, 
 The brighter rays absorb the lesser light; 
 
 As glow-worms fade before Aurora's face, 
 
 And planets glimmer round the Queen of Night. 
 
 yaw., 1845. 
 
 THE FAIR RIVALS. 
 
 In beauty one majestic moved, 
 
 The dance's mazes deftly threading; 
 
 Observ'd, admir'd, and haply loved, 
 
 In pride of conscious conquest treading. 
 
 M
 
 146 THE FAIR RIVALS. 
 
 In maiden modesty and grace 
 Less mark'd the other gHded by, 
 
 Grave the expression of her face, 
 Yet laughter sparkled in her eye. 
 
 'Twas glee from triumph far apart. 
 Nor seem'd it wit's sarcastic play ; 
 
 The pure effusion of a heart 
 
 Rejoicing in life's beauteous May. 
 
 Too gentle, and too sweetly shy. 
 To take unwary hearts by storm, 
 
 Yet did she win the curious eye 
 To follow that fair flitting form. 
 
 Sweet gem of ether, dropt on earth ! 
 
 So young and fair without pretence ; 
 So blending seriousness with mirth, 
 
 And both with purest innocence. 
 
 Jan., 1846.
 
 147 
 
 A NEW VERSION 
 OF HORACE TO PYRRHA. 
 
 Prithee ! what youth, with posy and perfume 
 Pressing his suit, apart from all the room. 
 Has now thy ear — Oh say for whom dost braid 
 Thy bright brown tresses, soft, seductive maid ? 
 Plain, but with all the witchery and grace 
 That loveliness can lend to form or face, 
 Alas ! how he his hapless stars shall rue 
 Who sees thee glisten and believes thee true. 
 Who thinks those smiles will last, not dreaming he 
 How that bland air is fraught with treachery. 
 How shall he view, unused, with wondering eyes 
 O'er the smooth surface the black billows rise ! 
 While passing suddenly from fair to foul, 
 The Heaven of mildness gathers to a scowl. 
 Poor innocents ! ah founder sure they must 
 Who without trial take thee upon trust. 
 Me just escaped, and such dark peril's o'er. 
 Thy sheeny softness can engulf no more ; 
 Riding, thank Heaven, with some remains of sense. 
 Safe in the harbour of indifference.
 
 148 
 
 RECANTATION. 
 
 " O iiiatre pulchrd filia piilchrior 
 
 in celeres Tambos. 
 Miscit furentem." — Horace. 
 
 Oh daughter fairer than thy mother fair, 
 
 With more than all her beauty, bloom and air, 
 
 On those vile verses you shall w^ork your w^ill. 
 
 Because you did amiss need I have written ill ? 
 
 Fulfil then all your justly vengeful ire, 
 
 Tear them to rags, or toss them on the fire. 
 
 Or, should you chance prefer the process cool, 
 
 Sink them in Wye, or in the Castle Pool. 
 
 With them in short whate'er you fancy do — 
 
 But then in sooth you should not snub us so, 
 
 Nor look upon us with disdainful eye, 
 
 Merely because some other folks are by. 
 
 Some things, perhaps, I might affirm again — 
 
 But how on earth could I pronounce you plain ! 
 
 Plain for that brow where sweetness joined with sense 
 
 Has stamped an air of mild intelligence ; 
 
 Those eyes where soul and sympathy combine. 
 
 That graceful mien, that flowing form divine.
 
 VAGA S PETITION. I49 
 
 Perish the pen that traced so foul a slander — 
 
 But anger sure will make weak wits to wander. 
 
 In sober truth it is a senseless passion, 
 
 But since the world began has been in fashion. 
 
 There mixes in our clay, so say the sage, 
 
 The lion's fierceness and the tiger's rage. 
 
 So kings and nations have too late repented 
 
 That e'er their stomach's bile they should have vented. 
 
 With sad examples History's pages groan 
 
 From Alexander to Napoleon. 
 
 What wonder then if in an evil hour 
 
 Fell on poor me that baleful passion's power? 
 
 But now let strife I pray between us cease, 
 
 And may this recantation make my peace. 
 
 Thou, only thou, my heart can'st render whole, 
 
 And give me back the sunshine of my soul. 
 
 VAGA'S PETITION. 
 
 Cut down my sheltering trees, if prayer be vain, 
 For some more kind may haply plant again ; 
 But mar not that which ages can't recall — 
 Oh smooth me not into a tame canal !
 
 I50 
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 I STOOD within a noble hall* by night, 
 
 In softest radiance silver'd o'er with light, 
 
 Which showed its fair proportions, as, the ray 
 
 Of Cynthia beautifies the ruin grey; 
 
 And, sooth to say, those ancient walls confest 
 
 The tasteful labour of the hand that drest. 
 
 Enchantment breathed around, few could explain 
 
 How entrance such a throng contrived to gain, 
 
 While barr'd those massive doors that front the westy_ 
 
 For faithless Zephyr was forbid the feast. 
 
 The brow of age, the form so light and fair, 
 
 To kindly summons all had gathered there. 
 
 Then music stole upon the ravished sense. 
 
 Prepared to feel its magic influence. 
 
 List to the o'erarching dome ascending high 
 
 The first grand chords of holiest harmony! 
 
 But ere each coming car had ceased to roll. 
 
 Soon " Comfort ye my people" soothed the soul; 
 
 * In the Palace, Hereford, Dr. Hampden being then Bishop.
 
 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 I5i 
 
 And cares and griefs awhile from memory driven, 
 The passing scene became a sort of Heaven. 
 Why not ? while Innocence o'er all did reign, 
 And still Religion hallowed every strain. 
 But, lo ! as if from cloud or airy car, 
 With wings of lightning wafted from afar, 
 A pair of syrens drop, to make rejoice 
 The wondering guest by charm of female voice. 
 Quick to their aid a third was pleased to come, 
 Who in sweet melodies seemed quite at home. 
 Till burst replete with wildest symphony 
 " Why do the nations rage so furiously ?" 
 And, might I add one other question here — 
 Why did they buzz so loudly in the rear ? 
 
 Next, after short but fitting pause, at length 
 
 Came Samson forth, with more than wonted strength. 
 
 Then, leader of that minuet divine, 
 
 Was felt thy force, unrivall'd Wallerstein ; 
 
 And dull were he whose bosom did not glow, 
 
 With every pulse responsive to thy bow. 
 
 To feelings thus o'erwrought, with lenient art, 
 
 A Requiem administered Mozart. 
 
 Yet by sweet songstresses, no trifling boast, 
 
 Thy pieces, Mendelssohn, were honoured most.
 
 152 A RETROSPECT. 
 
 Then, too, was echoed well that wisest song, 
 " Remember thy Creator while thou'rt young." 
 Now, not with too protracted tale to tease ye, 
 The grand treat closed with grandest Pergolesi ; 
 And for finale fine, indeed, what else is 
 So glorious as is " Gloria in excelsis ?" 
 
 Lastly, the banquet called to glad mine eye 
 With view of boundless hospitality. 
 But now, good night, as bard may justly dread 
 The nightmare for companion of his bed. 
 Lest dreams less joyous on his spirit weigh 
 Than those that prompted this imperfect lay. 
 So homeward hastened he, to take his rest, 
 Albeit a supperless, a truly sated guest.* 
 
 Jan., 1854. 
 
 * Ccdat uli conviva satur — Horace.
 
 153 
 
 THE WAR. 
 
 In sceptred freedom safe, and peaceful sway, 
 
 Amused Britannia views the distant fray. 
 
 'Mid gathering hosts, in martial splendour bright, 
 
 One has, at least, no stomach for the fight. 
 
 In closet pent while lags the chief of France, 
 
 Opposing snows, still check his troops' advance,* 
 
 While her own act might prompt decision, lo ! 
 
 Deliberate Austria drivels on the Po. 
 
 Perhaps each justly dreads "the little bill," 
 
 Nor either much delights in plumber's pill. 
 
 To come to time no wonder each is loth. 
 
 Both trembling despots, and but bankrupts both. 
 
 May, 1859. 
 
 Opposnit natura Alpcmquc nivemque. — yuvcnal.
 
 154 
 
 FROM JUVENAL, SAT. X., 282. 
 
 " Whom Solon warn'd that death alone could show 
 The true criterion of our bliss or woe." 
 
 Da spatium vitae, multos da Jupiter annos : 
 ****** 
 
 Haec data paena diu viventibus, 
 
 * * * * * » 
 
 Longa dies igitur quid contulit ? &c. 
 
 ****** 
 
 Festino ad nostros, et regem transeo Ponti, 
 Et Croesum, quern vox justi facunda Solonis 
 Respicere ad longas jussit spatia ultima vitas. 
 Exilium, et career, Minturnarumque paludes, 
 Et mendicatus victa Carthagine panis, 
 Hinc causas habuere. Quid illo cive tulisset 
 Natura in terris, quid Roma beatius unquam. 
 Si circumducto captivorum agmine, et omni 
 Bellorum pompa, animam exhalasset opimam. 
 Cum de Teutonico vellet descendere curru ?
 
 ^55 
 
 A FREE VERSION. 
 
 Good folks ! to Solon's golden rule attend, 
 
 In rating all things still regard the end. 
 
 With sad examples History's pages groan, 
 
 I pass all these, and hasten to our own. 
 
 How fatal oft, where all is anxious strife. 
 
 The pride of preaching, as the love of life ! 
 
 See Matho mount, at will wake hope or fear. 
 
 Chain, as he goes, and charm the captive ear. 
 
 Did he but choose the happy bound to set, 
 
 He might descend 'mid general regret. 
 
 This not enough, he must have one word more, 
 
 So tires the audience whom he touched before. 
 
 What could the sourest critic have wished mended^ 
 
 If, in the blaze of thoughts and language splendid, 
 
 Matho had fifteen minutes sooner ended ?
 
 156 
 
 EPIGRAM. 
 
 The Canadian settlers seem unsettled quite, 
 And may want no small settling before they are right; 
 But if thus disjointed they yet will be rash, 
 Then the settler we send them shall settle their hash. 
 1849. 
 
 KING AND QUEEN. 
 
 While King in Surrey takes the lead. 
 And King King now is we know where, 
 
 Sure, loyalty cannot be dead. 
 But still we prize the brave and fair. 
 
 Like the poor cow late floating seen, 
 Red Radicals are down the river, 
 
 And still we cry, " Long live the Queen," 
 Varied with shouts of " King for ever." ■ 
 
 Elected by a large majority Member for the County of 
 Hereford, 1852.
 
 157 
 
 ON THE DOUBLE DEFEAT OF 
 MR. CORNWALL LEWIS. 
 
 " Infelix Dido ! nnUi bene niipta marito." 
 
 Unhappy, Lewis, is thy fate 
 
 As Town or County Candidate. 
 
 The land of corn might justly fear 
 
 Thy services would prove too dear ; 
 
 But now, while nought the more you reap, 
 
 Proud Peterborough holds them cheap! 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Of all her charms of person and of mind, 
 
 Which round our hearts with gentlest progress wind, 
 
 Her meekness — slender form — her cheek's carnation. 
 
 That thrives, while others fade, on dissipation — 
 
 A page would not suffice to tell you half. 
 
 But one's enough to win you— 'tis her laugh !
 
 158 FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 Fresh with the jocund j^iddiness of youth, 
 
 Yet breathing too of Innocence and Truth ; 
 
 Like some fair filly's sprightly neigh — -a sound 
 
 That seems to glad the atmosphere around ; 
 
 Coming upon the ear with sweet surprise, 
 
 Though long before 'twas lurking in her eyes. 
 
 In life's perplexing paths, that rugged region. 
 
 Where cares encounter us whose name is legion. 
 
 Of such dull spirits should she hold a levee, 
 
 One little laugh of hers would scatter the whole bevy. 
 
 Anglo-Francois. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 (Moschus.) 
 
 Silurian sisters ! sound a doleful strain. 
 Ne'er shall ye see your gifted bard again. 
 Ye nightingales that nestle in the groves, 
 And sweetly chant your unrequited loves. 
 Tell to the tuneful streams of winding Wye, 
 That , also, has been doomed to die ;
 
 FROM THE GREEK. I59 
 
 That talents fine were powerless to save 
 Her cherish'd minstrel from th' untimely grave ; 
 Say that with him sweet rhythm, too, is dead, 
 And Poesy submits to bow her head. 
 
 Silurian sisters ! tune a mournful lay, 
 Your gifted bard is lost to light of day. 
 He, whom so many readers have admired,* 
 No longer pens what Genius late inspired. 
 But treads that misty, undiscover'd shore, 
 Where poetry, perhaps, may please no more. 
 
 Silurian sisters ! chant a minor key, 
 Your gifted bard ye ne'er again shall see. 
 Not this thy first lament, melodious stream, 
 Vaga, sweet nurse of pensive poet's dream, 
 For frequent bards, long lost, have joy'd to tell 
 The beauty of those banks we love so well. 
 Yet few, perchance, more favour'd by each muse, 
 Than he whom now with fresh regret we lose — 
 The light contributor of fancies rare — 
 And many a bright conception sparkled there, 
 
 * The late Rev. James Bullock, Rector of High Ham, Somerset, the 
 accomplished writer of the four pieces bearing the signature of K.
 
 l6o FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 The quick response, with wit and humour gay, 
 And oft on words the prompt, perpetual play. 
 By some of these, that in our memory last, 
 E'en Sydney Smith might find himself surpassed. 
 
 Silurian sisters ! take a plaintive tone, 
 The bard that now has perished is your own. 
 Who now is left, who now, of mortal men. 
 That would presume to wield thy ready pen. 
 Which breathes, e'en yet, of those enlivening strains. 
 While Echo feeds upon the sweet remains ? 
 But late the pipe was changed for graver crook. 
 Guiding that flock to the refreshing brook, 
 Who mourn of mind so clear the clouded ray, 
 And that such intellect could go astray. 
 
 Silurian sisters ! touch a chord of woe. 
 And let of tears the generous torrent flow. 
 Alas! alas! when fades the garden's pride. 
 It blooms afresh, by hidden hand supplied; 
 But we, boon Nature's masterpiece, e'en we 
 Who boast of wisdom, wit, and — poetry. 
 Bright beings, soon as 'scaped our feeble breat 
 We sleep the sleepless, endless, sleep of death.
 
 THE PASSING SEASON. r6 r 
 
 So sang sweet Moschus, but old Time hath wrought 
 A goodly change of creed, as sure he ought : — 
 In life's last throes we now a balsam share, 
 Nor longer sink in darkness and despair, 
 But faith and hope their aid together blend 
 To cheer and dignify the Christian's end. 
 
 THE PASSING SEASON. 
 
 As lightly falls the hand of Time 
 
 On vigorous Manhood's sunny prime, 
 
 Sprinkling first specks of grey ; 
 So see old Autumn softly stealing 
 O'er Nature's face, now scarcely feeling 
 His tender touch, or just revealing 
 
 The tints that deck decay. 
 
 The year's glad morn, and gorgeous noon^ 
 The flowers of May, the fruits of June, 
 Where have they vanished all ? 
 
 N
 
 l62 THE PASSING SEASON. 
 
 To such if e'er I breathe a sonnet, 
 I'll take them from the fair one's bonnet, 
 Since those that gaily grow upon it 
 Alone nor fade nor fall. 
 
 But Beauty's spirit haunts the ruin 
 Of leafy glades, around her strewing 
 
 The motley sylvan scene; 
 And if no hedge is sweetly budding, 
 Yet, yonder vale with glory flooding, 
 Sol gleams on rubies richly studding 
 
 The thorns that still look green. 
 
 t 
 
 What though a brief convulsion shook* 
 Our couches, and their inmates took 
 
 With wonder and surprise ! 
 All fear was banished by the light. 
 Which broke as beauteous and as bright 
 As ever chased the shades of night 
 
 To gladden mortal eyes. 
 
 It is the evening of the year, 
 Serenely calm, divinely clear, 
 Speaking of splendour past ; 
 
 * In allusion to the earthquake in the autumn of 1863.
 
 DECLINE AND DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER. 163 
 
 While over all repose is creeping, 
 Soft as the smile of childhood sleeping, 
 Still as the grief of widow weeping — 
 Too solemn long to last. 
 
 ON THE RAPID DECLINE AND DEATH 
 OF A BELOVED SISTER. 
 
 I CAME with hope and joy elate 
 To view the burst of Spring, 
 
 To see the Almond bud dilate. 
 And all the bland hours bring. 
 
 Boon Nature smiled in joyous glee. 
 
 Fair shone the vernal day, 
 But she that should have welcomed me 
 
 Was fading fast away. 
 
 Alas ! that death can co-exist 
 With sky so bright and blue. 
 
 And scene so beautiful consist 
 With all that most we rue !
 
 164 DECLINE AND DEATH OF A BELOVED SISTER. 
 
 But, dear departed, I believe 
 Now purer bliss is thine, 
 
 In realms no mortal can conceive, 
 All radiant, all divine. 
 
 Clifton, April, 1864.
 
 LETTERS 
 
 TO THE 
 
 EDITOR OF THE "HEREFORD JOURNAL." 
 
 Sir, — I suppose it was the inveterate force of habit — ever, 
 alas ! too much for us — that in spite of the timely circular, 
 so considerately addressed to each member of our Permanent 
 Library, caused me nevertheless to turn as usual into that 
 agreeable haunt of Literature and the Muses, as I traversed 
 St. John's Street. 
 
 The scene which there presented itself, of venerable quartos 
 breaking up from their ancient fastnesses, and of smaller tomes 
 innumerable descending en masse from their shelves — a scene 
 unrivalled, 1 should suppose, since the famous battje of the 
 books — made me quickly sensible of my mistake, and sum- 
 moned at the same time to my recollection an apothegm which 
 seems to have been long familiar to me, and which, though I 
 should not vouch for its author, will declare of itself, by the 
 peculiarity of its diction, the quarter from whence it comes. 
 It is as follows : — 
 
 " That which is permanent cannot be removed ; for if removed, 
 it soon ceases to hz permanent." * 
 
 * See, in Rejected Addresses, "Johnson's Ghost."
 
 l66 LETTERS. 
 
 Now, Sir, admitting — and few, I think, can help it — the 
 reasonableness of this axiom, one of these two conclusions would 
 appear to follow, either — what would be much to be regretted 
 — our literary institution has lost an important and distinctive 
 feature, or, what is more probable, this is but one more proof 
 oi the superior genius of the age in which we have the happi- 
 ness to move and have our being, and which completely sets at 
 nought or reverses the sagest saws of our forefathers ; for lo ! 
 that which is permanent is removed, nor ceases (and Heaven 
 forbid it should!) to \i^ per?nanent. 
 
 Hoping that, among the many graver topics comprehended in 
 your columns, you may find space for these few observations, 
 
 I remain yours, &c., 
 
 wth April, \%i^o. LECTOR. 
 
 Sir, — While Mr. Lucy's admirable portrait of Nelson is 
 being exhibited, I think the moment opportune for introducing 
 to the notice of your readers what I have always regarded as 
 a most touching tribute to the memory of the immortal hero. 
 It is from the pen of that accomplished scholar and eminent 
 divine, the late Bishop of Lichfield, previously for more than 
 thirty years the distinguished Head Master of Shrewsbury 
 School, and was written shortly after the lamented event. 
 Dr. Butler had also rendered himself conspicuous, as Arch- 
 deacon of Derby, by a memorable charge, in which he 
 recognised the liberal and humane interpretation of the law 
 respecting the observance of the seventh day. Nothing, he 
 observed, could be less reasonable than to hold that resting on 
 the Sabbath meant always sitting still ; allowing those unfor- 
 tunates who were thus engaged for six days in the week to keep
 
 LETTERS. 167 
 
 it holy by die enjoyment on the seventh of a little country air 
 and exercise. 
 
 The subjoined lines will perhaps be the more acceptable at 
 a time when we appear on the eve of, at least, a naval war, and, 
 according to my Lord Ellenborough's prophetic view, of some- 
 thing more. They seem to me to present an agreeable contrast 
 to many abortive attempts to commemorate the loss of England's 
 other boast, the noble Duke. Perhaps I may be inclined to 
 over-rate their merit, as having the happiness to have been the 
 author's pupil for some years ; let your readers judge : — 
 
 When notes of triumph swell the gale, 
 Why sits Britannia sad and pale, 
 
 In the hour of Victory ? 
 She mourns her gallant hero dead, 
 She weeps that matchless Nelson bled, 
 And pensive bows her laurel'd head 
 
 In the hour of Victory. 
 
 Oh ! Chief (she cries) to Britons dear, 
 For thee be shed Britannia's tear 
 
 In the hour of Victory : 
 Chief of the lion's dauntless soul, 
 From Egypt's shore to Norway's pole 
 'Twas thine to bid my thunders roll 
 In the hour of Victory ! 
 
 For thee shall spotless honour grieve, 
 And cypress 'mid her laurels weave. 
 
 In the hour of Victory j 
 On thee shall grateful memory dwell, 
 And ages yet unborn shall tell 
 How Nelson fought, how Nelson fell. 
 In the hour of Victory. 
 
 Heir of immortal glory, now 
 Protector of the brave be thou 
 In the hour of Victory j
 
 l68 LETTERS. 
 
 Teach thou the valiant good and great 
 Thy high exploits to emulate, 
 And fearless smile like thee on fate 
 In the hour of Victory ! 
 
 To say a word more would be, after delicious music, to run 
 into a dull minor key; so I remain &c., 
 
 SALOPIENSIS. 
 
 Sir, — Though the astronomical essay of Her Majesty's In- 
 spector of Schools has already, perhaps, provoked replies enough, 
 yet it is somewhat singular that not one of them has noticed what 
 would seem to be well worthy of remark. I would not, indeed, 
 hastily pronounce any promulgator of a new doctrine to be 
 wrong, as it is always possible in these days of progress that a 
 new light may break in to show us the error of our ways. 
 Columbus, we all know, was held to be a madman, and Galileo 
 imprisoned, merely because each saw farther than common 
 mortals. 
 
 At present, however, I must confess that the evidence is 
 against the Inspector, and the learned gentleman would appear 
 to have furnished us unwittingly with a most happy and con- 
 vincing proof of the fallacy of his own reasoning. I allude 
 to his illustration of the subject by reference to the round end 
 of the hand of a watch, which does indeed exhibit exactly the 
 motion and phases of the moon, as regards the earth, which he 
 considers as represented by the pivot in the centre of the dial. 
 The least scientific person will perceive, on a slight attention, 
 that the said round end of the hand, while traversing the dial, 
 makes also one complete revolution on its own axis, which is 
 evident on comparing its direction at opposite points, while it
 
 LETTERS. l6g 
 
 also of necessity, like the moon towards the earth, keeps the 
 same face turned towards the pivot in the centre. 
 
 Thus what the learned gentleman has pointed out for the 
 purpose of confuting, confirms in the most striking manner the 
 ancient theory, which we may be almost said to have sucked 
 in with our mothers' milk. 
 
 This correspondence may not be without its use should it 
 convince the learned counsel, however late, that while going 
 the Oxford circuit he has, unconsciously, at the same time 
 been turning upon his own axis. He will thus, 1 trust, pause 
 ere he impeach the schoolmasters of the district for teaching 
 strange and dangerous doctrine. 
 
 I remain, Sir, your faithful servant, 
 
 1856. CANTAB. 
 
 Sir, — It has become manifest to me, and must be manifest 
 to many of your readers (to some of them nothing can be 
 manifest) that the learned Inspector, with the adroitness 
 peculiar to his profession, has shifted his ground, being too 
 good a general to defend a position which it was evident to 
 himself was no longer tenable. But litera scripta tnanet. His 
 first letter to the London Times, of which the Journal of the 
 1 6th inst. gives a faithful copy at the head of the series, most 
 distinctly denies the truth of the accepted theory that the 
 moon, in revolving round the earth, rotates once upon its own 
 axis, denouncing the error as " prevalent and unaccountable." 
 This is his first position, or, as we should rather say, first 
 proposition. 
 
 His proposition 2 is that the moon does not go spinning
 
 170 LETTERS. 
 
 round the earth, as the earth does round the sun, or as a 
 billiard-ball, when struck by a skilful side-stroke player, rapidly 
 rotates. Nobody, that I am aware of, ever said it did ; but 
 should the learned gentleman proceed as far as a proposition 5, 
 truly it promises to be more formidable than the famous pons 
 asinorum of Euclid. 
 
 If however the moon rotates once upon its axis while 
 revolving once round the earth, as I understand the learned 
 gentleman now to admit, then, if there be any precise meaning 
 in words, it must have an axial rotation, just as a plum pudding 
 will still be a plum pudding, though there be only one plum 
 in it. 
 
 Judging, however, from later essays, there would seem to be 
 disciples who wade far beyond their master in darkness and 
 delusion. The imposing diagram with a grim face and pig- 
 tail I imagined at first to be a joke ; but as a friend of my own, 
 distinguished for his sagacity in sublunary matters, has been 
 led astray by it, I think it worth while to point out to some at 
 least of your readers, that this portentous figure is nothing 
 more than a reappearance of the fallacy of the round end of 
 the hand of a watch, which I had hoped had been sufficiently 
 exposed in the Journal. But 
 
 " Destroy his web of sophistry in vain. 
 The creature's at his dirty work again." 
 
 I will only add that in what I have written I make no pre- 
 tension to profound philosophy, but merely to the faculty' c'^ro 
 distinguere falsum, or, in other words, to tell chalk from cheese, 
 though in the case of some cheeses it has been my fate to meet 
 with I would hardly undertake to do even this. 
 
 VINDEX.
 
 LETTERS. 171 
 
 " Paribus se Icgihus amboe 
 InvktCE gentci crierna in fcecki a mittant." — VIRGIL. 
 
 Sir, — As we have lately had so much spurious philosophy 
 even upon the right side of the question, and as the moon- 
 struck theorists, in spite of the reasoning and ridicule your 
 columns as well as others have heaped upon them, die like 
 worms cut in twain, I beg leave to borrow a little of the 
 exquisite wit of Moliere to help, if possible, to shorten their 
 last agonies. Immortal as Moliere deserves to be, I fear that 
 to the rising generation his pages may be less familiar than 
 those of Dickens, Thackeray, and some others. For the first 
 there was sometime since such a rage, that I fancy to have 
 heard one say 
 
 " Write as we will we're Dickens's inferiors. 
 His works will reach posterity's posteriors." 
 
 Not only posterity, but their successors also, which seems bor- 
 rowed from Virgil's 
 
 "Et nati natorum et qui nascentur ab illis." 
 " The sons of sons, and those that spring from them." 
 
 A prodigious compliment indeed, though some might think a 
 little equivocal, if only from descending somewhat too far. 
 The sole doubt is whether it be deserved. 
 
 But I hasten to the extract from Moliere, which is from 
 Act 4, Scene 3, of his famous " Les Femmes Savantes," in the 
 vernacular " The Blue Stockings." 
 
 T. J'ai cru jusques ici que c'etoit rignorance 
 
 Qui faisoit les grands sots, et non pas la science. 
 
 C. Vons avez cru fort mal ; et je vous suis garant 
 Q'un sot savant est sot plus q'un sot ignorant. 
 
 T. Le sentiment commun est contre vos ma.vimes, 
 Puisq' ignorant et sot sont termes synonymes.
 
 172 LETTERS. 
 
 C. Si vous le voulez prendre aux usages du mot, 
 L'alliance est plus grande entre pedant et sot. 
 T. La sottise, dans I'un, se fait voir toute pure. 
 C. Et I'ctude dans Tautre, ajoute a la nature. 
 
 of which, for want of a better, I venture to offer, with some 
 diffidence, the following version : 
 
 T. I thought till now that folly most did lie 
 
 In ignorance and not philosophy. 
 C. You thought unwisely ; for with due mandamus 
 
 I'll sages bring to beat the ignoramus. 
 T. The common sense sure contradicts your rule, 
 
 Since kindred terms are ignorant and fool. 
 C. You'll find, if logic you can boast of any. 
 
 More cognate still the pedant and the zany. 
 T. Folly s, in one, a simple element. 
 C. In t'other, study aids the natural bent. 
 
 In our present happy state of close alliance with France, 
 knit together as we are by so many intermarriages, as well as 
 by common political sentiments, under the benign influence of 
 that exalted individual who is surely entitled, if ever man was, 
 to be numbered pre-eminently among the wise, as his uncle 
 was among the great, it may not be inappropriate to see French 
 and English mingled together in your columns. Ardently 
 hoping that this union may be permanent, 
 
 1 remain your tres humble Scrviteur, 
 
 ANGLO-FRANCOIS.
 
 LETTERS. 173 
 
 Sir, — I happen to hold in my memory one of those many 
 elegant compositions of the lighter kind, which have been 
 ascribed to that eminent scholar, the late Richard Porson, 
 sometime fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, and Professor 
 of Greek in the same University ; and though he has, I 
 believe, had credit for many more pretty things of this sort 
 than he ever wrote, yet from what I heard in my childhood, 
 now rather distant, I have little doubt that he was really the 
 author of this. As it is always interesting to see a master 
 mind unbend — Mozart playing a game at billiards — and as 
 it is undoubtedly a choice piece of Latinity which will proba- 
 bly be new to most of your classical readers of the middle age 
 and under, I venture to offer it to their and your own notice. 
 It is a Latin charade, but so transparent that scarce a school- 
 boy, who has read the first eclogue of Virgil, can fail to 
 resolve it at once ; — ■ 
 
 Te prlmtim incauto nimium, propiusque tuenti, 
 
 Laura mihi furtim surripuisse queror. 
 Nee tamen hoc furtum tibi condonare recusem, 
 
 Si pretium tali solvere more velis. 
 Sed quo plus candoris habent tua colla secundo^ 
 
 Hoc tibi plus prim um frigoris intus habet. 
 Saepe sinistra cava prcedixit ab ilice totum 
 
 Omina, et audaces spes vetat esse ratas. 
 
 Of which I take leave to subjoin the following feeble 
 imitation ; and as, though departing from my model in other 
 respects, I have scrupulously preserved the name adopted by 
 Porson, I beg to assure any fair one rejoicing in the same 
 name, that nothing personal is intended : — 
 
 Laura, as half the world complain, 
 
 My first you steal away ; 
 But I should deem the loss a gain, 
 
 Would you in kind repay.
 
 174 LETTERS. 
 
 For who on earth, yourself beside, 
 
 My second can bestow ? 
 My whole the garden's joy and pride, 
 
 Surpassing rarest show. 
 
 I will no longer trespass on your space, but remain 
 
 Your faithful servant, 
 Sept. 19, 1857. MEMOR. 
 
 Sir, — As you have, I feel sure, many musical readers, I beg 
 to oiFer a charade which mav be interesting to them, as well 
 as amusing to those who are not musical, — a proportion of 
 society, in a cathedral city like our own, I trust, very small : — 
 
 My first, with graceful mien and winning ways, 
 Shelter and sustenance in full repays, 
 A boon companion on this rugged earth, 
 Purges our house, and animates our hearth. 
 My next an old established thoroughfare, 
 Where stoppages, thank Heaven, are but rare. 
 Music most eloquent my whole discourses, 
 Opening our hearts, and haply too our purses. 
 
 Permit me at the same time to congratulate you and your 
 readers on the marked improvement in our musical prospects — 
 Dr. Mark and his Little Men announced for the middle of 
 next month — and what forms scarcely an inferior attraction, a 
 concert to be given at the Shirehall, by the full force of our 
 Philharmonic Society, led by Mr. Charles Pritchard, who can 
 now muster 13 or 14 — good men and true. I understand that 
 they have in rehearsal, besides other instrumental pieces, one 
 of the finest compositions in all music, the No. I, in C Major, 
 of Beethoven.
 
 LETTERS. 175 
 
 Though some of this master's later Symphonies, when he 
 was suffering from deafness, are admitted to be crude and even 
 unintelligible, the one before-mentioned would seem, to an ear 
 that has perception of the beautiful and melodious, to be one 
 of the most exquisite and delicious inspirations that ever came 
 from the most gifted composer, uniting the sweetness of Haydn 
 with the grandeur and pathos of Mozart — 
 
 «' The force of Music could no farther go, 
 
 To make a third she joined the former two." 
 
 Mrs. H. Barnby, the soprano, who so lately delighted us at 
 the Corn Exchange, supported by Miss Lane, will also, I am 
 informed, contribute to our enjoyment. 
 
 I cannot conclude without expressing my regret that Mr. 
 Townshend Smith, to whom the musical world were so much, 
 indebted for his exertions at the late Festival, did not succeed 
 in his attempt to bring down to Hereford that accomplished 
 mistress of song, Angiolina Bosio. 
 
 We should then have been able to apply to him the well- 
 known lines of Dryden : — 
 
 " Let old Timotheus yield the prize, 
 Or both divide the Crown ; 
 Tim raised a mortal to the skies, 
 Smith brought an Angel down." 
 
 I will no longer intrude on vour space, but remain 
 
 Your faithful servant, 
 
 Jan., 1859. MUSIS AMICUS.
 
 176 LETTERS. 
 
 On Reading the Charade in your Last. 
 
 " Lysander riddles very prettily — 
 And his purring riddles sort too with the place." 
 
 Purring playfulness and winning grace, 
 Pretty Pusscy ! mark thy hearth-rug face, 
 And cupboards from marauders free, 
 More than cupboard love extend to thee. 
 We call for here no puzzling cap, 
 For, like your first, we're up to trap, 
 And catastrophe to mouse and rat 
 Mark lurking in your first — "the Cat." 
 Again, the Gordian knot to cut, 
 Your second we pronounce " the Gut."*' 
 And whether steersman. Sir, or surgeon 
 Meaning technical the term would urge on, 
 Thank Heaven, whichever sense it bear, 
 (As 'mongst bankers) "stoppages" are rare : 
 Though, hint we, by an ill-timed " run " 
 Both " Gut" and banker are undone. 
 " Cat-Gut," your whole, with gentle force,t 
 " Most excellent music can discourse," 
 While the bow cadenzas. Sir, and swells 
 Evokes as sweet as sweet Bow Bells, 
 And, ringing, plays the witching part 
 Of touching strings of human heart. 
 Bidding tightened fiddle strings reverse 
 The tightened strings of 'plcnish'd purse. 
 
 * A part of the Isis familiar to boat-racers ; and as the Cam has a stout 
 stomach for such aquatic contests, we doubt not it has its "gut" too. 
 f "Lene tormentum ingenio admoves."
 
 LETTERS. 
 
 '77 
 
 That genius lacks a spur none e'er denied. 
 But with nice tact the spur must be applied. 
 So, when to hand-maid wisely, Sir, and well 
 Our bidding we'd convey — we "touch the bell"- 
 But if to belle wish touchingly we'd tell, 
 We, then, by Cupid's quiver, "ring the belle." 
 
 Jan. 26, 1859. « K 
 
 Sir, — Observing that the public do not yet seem to be quite 
 tired of " Matho,"* I think it may be interesting to many, as 
 well as news to some, to learn that the gentleman is noticed 
 by Martial in a neat Epigram. As said Epigram contains useful 
 advice for that considerable portion of society who are anxious 
 to shine eternally, and also may afford something consolatory 
 to those, likewise a numerous class, who have attained only to 
 two-thirds of the practice recommended, 1 beg leave here to 
 introduce it : — 
 
 " Omnia vis belle, Matho, dicere, die aliquando 
 Et bene, die neutrum, die aliquando male." 
 
 For the benefit of ladies, as well as those of the stronger sex 
 whose Latin is a little rusty, allow me to offer an attempt at 
 imitation : — 
 
 Matho, a finished speaker would you seem ? 
 
 Then seldom, Matho, put on all the steam. 
 
 Speak often well, but still remember this, 
 
 Middling at times, e'en sometimes speak amiss. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 FHILOMATHES. 
 
 * See page 155.
 
 178 LETTERS. 
 
 Sir, — Though, according to Solon, we should pronounce 
 finally on nothing until we see the end, I could not help being 
 forcibly struck with the aptness of a similitude I heard lately 
 drawn between the new entrance into the Cathedral Close and 
 a railway cutting. By the way, considering the shortness of 
 life, might it not be a further improvement to lay down a 
 broad gauge in order to facilitate communication between the 
 Deanery and the canonical residence in Broad Street, as well 
 as, by a continuation down the Ouav Lane, to speed the trans- 
 mission of newspapers from the Post Office to our Castle Green 
 reading-room ? 
 
 However, joking apart, nothing can at present appear more 
 formidable or lugubrious than the newly-constructed entrance 
 into the Cathedral grounds — it would seem to be a plunge into 
 the grave — with a nodding elm, like Scylla and Charybdis, 
 threatening destruction on cither side. Should the visitor 
 escape all these difficulties "in limine prima," a tombstone of no 
 ordinary dimensions, a little farther on, presents a perilous 
 stumbling-block, promising to prove harder than the hardest 
 head the vicinity could furnish. This "memento mori," or 
 reminder of mortality, than which nothing could well be more 
 impressive, may perhaps be salutary and in character with the 
 holy place. 
 
 To the scholar, however, the present prospect will surely 
 suggest the recollection of the famous via Flaminia, or road 
 made by Flaminius from Rome Northward, where so frequent 
 appeals were seen on tombstones to the attention and sympathy 
 of passengers. The unsightly-looking stone, which now, like 
 her ladyship's carriage, stops the way, would afford ample field 
 for classical composition, something in the style of that beautiful 
 Latin Epitaph concluding with — 
 
 " Qui fles talia, nil fleas, viator."
 
 LETTERS. 179 
 
 You who can drop a tear upon this stone, 
 May you want griefs to weep for of your own ! 
 
 Hoping that all will look well at last, 
 
 I remain 
 
 Faithfully yours, 
 zoth Nov., \^6o. SPECTATOR. 
 
 " Rumani decus et dolor theatr'i.^' — Martial. 
 
 Sir, — The late last farewell (if indeed it be the last) of 
 Clara Novello must suggest to most of your musical readers 
 the involuntary retirement of another mistress of Song, not a 
 whit in less high esteem with the public, and in many essentials, 
 I may be allowed to say, far her superior. I allude to the 
 untimely fate of Angiolina Bosio, who, as it was said, through 
 a blunder of her medical attendant, expired at St. Petersburg 
 in the early part of 1859. I shall be excused for recalling her 
 to the remembrance of your readers in general, as, strange to 
 say, though she was constantly singing at the Royal Italian 
 Opera and Crystal Palace for some six years, from 1853 to 
 1858 inclusive of both, yet to too many within my own 
 knowledge she was 
 
 "Just beheld and lost, admired and mourned." 
 
 1 have indeed met with not a few in the country who never 
 heard of her name, and I was somewhat amused to find, even 
 in that head-quarters of music, the Hanover Square Rooms, an 
 individual equally ignorant. Between the acts of a concert 
 performed in said rooms, scarce three months after her melan- 
 choly end, I happened to ask a neighbour if he had admired 
 Bosio. His reply was, " Oh exceedingly, does he sing this
 
 l8o LETTERS. 
 
 morning r" The most provoking class, however, and rather a 
 numerous one, is that which cannot call to mind whether thev 
 have heard her or not. 
 
 May I take this opportunity of offering you a tribute to her 
 memory which suggested itself to me on first hearing of her 
 untimely fate, but which has never yet appeared in print. 
 Should it seem to be unworthy of the subject, I must beg your 
 musical readers (for to them alone it is submitted) to allow 
 something for the intensity of regret felt on the instant by one 
 who had often listened with delight to the outpourings of her 
 delicate and delicious voice : — 
 
 Sweet songstress hast thou fled, whose tuneful art 
 Entranced the ear, and reached the feeling heart ; 
 Whose very form was music to the eye, 
 And with thy Syren notes in harmony ! 
 Snatched from admiring crowds in fullest pride 
 Of womanhood, and fame's advancing tide. * 
 Star of the South, effulgence bright as brief, 
 Gem of our stage, but now alas ! its grief. 
 Who shall supply those graces all thy own, 
 That fluent force, that purity of tone ? 
 Aghast we ponder o'er this stroke of fate, 
 So sad, so long before its proper date. 
 Oh be our fond our vain regrets forgiven, 
 Thy voice was wanted for the choirs of heaven ! 
 
 Your faithful servant, 
 %th Dec, i860. MUSIS AMICUS.
 
 CHARADES, 
 
 My first — while you read you may probably take it, 
 'Tis a hero, in short, of no small notoriety ; 
 
 My second — aunts, uncles, and grand-papas make it — 
 More than this I can scarcely disclose with propriety 
 
 If your talent's not equal to finding each word, 
 
 It must surely too long have been wrapt in my third. 
 
 My first is a town 
 
 Of ancient renown 
 Not far from fair Cambria's borders ; 
 
 If 'tis thy lot 
 
 To have seen it not. 
 Go see it without further orders.
 
 l82 CHARADES. 
 
 To my second resort 
 If fond of the sport 
 
 With pointers sagacious or setters; 
 My whole is a name 
 Well known to fame 
 
 And closely connected with letters. 
 
 I PRAY you mayn't stand at my first, Ma'am ; my second 
 
 In all save in letters a cipher is reckon'd. 
 
 My third, should your wish be to fast or grow thinner, 
 
 Will daily provide you an adequate dinner. 
 
 My whole is a gentleman whole and entire, 
 
 Though you'll hardly permit me to dub him Esquire.
 
 CHARADES. 183 
 
 As once in early education 
 
 You toil'd for Mither's approbation, 
 
 My first came next to A B C, 
 
 To stretch thy infant memory. 
 
 My next, unless you ride a race, 
 
 Perhaps you'll think a pleasant pace ; 
 
 It gives the frame a lively motion, 
 
 Like that produced by heaving ocean. 
 
 My whole, though not without some straining, 
 
 Pours out a fund to make you entertaining 
 
 »g- 
 
 My first, if a good one, will merit another. 
 Or from one side will bring you quite round to the other. 
 Thus much when attained, next guess if you're able 
 What's blithe in the pond, and not bad on the table. 
 By what follows, fair reader, I fear you'll be daunted. 
 You'll think there's some tower mysterious and haunted. 
 For the twain when united, just like thread and needle, 
 Have bells none at all, iSIa'am, nor belfry, nor beadle, 
 Yet I'll venture to say you shall scarce pass my whole 
 Without hearing something at least of a toll.
 
 184 CHARADES. 
 
 TO A LADY 
 WHOSE NAME WAS MARY ANNE. 
 
 When Eastern sages hail'd the sign above 
 Of man's redemption and eternal love, 
 With more than mortal radiance and grace 
 My first beam'd o'er the holy Infant's face. 
 My next with Marlborough France's strength impair'd, 
 His aims promoted and his glory shared. 
 
 Fair though they both in justice must be reckon'd, 
 My whole is fairer than my first or second; 
 Both please apart, but most delight our view, 
 When, gentle lady, they unite in you. 
 
 TO ANOTHER. 
 
 All my first though your bonnet 
 Is now, 'twill be on it 
 
 Before you may deem it past wearing; 
 My next's an expression 
 Must be used with discretion, 
 
 It might possibly lead you to swearing.
 
 CHARADES. 185 
 
 In this race of the brains 
 When all are at pains 
 
 First and foremost to come to the goal, 
 Press on and take care 
 Lest before you're aware 
 
 Some witling should give you my whole. 
 
 TO ANOTHER. 
 
 When winds are high, and clouds are driven 
 
 'Gainst clouds, across the murky Heaven, 
 
 On besom mounted firm and fast 
 
 My first defies the midnight blast. 
 
 My second gliding down the bay 
 
 The breeze is wafting far away. 
 
 My whole, fair lady, will express 
 
 The secret charm of loveliness ; 
 
 It lurks in every smile and tone 
 
 That make the listener's heart your own.
 
 1 86 
 
 ENIGMATICAL ADDRESS TO A LADY WHOSE 
 MARRIED NAME WAS LIGHT. 
 
 It is view'd in that fair form's airy grace, 
 It is softly diffused o'er that eloquent face. 
 It is caught in the glance of that bright blue eye, 
 Where mildness is blended with majesty. 
 It glows on thy cheek as the features play, 
 Expression heightening Beauty's ray; 
 When every line with soul is gleaming, 
 And every look with sweetness beaming; 
 Where feelings truly marked confess 
 Thy gentle bosom's tenderness ; 
 Where Nature's pencil hath portrayed 
 The genuine work her hand had made. 
 
 Rest unrevealed regretted name, 
 It breathes despair to Passion's flame ! 
 
 My first you will do with the whole if you blab it, 
 My next a choice spirit my praises exceeding; 
 
 In my whole, though perhaps not a laudable habit, 
 Many write their remarks on the book they are reading.
 
 CHARADES. 187 
 
 My first is a gain touching houses and lands, 
 But in vestments a loss which prevention demands. 
 Of parchment my next, yet by way of a treat, 
 (French for choice) it has often beguiled us to eat. 
 My whole, though o'erlooked by the passionate lover. 
 The wise, ere they wed, will per contra look over. 
 
 My first resides in highest elevation. 
 Though subject oft to violent rotation. 
 The sailor's progress marks my next, as o'er 
 The deep he's wafted from his native shore ; 
 'Tis hard to solve, no doubt you find it so, 
 Yet yields to slightest action of a bow. 
 My whole to certain heads by Nature lent, 
 At once their safeguard and their ornament.
 
 l88 CHARADES. 
 
 My first a dearth denotes, which drear and dread 
 Falls, as fate wills it, on each luckless head; 
 My next a type of plenty through the land, 
 Or fruit of patient labour held in hand ; 
 My whole a sort of girdle, belt, or band, 
 Howbeit, so phrases change and fashions vary, 
 Now seldom found save in the dictionary. 
 
 TO A MARRIED COUPLE WHOSE NAMES 
 WERE ARCHIBALD AND ANNE. 
 
 My puzzle joins in union rare, 
 A worthy and well-sorted pair. 
 First the fair lady of the house. 
 Fondly abridged then comes her spouse. 
 Each to the other help-mate meet 
 Their days are spent in concord sweet. 
 The scene now shifts — a hydra dread 
 Rages my whole, yet wants a head !
 
 1 89 
 
 A VERY EARLY PERFORMANCE. 
 
 Mr. F. H. M., having modestly suspected that Miss F. H. would 
 with much solicitation press him to write sometliing in her Album 
 before she and her niece left Herefordshire, the following piece was. 
 provided as an impromptu for that occasion. 
 
 Ere leave this scene our lovely friends 
 
 All must a tribute pay, 
 Due to the fair that condescends 
 
 To grieve with those that stay. 
 
 To her who with sweet manners blest 
 
 Claims homage ever new, 
 Nor costs a pang the feeling breast. 
 
 Save when she bids adieu. 
 
 For we shall sigh when thou art gone, 
 
 And with thee Summer dear. 
 As though Siluria's beauties shone 
 
 More bright when thou art here. 
 
 I, too, who ne'er dream'd Fancy's dream, 
 
 Scarce yet enroU'd with men, 
 Must strive, though loth, on such a theme 
 
 To ply th' unpractised pen.
 
 I go A VERY EARLY PERFORMANCE. 
 
 I who ne'er dared the Muse t' invoke, 
 
 Nor slept on that fam'd hill, 
 Where poets ready-made awoke, 
 
 Would that it were so still ! 
 
 Why, Fanny, this vain effort move 
 
 Why must this page be full, 
 And why compel me thus to prove. 
 
 Or ungallant or dull ? 
 
 Unhappy I thus doom'd t' offend 
 
 The none-offending girl, 
 Sure that the fair will not commend 
 
 The blockhead or the churl. 
 
 Then oh ye vain and trifling crew 
 
 That hover round the fair, 
 Presume not Fanny's smile to sue 
 
 Unless your worth be rare. 
 
 She has again that glass of old, 
 
 The mirror of the mind, 
 On which th' impure that gazed, we're told. 
 
 All left a stain behind.
 
 FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIA. IQI 
 
 This book will prove your talents vain, 
 
 Or make them true appear, 
 The minds of all her various train 
 She views reflected here. 
 1819. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIA. 
 
 Enjoy thy goods as one that soon must die. 
 Yet as awhile to live lay somewhat by. 
 Mindful of both these rules a man of sense 
 Will hit the mean 'twixt saving and expense. 
 
 Death wherefore dread, the Donor of repose, 
 Who kindly terminates our wants and woes ? 
 We need not fear to ask again " Who is it ?" 
 Death, only death, ne'er pays a second visit. 
 But ailments dire, the family of pain, 
 Are various, and they come, and — call again.
 
 ig2 
 
 Pour chasser de sa souvenance 
 
 L'ami secret, 
 On se donne tant de souffrance, 
 
 Pour peu d'effet. 
 Une si douce fantasia 
 
 Toujours revient, 
 En songeant qu' il faut qu' on I'Dublie, 
 
 On s'en souvient. 
 
 To drive an image from the- breast, 
 
 Which love has planted there, 
 In vain we rob the soul of rest. 
 
 Our toil but yields despair. 
 So sweet a power has fancy yet 
 
 In spite of reason's aid, 
 The very effort to forget 
 
 Recalls the absent maid. 
 
 Hen male conamur dilectum exscindere nomen 
 Quod semel insculpsit pectore durus amor. 
 
 Usque adeo menti tua, Chlori, recurrit imago, 
 Inque nihil redigit quod meditamur opus. 
 
 Conatu ex ipso, tantisque laboribus, eheu 
 
 Quidnam alind facimus quam meminisse tui ! 
 
 The Author, who is responsible for the Latin version, does not 
 recollect whence he derived either the French or English.
 
 193 
 
 THE CAMBRIDGESHIRE, 1874. 
 Peut-etre, October 27. 
 
 Certainement il a gagne, 
 Vainqueur 11 chaque pas, 
 
 II n'y avait pas de Peut-etre 
 Quand il courait la. 
 
 Esperons maintenant 
 Que le " settling" ira bien, 
 
 Et qu'il n'y aura pas de Peut-etre 
 Le Lundi prochain. 
 
 Felix Bonnechose. 
 
 VERSION. 
 
 Sure he has won the race, 
 
 Victor from first to last. 
 There was no Peut-etre at all 
 
 As full of speed he passed. 
 
 Let us hope all the same 
 
 That the "settling" will go right, 
 And that no Peut-etre may come 
 
 To dash the gay boys' delight. 
 
 Pat Patrick.
 
 194 ^ SCHOOL EXERCISE. 
 
 "forsan" alias "forsitan." 
 
 Ille tulit certe facilem et sine pulvere palmam, 
 Nempe ubi prateriit nil ibi "forsan" erat. 
 
 Copia solvendi modo sit, nee "forsitan," opto, 
 Comminuat loculos Istitiamque simul. 
 
 M. A. 
 
 The French appeared in the Morning Post, by whom contributed the 
 Author would be well pleased to know. 
 
 A SHREWSBURY SCHOOL EXERCISE. 
 
 ''Multa tulit fccltqnc pucr."—HoRAC-E. 
 
 MuLTA tulit fecitque puer, bene nota fatemur, 
 
 Ipse quidem ah feci multa tulique puer, 
 O funesta dies, et quanti causa doloris, 
 
 O et perpetuis hora repleta malis ; 
 Qua primum patrii linquebam gaudia tecti, 
 
 Jucundosque Lares, deliciasque domi ! 
 Turn mea me flentem flens acrius ipsa tenebat 
 
 Mater, et infaustum multa monebat amans.
 
 A SCHOOL EXERCISE. 195 
 
 Nil lacrymae faciunt, non evitabilis hora, 
 
 Sed prius ignotas cogor inire vias. 
 Ah ubi nunc abii ! succedunt tristia laetis, 
 
 Et mihi pro caru matre magister adest. 
 Est domus Aonidum sedes bene nota sororum, 
 
 Phoebus ubi arcitenens Pallas et ipsa sedet ; 
 Hie mihi, dum tenero floret primaeva juventus, 
 
 Triste datur pensum discere dura pati. 
 Nil nisi servitium est, libertas aurea fugit, 
 
 Non etiam erranti quo juvat ire licet. 
 Si pretium tantum est, hen quid sapientia prodest, 
 
 Jugera quid patrii linquere grata soli ! 
 Nunc etiam impositos cogor componere versus, 
 
 Nee sibi non placitum Musa secundat opus. 
 O mihi prccteritffi felix incuria vitce, 
 
 Cui fuerat summus desipuisse labor! 
 Sit spatium teneris et habena remissior annis, 
 
 Doctrinae et studio sit mora parva precor. 
 Cedite Pierides, procul O procul este magistri, 
 
 Et liceat patrio sub lare pace frui ! 
 
 1813.
 
 196 
 
 VERSION OF THE PRECEDING BY THE 
 AUTHOR'S FATHER.* 
 
 Boys, Horace sang, alas too true, 
 Have much to endure, and much to do ! 
 Of this sad truth I'm well assured. 
 For much I've done, and much endur'd. 
 
 hapless day, and luckless hour, 
 When first to feel a Pedant's pow'r, 
 From native fields condemn'd to roam, 
 
 1 left the dear delights of home ! 
 Her weeping boy my mother prest 
 Still faster weeping to her breast, 
 And whisper'd many a precept wise — 
 But nought avail'd these tears and sighs. 
 The unwonted path must now be trod, 
 Which leads to Pedagogue and rod. 
 Instead of Mother's smiles, I now 
 Must meet his stern and wrinkled brow, 
 Priest of that fane, where Phoebus dread. 
 His birchen bolts around him spread, 
 
 r — ■ 
 
 * The late John Matthews, Esq., of Belmont, near Hereford, member 
 for the County during the Parliament of 1802-6, and for nearly twent 
 years Chairman of its Quarter Sessions.
 
 VERSION. 197 
 
 Convenes with Pallas, sour old maid, 
 
 The sisters of the tuneful trade. 
 
 Here in my tender bloom must I 
 
 Their loads of learned lumber try; 
 
 Here all their various torments share, 
 
 And learn the painful art — to bear ! 
 
 Sad house of bondage ! which restrains 
 
 The wanderer's feet, and racks his brains. 
 
 To me the Muse reluctant came, 
 
 And I abhorr'd the froward Dame, 
 
 For sure no slavish toil is worse 
 
 Than, on compulsion, hamm'ring verse. 
 
 Bereft of freedom, comfort, ease — 
 
 What's knowledge worth on terms like these ? 
 
 Such dear-bought treasures I resign— 
 
 Let blissful idleness be mine ! 
 
 To my loved home, ye Gods ! once more 
 
 Your suffering victim Oh restore ! 
 
 Tyrants avaunt ! — there let me stay. 
 
 And lounge the tranquil hours away.
 
 igS 
 
 CAMBRIDGE TRIPOS. 
 
 It may be necessary to inform some readers that two Tripos days 
 were formerly held, during the Lent term, at Cambridge, on which 
 were issued lists of those who had taken honours in the preceding 
 January — the Wranglers and Senior Optimes on the first day, and on 
 the second the Junior Optimes. 
 
 Both these lists were accompanied by two copies of Latin verses, 
 written, on whatever subject they chose, by Freshmen, to whom the 
 Proctors or Moderators were pleased to assign the task, usually those 
 who had come up from a school noted for the cultivation of Latin 
 verse. As the Author was from Shrewsbury School, of which he had 
 for the last year been head boy, and as one of the Proctors was also 
 a Salopian, it was nothing extraordinary that he should receive. such 
 a compliment. Having, however, been allowed less time than usual, 
 and not having finished it to his own satisfaction, he presents the 
 following to the reader, rather for the sake of his father's English 
 version, than for any claims of its own to be a model of Latin 
 composition. 
 
 It stands as it was originally written, with the exception of two 
 merely verbal alterations. 
 
 Fiingar inaiii 
 
 Miinere. 
 
 SiCPE ego, qui quondam spatiis inclusus iniquis 
 Feci equidem, et multo enixus sudore refeci 
 Carmina ad arbitrium domini deducta, querebar 
 Durum opus infelix; clamabam " tollite nostro 
 Pugnantem ingenio morem, ingratumque camenis : 
 Hoc saltem detur mihi, si cantare necesse est, 
 Quae fert mens, quseque ipse probo, cantare potestas."
 
 TRIPOS. 199 
 
 Hie ubi nulla premunt luctantem vincula vatem, 
 Nee data lex duro cogit moderamine musam 
 Angustum per iter, contractis viribus, ire ; 
 Me cum fata meis patiuntur nectere verba 
 Auspiciis, et sponte mea, componere carmen, 
 Quid moror invitus, quid iniqua mente recuso ? 
 Scilicet in causa est libertas ipsa, morantem 
 Quae partes rapit in varias, perque omnia versat. 
 Sicut apis virides casias, et olentia libaus 
 Serpylla, Hyblaeis sepes ubi floribus halat, 
 Nunc hos, nunc illos leviter degustat, et omni 
 Nescia qui sit odor gratissimus insidet herbae ; 
 Dum dubitat, Zephyri fugiunt et amabilis sestas. 
 Non aliter, labente die, suspensa tenetur 
 Res inter varias mea mens (nam copia rerum 
 Se pandit propria dignissima qu^que camena) 
 Et libertatem quam nuper amaverat odit. 
 
 Dum qua sit ratio incertus, quasque apta canenti 
 Materies mecum meditor, mox tristior aura 
 Spirare, et liquidas in questum ducere voces. 
 Agnosco veteris bene cognita murmura luctus, 
 Et simul in tristes numeros se Musa resolvit. 
 Nam licet, humanos forsan miserata labores. 
 Jusserit infandum per se languere dolorem
 
 200 TRIPOS. 
 
 Natura, et vigiles mitescere tempore curas; 
 Multa tamen memori suspiria pectore missa 
 Te vel adhuc, regum soboles infausta, sequuntur 
 Pollicitam meliora tuis ; te vota fatigant 
 Masrentis raptam populi, spes orta Britannis 
 Quae modo fulgebas, et ni fata, invida fata, 
 Abnuerant, genti jura expectata dedisses. 
 
 Quae scelera, aut quae jam luimus perjuria cives ? 
 Ilia quidem periit modo quam speravimus Angli 
 Mox fore, quae populos, pacis studiosa, bearet 
 Imperio molli, atque novas educeret artes 
 Consiliis innixa novis ; eademque per orbis 
 (Si modo libertas aut gloria lassa vocaret) 
 Mitteret extremos belli sua fulmina tractus, 
 Ipsa decus palmae, decus baud leve, femina victrix. 
 Ilia suam subito confixam vulnere gentem 
 Destituit — nullae quod praedixere tenebrse, 
 Nee terrae tremor, aut splendens per inane cometa. 
 
 Quis tibi nunc sensus ? lasvos qui solus amores, 
 Et spes effractas, et vota, miserrime conjux, 
 Irrita qui luges ; qua te solabimur arte ? 
 Nam neque te dulces libri, quos ilia legebat
 
 TRIPOS, 201 
 
 Tecum una quondam, poterunt recreare dolentem, 
 Nee molles citharae sonitus, quos ilia solebat 
 Voce sua junctis meliores reddere chordis. 
 Non nisi Lethaeo capies solatia potu. 
 
 Quam sociare tuo lateri, propriamque vocare 
 Dulce fuit, quam non tibi vis in brachia misit, 
 Sed fidus conjunxit amor, sed mutua vota ; 
 Quo tandem poteras morituram cernere vultu. 
 Triste ministerium prsstantem, et verba foventem 
 Ultima deseruit, gelida jam pallida morte, 
 " Invalidasque tibi tendens, heu non tua, palmas." 
 
 Si qua tamen raptas soboles genetricis imago 
 Luderet in tectis, neque tu desertus ab omni 
 Parte videreris, nee gens viduata fuisset. . 
 
 Paulisper lacrymarum, atrique oblita doloris, 
 Mens avet ad latebras secreti accedere luci, 
 Quas inter, modo vos manibus, par nobile, junctis, 
 Insano procul a strepitu, procul urbe remotos, 
 Errare, alternoque frui sermone juvabat. 
 Illic ipsa sua fingens umbracula myrto 
 Constituit sedem Venus, et sacravit amori. 
 Necdum etiam vobis quid sit sentire licebat 
 Imperium, nee onus regni turbabat amantes.
 
 202 TRIPOS. 
 
 Sed veluti largos spectanti ruris honores, 
 Montis apex cupidos longe distantis ocellos 
 Allicit, et plus quam quae sunt propiora renidet : 
 Non alitur vobis, intercedentibus annis, 
 Regnum arridebat melius, meliorque corona. 
 
 At tu quae, claris de regibus orta, Britannis 
 Debueras dare jura tuis, composta sepulchro 
 Curarum et nostri langues fors inscia luctHs. 
 Quod si jam proprium in coelum, tua regna, receptam, 
 Spectantemque tuos, vel adhue mortalia tangunt ; 
 Te forsan querulas voces bibere aure juvabit, 
 Quas desideriis gens icta fidelibus edit. 
 Quisque tua attonitus metuit sua funera morte. 
 Ergo ubi prima mali tanti jam fama volabat 
 Nuncia, serpentem sensit per corda timorem, 
 Haesit et in mediis virgo tremefacta choreis, 
 Inscia quae primos modo concipiebat amores, 
 Fretaque jam vernis ridebat inaniter annis. 
 
 Hcec ego dum meditor male condita carmina, forsan 
 Vox, opere infecto, graviter compressa silebit, 
 Deficietque manus. Tuto me tramite ducas, 
 Sancta anima, in celsas, nuper quibus addita, sedes 
 Perpetuo gaudes melioris honore coronie.
 
 203 
 
 VERSION OF THE PRECEDING BY THE 
 AUTHOR'S FATHER. 
 
 Oft when I toiled for many an hour 
 
 At school beneath a Master's power, 
 
 When hard I've racked my plodding brain 
 
 To force th' involuntary strain, 
 
 Oft have I cried, "O luckless lot 
 
 To weave the verse I relish not : 
 
 My genius cramped, I want the skill 
 
 To tune my lyre at others' will, 
 
 If I must woo the Latian Muse,. 
 
 Be it mine at least the theme to choose !" 
 
 But here by no harsh fetters bound, 
 Why is my Muse still tardy found ? 
 Why halts my pen, why fails my voice ? 
 'Tis superfluity of choice. 
 Distracted thus some idle Bee 
 Thro' the wide garden ranges free ; 
 Now lightly sips the woodbine's bloom, 
 Now hovers o'er the thyme's perfume; 
 On no one blossom cares to stay. 
 But wastes the precious summer's day.
 
 204 VERSION. 
 
 So by variety distrest 
 My mind still seeks a place of rest; 
 To some sure guidance fain would fly 
 Loathing the wished-for liberty. 
 
 Whilst thus my wavering fancy views 
 Each subject worthy of the Muse, 
 Why heaves my breast the labouring sigh, 
 Why fills the tear my moistened eye ? 
 I feel that master-passion's sway 
 Which drives all lighter thoughts away 1 
 Though time on grief a balm bestow. 
 Still deeply swells a nation's woe. 
 Though moon to waning moon succeed, 
 The wounds of Britain freshly bleed. 
 This homage free thy country brings, 
 Fair offspring of a line of kings ! 
 Her fond regret, her vows sincere, 
 To grace her much-loved Charlotte's bier: 
 Whilst Hope, now drooping, paints in vain 
 The blessings of her promised reign. 
 
 What foul unexpiated crimes 
 Call vengeance on these evil times ? 
 She's gone ! and England's joy and pride 
 All withering sank when Charlotte died.
 
 VERSION. 205 
 
 Yet Memory, whilst she sighs — Farewell ! 
 On the bright vision loves to dwell ; 
 Sees at her word fell Discord cease, 
 Sees fixed the reign of lovely Peace ; 
 Whilst Arts, glad inmates of our isle, 
 Still flourish in her fostering smile : 
 Nor less her arms with glory crown'd 
 If foes at Britain aim a wound. 
 Her People with unmingled praise 
 Exulting hail Eliza's days. 
 
 Alas she's gone ! so swift a blow 
 Has laid our dearest wishes low. 
 Chased the gay dream when scarce begun ! 
 And yet no darkness hid the sun ; 
 The torpid earth was calmly still. 
 Nor trembled at impending ill ; 
 Nor did the comet's awful glare 
 Shake terror from his horrid hair. 
 
 Leopold ! thy heart was doomed to know 
 The sad pre-eminence of woe. 
 Thy blossoms nipped by killing frost, 
 Vanished thy hope, thy comfort lost. 
 What breast thy rooted grief shall share, 
 What art shall soothe thy dark despair ?
 
 206 VERSION. 
 
 Can books thy rankling pain assuage 
 So used with her to scan the page ? 
 Can Music's aid thy cares defeat ? 
 Her notes and voice made music sweet. 
 What draught Lethaean e'er shall prove 
 A balm to heal thy hapless love ! 
 Here no state-craft had forged the bands, 
 No interest linked unwilling hands, 
 But heart to heart, and mind to mind. 
 Esteem and warm affection join'd. 
 O ill-starred Prince ! 'twas thine to see 
 That hour of keenest agony : — 
 'Twas thine to catch her parting breath 
 From lips that felt the touch of Death. 
 Sad office ! fading to thy view 
 On thee she looked a last adieu, 
 And stretched to thee, too fatal sign, 
 Her weak, cold hand, no longer thine ! 
 when she sought the realms above 
 Had there survived one pledge of love. 
 One scion from that royal stem 
 More prized than Britain's diadem. 
 The Angel from thy bosom torn 
 Had left thee somewhat less forlorn ; 
 Cheered by that happy hope's relief 
 More mild had been a nation's grief.
 
 VERSION. 207 
 
 Leave we awhile this mournful scene, 
 Behold yon tufted thickets green, 
 'Tis Claremont's secret shade, — and there 
 You frequent strayed, illustrious pair, 
 Far from the world's tumultuous strife, 
 O tender husband, happy wife ! 
 By pomp of greatness unannoyed 
 The sweetest converse each enjoyed. 
 For fragrant here with many a flower 
 Fair Venus self had formed a bower, 
 (So fabling classic bards would sing), 
 Here her own myrtles did she bring, 
 Bade jasmine with her roses twine. 
 And gave to Love this sacred shrine. 
 No cares of empire dared intrude 
 To mar this blissful solitude. 
 If to this love-devoted bower 
 E'er stole the thought of future power, 
 The fleeting vision in your mind 
 Was like those objects undefined. 
 Prospects which charm admiring eyes, 
 O'er Cambrian vales where mountains rise ; 
 What time the pleased beholder views 
 The setting sun's resplendent hues ;
 
 208 VERSION. 
 
 Hills, groves and turrets to his gaze 
 Are richly wrapped in purple haze, 
 Whilst distant Snowdon's rugged frown 
 By these soft tints is melted down. 
 So Britain's crown more fair appears 
 Thro' the long range of future years. 
 
 But now, lamented shade, thou'rt fled, 
 The grave is now thy nuptial bed. 
 Perhaps till Heaven's appointed day 
 Thy soul now slumbers like thy clay, 
 Unmoved by human hopes and fears. 
 Unknown thy Britain's sighs and tears. 
 But if from that deep dread repose 
 At once thy purer spirit rose; 
 If in that world of perfect bliss 
 Thou mark'st the cares which harass this ; 
 Oh may thy duteous People's love 
 Be felt amid the joys above. 
 For here each subject felt his own 
 The fate severe which shook the throne. 
 It seemed, as fast the tidings fled, 
 That Egypt wept her first-born dead. 
 How many a ruddy cheek grew pale 
 Whilst listening to the mournful tale !
 
 VERSION. 209 
 
 The virgin seized with deadly trance 
 Checked her light footsteps in the dance, 
 The swain her chilled heart fails to move, 
 And blighted shrinks her early love. 
 
 Let us with wisdom-giving fear 
 Think what short space is granted here ; 
 And from this sad example see 
 How sudden may the summons be ! 
 E'en at this moment may not I, 
 Ere this weak verse be finished, die ? 
 Bright, holy shade ! whose flight I sing. 
 Teach me to soar on Seraph's wing 
 To that blest region, now thy reign, 
 Whence seems all mortal splendour vain ; 
 Poor in thy sight the pride of kings, 
 And crowns and sceptres empty things 1
 
 2IO 
 
 FOR A TRIN. COLL. SCHOLARSHIP. 
 
 TO BE TRANSLATED INTO LATIN VERSE. 
 
 When the gay Sun first breaks the shades of Night, 
 And strikes the distant eastern hills with light, 
 Colour returns, the plains their liv'ry wear, 
 And a bright verdure clothes the smiling year; 
 The blooming flow'rs with op'ning beauties glow, 
 And grazing flocks their milky fleeces show, 
 And barren cliff's with chalky fronts arise, 
 And a pure azure arches o'er the skies. 
 But when the gloomy reign of Night returns, 
 Stript of her fading pride, all Nature mourns : 
 The trees no more their wonted verdure boast. 
 But weep in dewy tears their beauty lost : 
 No distant landscapes draw our curious eyes, 
 Wrapt in Night's robe the whole creation lies : 
 Yet still e'en now, while darkness clothes the land. 
 We view the traces of th' Almighty hand.
 
 211 
 
 LATIN VERSION OF THE PRECEDING. 
 
 Cum primum tenebras noctis, madidosque vapores, 
 
 Sol hilari curru jam redeunte fugat ; 
 Protinus exoriens iterum se vindicat annus, 
 
 Et rediviva suo prata colore virent. 
 Induta in tenerum florem virgulta renident, 
 
 Lactea per campos vellera monstrat ovis. 
 Undique caeruleo laqueatum lumine coelum 
 
 Panditur, et montis prominet albus apex. 
 Sad simul ac redeunt tenebrae, simul omnis et una 
 
 Gratia naturae pallet et omnis honos. 
 Amplius baud tanto se jactant munere froudes, 
 
 Amplius baud flores qui rubuere rubent. 
 Amissum plorare putes fruticeta decorem, 
 
 Quae, tanquam lacrymis, rore cadente madent. 
 At modo quae sylvas facies, vel pulchrior borti, 
 
 Capta oblectabat lumina, nocte latet. 
 Sed tamen est vel adbuc, quamvis nox pallida regnet, 
 
 Est ubi perspicias Omnipotentis opus.
 
 212 
 
 TRIN. COLL. EXAMINATION. ' 
 
 From Iliad, Lib. 24, v. 77 to 96. 
 
 Dixit : et assurgit dicti non immemor Iris, 
 Parque levi vento mox qua, Samon inter et Imbron 
 Prasruptam, medium mare panditur, insilit undis ; 
 Fit sonitus, pedibusque salum turbatur euntis. 
 Infixus veluti cornu si forte bovino 
 Plumbeus in pontum raptim descenderit orbis, 
 Triste ferens fatum, et lethalem piscibus escam. 
 Ilia Thetim invenit tacito qua molle recessu 
 Contrahitur specus, at multae interiora tenebant 
 Diversa de parte Deas, quibus asquora regno. 
 Ipsa sad in medio plorabat lugubre secum 
 Egregii fatum nati, cui debita Parcis 
 Sors procul a patria Trojano occumbere campo. 
 Cui propius tandem accedens sic incipit Iris: 
 " Surge age, Diva, vocat nam te pater ipse Deorum." 
 "Quid mihi cum Superis " respondet Diva " vel ipso 
 Cum Jove ? sed quanquam Diis immortalibus olim 
 Misceri pudet, et proprius dolor occupat acgram, 
 Ibo, nee frustra fuerit quodcunque loquetur."
 
 VENETIA ITALIC RESTITUTA. 213 
 
 Haec ubi dicta, caput velo implicat optima Diva 
 Caeruleo fingens, quo pallia nigrior uUa 
 Non fuit; ilia salum duce transvolat Iride ponti 
 Par ventis, et utrimque libens diducitur unda. 
 
 Commended by the Examiners as the best sent in. 
 
 VENETIA ITALIiE RESTITUTA. 
 
 Ergo omnis belli mire evanescit imago, 
 
 Sat gentes misero diriguere metu ; 
 Sat prope civilis sonuere tonitrua pugnse, 
 
 Carnificem sat Rex Bisque* Notatus agit. 
 Mascula vis animi tales rapit ipsa triumphos, 
 
 Mirifica tantos Prussia fudit acu. 
 Donee perniciem, Italici mox sanguinis ultor, 
 
 Hostibus, heu nomen triste, SADowa dedit. 
 At nunc sollicito solvit se Europa timore, 
 
 Nam medius tandem Gallicus ensis adest ; 
 Dux ille egregius, Princeps dignissimus ostro, 
 
 Cui pax insigne est nobile, et altus honos ; 
 
 * Bismarck.
 
 214 VENETIA ITALIC RESTITUTA. 
 
 Ille beat populos, Sapiens, ut avunculus olim 
 
 Magnus erat : plus, quam laurus, oliva potest. 
 Per totam Italiam nihil est nisi gaudia pacis, 
 
 Quadratum* recipit gens sibi l^ta Latus ; 
 Summa digna fide, quia solvere posse videtur 
 
 /Es alienum, aliis quod grave crescit onus. 
 Fors arma abjicient horrentia quatuor urbes, 
 
 Artesque accipient Pieridumque chores ; 
 Forsitan Ausoniu rursus requiescet in umbra 
 
 Tityrus, et placidas pascet, ut ante, boves ; 
 Mantua Virgilium rursus, Verona Catullum 
 
 Procreet, et numeris vivat uterque suis. 
 Urbs Venetorum ergo datur exoptata Latinis, 
 
 Quai jactabat opes, imperiumque maris. 
 Ista fuere tamen — nam magna Britannia ponti 
 
 Jus habet, et salsis nunc moderatur aquis. 
 Longa dies tali sceptro concessa sit, opto, 
 
 Nunquam Anglus, mundo sospite, servus erit. 
 
 29^/i October, 1866. 
 
 * The Quadrilateral.
 
 ERRATUM. 
 
 Page ig, line 13. 
 
 For " so soft " the Author wrote " so oft," but the reader is at 
 liberty to adopt whichever of the two his taste leads him to prefer. 
 For the latter reading there is the authority of Horace — 
 
 " decies repetita placebit " 
 
 The answers to Charades will be given should this little work 
 reach a second edition.
 
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