THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS, 
 
 OR 
 
 POEMS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 
 
 BY 
 
 J. QUESTED^ 
 
 " My timorous muse 
 Unambitious tracks pursues ; 
 Does with weak unballast wings. 
 About the mossy brooks and springs, 
 
 Like the laborious bee. 
 For little drops of honey fly, 
 And there with humble sweets contents her industry." 
 
 COWLEV. 
 
 ** The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim." 
 
 BSATXIE. 
 
 SECOND EDITION, 
 Revised, Corrected, and considerably Enlarged. 
 
 CANTERBURY : 
 
 PUINTEO BY G. VfOODj (HERALD OFFICE,) HIGH STREET. 
 
 J 825.
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 *< 1 hate Prefaces, I never read thein.' 
 ERGO, 
 
 Ought 1 to write theiu ? 
 
 865173
 
 THE BATTLE OF CRESCY.'' 
 
 — ♦#0^<§»« — 
 
 This was the day when England's gallant hosts, 
 Aspiring high to honour's envied posts, 
 In bands of union met on Crescy's plain, 
 There for their lov'd, their honour'd King to gain, 
 By martial deeds, by glory's fair renown. 
 The much disputed Gallia's envied crown. 
 They met in all the pomp of war's array. 
 High beat each breast, impatient for the fray : 
 A^^ith vivid fire each warlike eye appear'd. 
 And every soldier hop'd — yet still be fear'd ! 
 Should Albion lose the cause she sought to win. 
 Sorrow would then in Britain's Isle begin ; 
 Faction would seek t' exert its noxious sway, 
 And with its poison blast the op'ning day, 
 
 B
 
 2 MY LEISURE HOUItS. 
 
 Thus to avoid this dire, impending blow. 
 
 Each warrior bade his fellow's courage glow, 
 
 Each to his friend in arms, with valour said, 
 
 " For Kings less lov'd, have Britons often bled," 
 
 Thus rank to rank with glory feltinspir'd. 
 
 And martial courage ev'ry bosom fir'd. 
 
 Edward, their chief — their King, and say what namc^ 
 
 Can more the love of British soldiers claim ? 
 
 The very sound of King respect imparts-. 
 
 With ardour fills their patriotic hearts. 
 
 And when that King is at the battle too, 
 
 HisvQice to raise — his hand to guide them through- 
 
 The scene of strife, — aye, then it is they feel' 
 
 A valour, bord'ring on a frenzied zeal ; 
 
 Then can they wield their arras and strike the blow,. 
 
 Inflicting death on him, their sov'reign's foe. 
 
 This Edward knew, nor left a means untried 
 
 To rouse that spirit, never yet denied 
 
 To Britons to belong ! O well tis known, 
 
 It is a claim that Britons call their own : 
 
 Let friends, let foes, nay let the utmost bounds. 
 
 Of earth, wherever yet their cannon's sounds.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Or archer's barbed dart — or swordsman's blade 
 
 Or where their mines were dug — or trains were laid, — 
 
 Where these were heard or felt — corae forth and say 
 
 '• England is brave," this right the world shall pay. 
 
 There as he rode through all th' heroic corps, 
 
 And now at once inspires and then implores. 
 
 He felt he'd nought to fear, for well he knew, 
 
 That British soldiers would Meir rfu<3/ rfo. 
 
 His valiant son in sable armour cas'd,** 
 
 Though young, had still his father's cause embrac'd. 
 
 Scarce fifteen suns had yet his bosom warm'd," 
 
 Scarce yet from boyish days to manhood form'd, 
 
 Yet even then his breast with ardour burn'd, 
 
 And even then, he youthful follies spurn'd. 
 
 Noble in stature, noble too in mind, 
 
 With honour sought to act the part assign'd. 
 
 High in his father's confidence he stood, 
 
 Who knew the boy was gen'rous, brave, and good ; 
 
 He felt within himself new vigour rise. 
 
 Nor could he from the ranks his thoughts disguise, — 
 
 '* Britons, essay to emulate my son," 
 
 Twas thus he spoke, *' our vict'ry then is won !"
 
 MV LEISUUE llOUUS. 
 
 Loud were the heart-felt shouts each soldier gave, 
 
 Such shouts declar'd, they knew their prince was brave ; 
 
 " Enough !" cried Edward, "to me is given, 
 
 •* Your aid— oh, grant rae thine, Almighty TIeav'n." 
 
 The sun had scarce his high meridian past,** 
 
 Ere yet his glorious light became o'ercast 
 
 With watery clouds whose blackening look, 
 
 Th' approach of death's tyrannic sway bespoke. 
 
 Foreboding ill, the baleful ravens flew 
 
 Hov'ring around the hosts as though they knew 
 
 By some instinctive pow'r that Crescy's plain 
 
 That day'd be wash'd by blood of thousands slain. 
 
 Still in the sheath the sharpen'd sword is clos'd, 
 
 Nor yet, nor yet, is man to man oppos'd : 
 
 But now arise ! the awful moment comes. 
 
 High sounds the bugle, loud the deaf'ning drums, 
 
 Th' avengful hour of hidden fate proclaim. 
 
 And call each « arrior to the path of Fame. 
 
 Shrill as the trumpet sounds through ev'ry ear 
 
 Its pow'r is felt,— its notes so shrill and clear 
 
 Hesound, enliven, animate each wing 
 
 Responsive echo cries, " For England's king.''
 
 MY LEISURE HOUHS. 
 
 Swift through the air the winged arrows fly, 
 
 And doom the bravest of the brave to die ; 
 
 By them the skilful swordsman equal falls, 
 
 As he whom treach'rous cowardice appals. 
 
 And hark! what peals are those which shake the skies, 
 
 Filling the ranks with terror and surprise ; 
 
 Unknown to Gallia were such sounds before,^ 
 
 To them unheard the dreadful cannon's roar. 
 
 Thus did the fight begin, — impatient stood, 
 
 Thousands t' imbrue their hands in human blood ; 
 
 Heav'ns, what an onset ! furious rush'd each foe. 
 
 And hurl'd with deadly feud the fatal blow, — 
 
 Ou ! on ! each cried, and now the crimson blood. 
 
 In copious streams, came pouring as a flood. 
 
 There great Bohemia's King, though old and blind/ 
 
 To fate rush'd on, and was to fate resign'd ; 
 
 True Patriot he ! he sought his country's weal, 
 
 Nor stopp'd his progress 'gainst th' avenging steel ; 
 
 Though clos'd by years of age his orbs of light, 
 
 Still by his presence did he seek t' excite 
 
 A flame of glory in the soldiers' heart. 
 
 Nor fail'd such greatness glory to impart.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 His prancing steed inept himself to guide, 
 
 The reins to those of two, his friends, were tied ; 
 
 Theirs was the fate to lead the Monarch on — 
 
 How short the course — too soon the glass was run ! 
 
 For when the shout *' to charge," was made — the grave 
 
 Wide open yawn'd, his body to receive ! 
 
 "Charge ! charge !" 'twas said, and bounding on the foe 
 
 The trio rush'd, and wilh them boldly go 
 
 The vel'ran hearts Bohemia's sceptre sway'd, 
 
 'Twas freedom call'd, — and courage was their aid. 
 
 ** Soldiers !" he said, 'twas with his latest breath, 
 
 A fatal shaft resign'd his soul to death. 
 
 O Glorious Chief, thy very name I bless. 
 
 Though England's foe, I love thee not the less. 
 
 Thy val'rous fate from Britons claims a sigh. 
 
 Thy name shall ne'er in hist'ry's annals die. — 
 
 Now, now the son of England's conq'ring King 
 
 Flies unappall'd and rouses cv'ry wing, 
 
 ** Fight ! Britons, fight !" he cries, '* your country calls 
 
 He dies a Hero who in battle falls !" 
 
 Foremost in the cmbattl'd host he trod. 
 
 And bccra'd to emulate the warriors' God.
 
 MY LEISTJUE HOURS, 
 
 Deeds of reuown, immortal he achiev'd. 
 
 And now he slew, and now th' oppress'd reliev'd : 
 
 'Till Warwick's Earl who lov'd the God-like youth, 
 
 Inform'd his sire of the glorious truth, 
 
 That where the greatest danger was, he sought. 
 
 And where the thickest of the foe, he fought. 
 
 *' Thank heav'u!" said Edward, " since I have a son. 
 
 Will do the deeds by Princes should be done; 
 
 Go Warwick then, and from his Father say, 
 
 His be the honour of this matchless day. — 
 
 Tell him he fights in his lov'd country's cause, 
 
 His country's King, — his country — and her laws! 
 
 Return, return ! haste Warwick, speed away, 
 
 And stimulate my Son in yon affiay." 
 
 Warwick approach'd, and still the Prince he found 
 
 Fresh laurels adding to his name renown'd ; 
 
 His youthful feats still all with ardour fill. 
 
 And even vet'rans feel fresh coiirage thrill. 
 
 '* My prince" he cried, " a high command I bring; 
 
 From Edward great, your father, and your King; 
 
 He knows your valour, and he bids me say, 
 
 To you he gives the honour of the day;
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Tell him llie best of news his father hears, 
 Is that his son deserves the arms he bears." 
 The prince attentive heard the flatt'ring sounds. 
 With freshen'd spirit on the foe he bounds, 
 "Come on ray friends" he cried, *^' and let us prove, 
 lilngiand and Edvpard equal share our love : 
 Mine be the task to do ray father's will, 
 And thus I liasle his mandate to fulfil ; 
 On to the combat, see,— advance once more. 
 And gild the laurels you have gain'd before !" 
 Furious now the dreadful battle rog'd. 
 Shield press'don shield, and sword to sword engag'd 
 There too Arundel and Northampton's Earls, 
 Each on his foe, deep rooted vengeance hurls : 
 With pond'rous stroke they wield the blood-stain'd blade 
 Nor can the enemy their blows evade. 
 'Twas thus they fought, how could their deeds e'er fail, 
 Twas thus they fought, and thus they did jncvail. 
 Yes, on that day did English arms acquire 
 The farae to which a Soldier dares aspire ; 
 Myriads of foes did British hosts behold. 
 They were themselves but thrice ten thousand told.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. S 
 
 So thin their ranks when with th' allies compai'd 
 
 That three-fold danger ev'ry Briton shat'd ; 
 
 Unnumber'd toils on toils did they endure, 
 
 But by young Edward led, they felt secure. 
 
 Thus was the day by Britons nobly won, 
 
 And thus the strength of Gallia was undone. 
 
 But never will the muse neglect to sing 
 
 The courage of invaded Gallia's King ; 
 
 He to protect his rights, for such he deem'd 
 
 The throne of France, most nobly fought, nor secm'd 
 
 To breathe a wish to live, unless to reign, 
 
 In France, the King of all her proud domain. 
 
 Twice on the field dismounted did he lie. 
 
 And once beneath him did a charger die : 
 
 Pierced with poignant wounds his body bled. 
 
 But still his soldiers in the fight he led ; 
 
 Nor would he quit the field till life's red stream 
 
 Had nearly ebb'd its last, and scarce a gleam 
 
 Of hope remain'd that he'd survive to see, 
 
 Which of the Pow'rs should gain the victory. 
 
 The night approach'd, but ere the sun had sunk. 
 
 The parched ground the blood of thousands drunk ; 
 
 c
 
 10 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Thousands who view'd the sun that morn arise.K 
 
 Had now in death for ever clos'd their eyes. 
 
 Hist'ry's recording page shall grateful tell 
 
 How brave Alenjon fought, — how nohly fell ! 
 
 Nor shall Majorca's King forgotten be, 
 
 Fall'n by fate's irrevocable degree. 
 
 The task of battle o'er, what next remain? 
 
 To seek the wounded 'mougst the many slain. 
 
 Gods ! what a sight ! what numbers strew the field. 
 
 In death*s cold arms how many lie congeal'dj 
 
 Those hearts that beat so warm but just before. 
 
 Cold, cold they lie, and now vibrate no more. 
 
 Here lifeless rests the once true loving boy, 
 
 Of Emma's heart, the pride, the greatest joy. 
 
 Cut oft' in blooming youth and beauty rare, 
 
 His Emma's left a victim to despair. 
 
 And there a father's stretch'd whose vet'ran breast. 
 
 With many a bloody wound's impressed. 
 
 His widow'd wife to sorrow's now a prey, 
 
 His orphan'd child bemoans his Icngthen'd stay ; 
 
 E'en while the high-ton'd shouts of vicl'ry rung, 
 
 Her husband's dirge the mournful widow sung.
 
 MY LEISmiE HOURS. 11 
 
 Her ev'ry hope's expii'd — for ever fled, 
 The dearest partner of her life is dead. 
 There on the blood-stain'd ground a duteous son 
 Lies now reclin'd, bis race of honour run, 
 *' Ah what avails the glorious death he died. 
 Would I had with him fall'n," the mother cried,— 
 " Oh could I too, resign this vital breath. 
 Oh might I too repose my soul in death !" — 
 She spoke, aud with convulsive sorrow sigh'd, 
 Embrac'd her boy, and on his corpse she died. 
 Still does the pious Prince with cause humane, 
 Traverse the blood-drench'd, goryCrescy's plain; 
 O'er thousands of his foes deceas'd he vaults. 
 In kindred sympathy his heart exalts : 
 The chieftain brave, compassion ever shows. 
 When once he wounds they are no longer foes. 
 Careful he sought, still hoping he might find 
 Some 'mongst the many not to death consign'd : 
 While this most noble search he yet pursu'd. 
 And while his heart beat warm with gratitude 
 To that Almighty power whose guardian care 
 Had deigu'd to please his valu'd life to spare ;
 
 12 MY LEISURE HOURS, 
 
 Near a cold corpse an aged form he found. 
 
 Whose body hallowed the gory ground ! 
 
 Yes, 'twas Bohemia's King — the hoary sire, 
 
 Did on that spot for his lov'd land expire ! 
 
 Ileie staid the prince to shed a friendly tear. 
 
 And from his heart to breathe a sigh sincere. 
 
 Full well he knew a val'rous man to prize, 
 
 And well could he in sorrow sympathize. 
 
 •• Oh thou brave chief!" he cried, " thy glorious name 
 
 High stands upon the pinnacle of fame, 
 
 How will thy death thy memory endear. 
 
 Thy subjects thy immortal name revere. 
 
 Farewell thou aged King ! again farewell I 
 
 Oh may thy soul in heav'ns celestial dwell. 
 
 There for thy transient crown of earthly sway. 
 
 There mayst thou meet thy God in endless day," 
 
 Thus as he spoke, he dash'd away the tear, 
 
 And safely plac'd the body on the bier. 
 
 Not far beyond th' ill-fated King he found, 
 
 The crest with which his silver locks were bound, 
 
 Three ostrich plumes, that morn of milk-white hue, 
 
 Alas ! now gently ting'd with crimson dew.
 
 MY LEISURE nouns. 13 
 
 The Prince look'd on — again, again he sigh'd, 
 
 Moum'd that the King his enemy had died. 
 
 With rapture then IcH Dien's crest assumes, 
 
 And on his brow he plac'd the nodding plumes. 
 
 " These will I wear," he cried, ** and while they grace. 
 
 My youthful brow, oh, may I ne'er efface, 
 
 From mem'ry dear the recollection past. 
 
 Of him, whose virtue grac'd them to the last." 
 
 Now light he vaults to join the happy Sire, 
 
 His breast high beating with the fond desire 
 
 That he, his father's blessing should receive, 
 
 Nor did sweet hope his duteous wish deceive. 
 
 " Once more behold, oh Sov'reign much rever'd, 
 
 Behold thy son by ev'ry tie endear'd : 
 
 My father, friend, the author of ray life. 
 
 Thy son behold, return'd from yonder strife; 
 
 Thy royal cause I've sought to keep in view, 
 
 And do the deeds that you would have me do: 
 
 A providential God has deign'd to spare 
 
 The life you gave, and nurtur'd with your care. 
 
 Has brought me through the day's eventful scene, 
 
 In peril's awful threats did intervene ;
 
 14 MY LEISURE UOURS. 
 
 Thanks to his Omniscient power divine, 
 
 The day is ours, the victory is thine." 
 
 " My son !" he cried, nor could the King controul, 
 
 The joyous feelings of his inmost soul; 
 
 Tears of aftection niark'd his manly cheek, 
 
 And what can sweeter to the bosom speak? 
 
 With fond delight did on the hero gaze. 
 
 And give the sweetest meed, a Father s praise. 
 
 " Bravely thou hast this day thy duty done. 
 
 Receive a nation's thanks my valiant son : 
 
 Those plumes which now thy laurell'd brow adorn, 
 
 Shall by our eldest son of Kings be worn ; 
 
 Thus to Carnarvon's Prince this crest 1 give, 
 
 And thus your fame shall ever, ever live !" 
 
 He said, and echo quick proclaim'd the joy, 
 
 Each Briton felt in England's princely boy : 
 
 Loud did the cries of vict'ry, vict'ry ring, 
 
 <Jreat were the thanks of England's noble King.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 15 
 
 AN EVENING PIECE, 
 
 WRITTEN ON ST. MARGARET'S HILLS. 
 
 The bus'ness of the day was o'er, — my mind 
 
 Releas'd from toiling cares, a welcome bade. 
 
 To mild reflection's gentle, placid sway, 
 
 As with a slow and steady step, I bent 
 
 My course to the high summit of those cliffs, 
 
 Whose chalky sides, proudly to England's foes 
 
 Present a bulwark — firm — impregnable, 
 
 And guard her favour'd Isle ! the height attain'd 
 
 How grand, awfully grand the view appear'd ; 
 
 All was wrapp'd in solemn silence, not e'en 
 
 A breath of air disturb'd the stillness soft, 
 
 That reign'd throughout the solitary scene. 
 
 This sweet serenity was illumin'd 
 
 By the pale, modest lustre of the moon, 
 
 "Which in unclouded beams her splendour shed. 
 
 The Ev'ning star its beauty kindly lent,
 
 l^ MY LEISURE HOUnS, 
 
 As did ten thousand less brilliant orbs, 
 
 That by the paleness of their aiding light. 
 
 Distance immense, immeasurable told, 
 
 Andseera'd to say *• there is a God on high 1" 
 
 Indeed I felt the whole corabin'd to form 
 
 A spirit soothing scene. The glassy sea 
 
 Whose unruffled surface, the moon's soft beams 
 
 Reflecting, scarce dared approach iho shore. 
 
 Tearing to disturb the gen'ral repose ; 
 
 While even echo, with like fears inibib'd, 
 
 Refus'd the murmur to repeat. 
 
 Not far beyond the beach a vessel lay 
 
 With ev'ry sail unfurl'd, eager to catch 
 
 The gentlest breeze ; but in vain the trial. 
 
 Not e'en a zephyr would assistance lend : 
 
 Calm lay the bark as trancjuil as the scene. 
 
 And hark, what notes are those whose gentle sounds 
 
 Sweetly vibrating on the grateful ear, 
 
 Melodious tell a softened tale 
 
 Of sorrow ! Fancy pictur'd to my view, 
 
 A youth whose yet unripcn'd mind irapress'd. 
 
 With warm desire for seeing distant lealms,
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 17 
 
 Had left his peaceful hut, — his Home! and now 
 
 In sorrowing strains poured forth his grief : 
 
 Alas ! too late and unavailing woe. 
 
 Or perchance some fond admiring lover, 
 
 Whom destiny had diiv'n to seek a home 
 
 On distant shorts, where in a change of scene 
 
 He'd seek to quell, and soothe to rest those pangs 
 
 Which now his flute in, soft, but feeling strains. 
 
 Too plainly told the tale ; and from my heart 
 
 Implor'd — and gain'd the tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Enraptur'd on the scene awhile I gaz'd, 
 
 Nor wish'd the sweet illusion to destroy. 
 
 But the music ceas'd. and melhought I heard, 
 
 ('Twas fancy p'rhaps,) the watch proclaim AWs Well! 
 
 Now was I led to view beyond that sea. 
 
 Whose narrow space doth bound two warlike realms, 
 
 Which for these many ages past, have dwelt 
 
 In bitt'rest, direst enmity. How great 
 
 The contrast to the scene I'd just survey'd : 
 
 The Gallic cliffs protruded on my sight, 
 
 And to my mind recall'd the sad account 
 
 Of dreadful carnage. 
 
 D
 
 18 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Ev'n now melliought I heard the din of war. 
 
 And saw the floods of gore, whose bloody course 
 
 Had unrelcntless delug'd Europe's plains. 
 
 The mother's moans — th' unfriended orphan's cries 
 
 Resounded through my ears ; I felt their grief, 
 
 And with them curst ambition's deadly sway 
 
 Thai first inspir'd the still more deadly art 
 
 Of waging war with fellow man. Thank God 
 
 Its horrid devastations now are past; 
 
 No raging war with dire discordant sounds. 
 
 Assails our ear. Europe with peace is blest, 
 
 And this — this happy Isle 1 of Britons' heart 
 
 The chief, the greatest pride, hath by itself, 
 
 (To her immortal honour be it said,) 
 
 "Withstood the shock of Europe's crowns combin'd, 
 
 And finally dictated terms of peace 
 
 To Gallia's bumbled realm ! — 
 
 *' England J do love thee,^' thy chalky cliffs, 
 
 And this, though barren soil, on which I stand. 
 
 Inspire warm adoration in my breast. 
 
 And in my heart enthusiastic love ! 
 
 While standing on the summit of the cliff,
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 19 
 
 I turn'd ray eye towards home, and thro' the shade, 
 
 A sombre view of that ag'd pile I caught. 
 
 Whose hallow 'd walls a sanctuary prove, 
 
 For those who lore to raise their minds to God, 
 
 High on an eminence it rears its head. 
 
 And by its lofty and aspiring site, 
 
 A beacon serves to mariners distress'd, 
 
 And guides the steersman in his pathless way. 
 
 The lonely bell its solemn tones loud toll'd. 
 
 And to my mind recall'd th' intended aid 
 
 It was to give.' I bless'd the name of him, 
 
 Who, as he breath'd his last, humanely gave 
 
 That to his survivors perhaps might serve 
 
 A means t' escape th' untimely death he met. 
 
 Following the curfew's sound as if inspir'd 
 
 With secret fear, I left ray fav'rite cliff. 
 
 And through the vale beneath pursu'd my way; 
 
 Here as I pass'd the once well fill'd. 
 
 Though now deserted fort, the peaceful scene 
 
 Seem'd still more strongly — more supremely bless'd : 
 
 No lonely sentry on his beaten path 
 
 Disturb'd my pensive mind. No gliraniering
 
 20 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Of lights, save one, which from a lonely cell 
 
 But dimly peeping, the abode bespoke, 
 
 Of him, whose early years had been emploj'd 
 
 In bearing arms in his lov'd Country's cause, 
 
 And as a recompcnce for all his toil, 
 
 Receiv'd a pension, and this humble shed. 
 
 Still towards the village as I bent my steps, 
 
 J felt new pleasures rise. The gentle noise 
 
 Of bleating flocks, retir'd within the fold, — 
 
 The sound of cottagers, (who happily conversing 
 
 Among their humble friends, secm'd to forget 
 
 The labours of the now expended day,) 
 
 All added happiness to the scene. 
 
 Thus wrapp'd in thought, I reach'd my peaceful home, 
 
 There in refreshing slumbers soft to seek, 
 
 That sweet repose which wearied nature claims. 
 
 •— ►*|»^ ^^.^^ |« <..—
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 2t 
 
 LINES ON READING THE FOLLOWING 
 COUPLET OF POPE'S. 
 
 " Men, some to bus'ness, some to pleasure take, 
 ** But ev'ry woman is at heart a rake." 
 
 I wonder friend Pope, what can be the reason, 
 
 'Gainst woman you write such monstrous high treason ; 
 
 Treason it must be, it can be no other, 
 
 Rashly all virtues in woman to smother, 
 
 What! woman a rake? by heaven's your wrong Sir, 
 
 Virtue and prudence, to women belong Sir; 
 
 They are with them inherent, with them are born. 
 
 Will stand the attacks of foul malice and scorn. 
 
 No, I'll never believe such scandalous stuff, 
 
 I'd sooner give credence to a lott'ry puff. 
 
 A mongst them as in males, may sometimes be found, 
 
 Now and then, 'lis true, one who doth not abound 
 
 In virtue's fair ways, but is given to err; 
 
 Yet surely 'lis wroog, we from ihcncc should infer.
 
 22 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 That all of the sex in their follies partake. 
 
 And that each of the sex, at heart is a rake. 
 
 I admire your Homer, 'tis certainly good ; 
 
 The test of the critics with honour hath stood ; 
 
 To peruse it, with pleasure, oft have I sat. 
 
 And lost the enjoyment of many a chat. 
 
 There have I read of fam'd Helena's joys. 
 
 So gloriously fond of the Phrygian boys; 
 
 But do not think proper from thence to conclude, 
 
 (From her, and some others,) all females are lewd. 
 
 No ; whilst I observe so much modesty dwell, 
 
 And ladies behave so exceedingly well, 
 
 I'll never agree we such freedoms should take, 
 
 Sans fajon to say, " Evry womaji'sarake."
 
 MY LEISURE IIOUHS. 23 
 
 Ox\ THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. 
 
 ** Rise honest Muse, and sing the man of Ross." 
 
 PorE. 
 
 Inspire my heart, O Muse! and deign to lend, 
 Aid to sing the monody of a friend ; 
 His virtuous name assist me to revere, 
 While Sympathy shall shed her heav'n born tear. 
 Entomb'd beneath the green sward now he lies. 
 Hears not our moans, unconscious of our cries. 
 O death ! stern tyrant, — foe to human race. 
 Here may we thy power despotic trace : 
 Yet hold, to vice alone, art thou a foe ; 
 Not to the heart that beats with virtue's glow ; 
 Not to the heart whose inmost thoughts are good ; 
 Not to t!ie heart which throbs with gratitude. 
 Such — such was his, and thus wast thou his friend, 
 'Tis sweet to hope, his joy shall never end.
 
 24 MY LEISURE HOURS, 
 
 Snatch'd from the world when in the prime of life, 
 
 To sorrow's doom'd the constant, happy wife; 
 
 Children and friends to wail the loss unite, 
 
 All feel within a kindred grief excite ! 
 
 Nor will the Muse essay to dry their eyes. 
 
 Or bid to cease their many heavy sighs ; 
 
 But join to mourn, — Oh it becomes a friend. 
 
 To let the sympathetic tear descend : 
 
 'Tis to his mem'ry due; I oft have trac'd 
 
 Its trickling course, nor thought it e'er disgrac'd 
 
 His manly brow ; whene'er the tale of grief 
 
 Was told, the tear appear'd, and gave relief. 
 
 Oft have I mark'd it glisten in his eye. 
 
 And oft have seen his bosom heave a sigh, 
 
 When fondly on his family he'd gaze; 
 
 Nor sighs or tears of murmur, but of praise ! 
 
 Thankful that Heaven thus his days did bless, 
 
 Nor did he fail his gratitude t' express. 
 
 A loving Husband, who, with doating care. 
 
 Ne'er with his Partner fail'd each joy to share; 
 
 He felt increasing love within him glow, 
 
 Mat ur'd by time, his love did warmer flow.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 25 
 
 A Parent fond, whose breast \vith ardour thrill'd. 
 As oft the ways of virtue he instill'd 
 Within bis lovely children's youthful mind, 
 *' As wish'd the tree to grow, the twig inclin'd." 
 Yes, I have mark'd how pleas'd he'd seem to be. 
 When the two younger boys would grace his knee; 
 Then would he teach their lisping tongues to raise. 
 To God, their grateful songs of thanks and praise. 
 O envied task ! and still more envied son ! 
 Methought — 'lis past, " the will of God be done." 
 Just, humane, kind, generous to excess. 
 His pride the industrious poor to bless ; 
 They knew him as a friend — speak but his name. 
 Grateful they shed the tears his virtues claim. 
 But Death's bereav'd them of their patron dear, 
 That friend, who, ever in their cause sincere, 
 While to the good a just reward he gave, 
 Reprov'd the bad — encourag'd, and forgave ! 
 T' oblige and please them, he for ever strove, 
 By acts like these he sought to gain their love. 
 And say, all ye, who happy near him dwelt. 
 The social ties of friendship with him felt; 
 
 E
 
 2(5 MV LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Say, have ye heard the breath of scandal taint, 
 
 Or have ye heard the murmur of complaint, 
 
 E'er cast a blot upon his spotless name, 
 
 Or tarnish, with unkind reproach, his fame ? 
 
 " No !" will ye all with one accord reply, 
 
 His name the threats of scandal would defy : 
 
 No, no, the base detractor's tongue, you'll say, 
 
 Shall ne'er obscure the bright, the great display. 
 
 Of noble worth like his, with virtue join'd, 
 
 Worth, which endears his racm'ry to the mind. 
 
 And shall the muse again essay to prove, 
 
 Whether he fail'd to gain his neighbour's love ? 
 
 Go near his grave on Sabbath's day of rest, 
 
 See flowing tears bespeak his mem'ry blest ; 
 
 There hear the praises of the wealthy part. 
 
 They speak their lore, and speak it from their heart. 
 
 List to the eulogies of th' aged poor, 
 
 Their thanks in union with their pray'rs soar. 
 
 Mark as the child attends with anxious ear. 
 
 Unconscious flows apace the grateful tear : 
 
 As by his grave their course the mothers bend 
 
 With sighs deep drawn, pronounce"//ie6V/j/iaw'.*/rsfen</.''
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 2? 
 
 O ! do not these at once efficient prove, 
 
 How much he shar'd their friendship and their love ? 
 
 And may his oftspring e'er his steps pursue, 
 
 Their Father's cherish'd name e'er keep in view ; 
 
 May they, through Hfe, until their latest breath, 
 
 Till summon'd hence by all insatiate death. 
 
 Like him, act well the part to man assign'd. 
 
 Virtue like his for ever bear in mind ; 
 
 Then shall they leave, like hinif the best of fame, 
 
 Acknowledg'd worth, and an unsullied name.
 
 28 MY LEISUR'E HOURS. 
 
 CALL TO ARMS OF ALFRED ON THE 
 INVASION OF THE DANES. 
 
 Britons arise ! brave sons of Albion's hosts, 
 
 No longer in lethargy sleep. 
 See myriads of foes surrounding your coast?, 
 
 Their barks how they darken the deep. 
 O awake to her voice ! 'tis Liberty calls 
 
 Let th' echo resound from the strand. 
 Awake, O arise, ere Slavery enthralls 
 
 The free sons of Albion's land. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 'Tis Liberty calls, — attend to the sound. 
 Let each Briton's heart with valour rebound ; 
 High blow the bugle, — louder, and higher 
 The trump must be heard, —the weak 'twijl inspire.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 29 
 
 The proud tiags of the Dane, see, yonder ihey wave, 
 
 Defiance we bid to their boast, 
 For sooner we'll die, with this sand for our grave, 
 
 Than cowardly shrink from our post. 
 Arise and advance ! who acknowledge the blood 
 
 Of Fathers who died to defend 
 The rights of their isle, 'till the crimsoned flood 
 
 With the waters of Ocean blend. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 'Tis Liberty, &c. 
 
 Assemble ye fathers — ye children surround 
 
 The standard of freedom — it flies 
 On the cliff high above, come rally around. 
 
 On your deeds fair Britain relies. 
 See the tyrants are there. Oh ! §hall we delay 
 
 To drive them from Albion's shore ? 
 Forbid it fair Goddess, no, yonder white spray, 
 
 Shall redden with th' enemy's gore, 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 'Tis Liberty, &c.
 
 30 LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Now ! now may we meet them, our number is great. 
 
 We are arm'd with pure native zeal. 
 Be firm to your trust, O remember the fate 
 
 Of those who shun their nation's weal. 
 Haste, ascend to the lieights, — prepare — now begin. 
 
 Wait not the attack of the foe. 
 Your arrows so barbed their numbers shall thin, 
 
 Their triumph shall change into woe! 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 'Tis Liberty calls, attend to the sound. 
 Let each Briton's heart with valour rebound ; 
 High blow the bugle — louder, and higher 
 The trump must be heard, the weak 'twill inspire.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. ®l 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE ETENIISG STAR ON 
 ITS GRADUAL DISAPPEARANCE. 
 
 And shall we lovely Venus, shall we lose 
 Thy cheering light so soon ? those beams which now 
 Resplendent shine, — those lurid rays which shed 
 A calm diffusive light, shall they so soon 
 Be set to this, our low'r earth, nor longer, 
 For a season, cheer the weary trav'Iler, 
 Who anxious watches thy descending globe, 
 And sorrowing, views thy too quick approach, 
 Each eve, to yonder western bounds. Ah ! soon, 
 When night shall spread her sable mantle o'er 
 Europa's land and sea, we'll look in vain. 
 Among the spangled gems that glitter through 
 The sky, for thee, thou fair beauteous orb, 
 Thou great declarer of a God above !
 
 32 MY LT.ISURE H0UR9. 
 
 We'll look in vain, — thy radiant light will then 
 
 Be shed on others, who, will joyous hail 
 
 The coming of the star of eve. 
 
 How often, when on yonder heights I've cliinb'd 
 
 To breathe the ev'ning's pure refreshing air. 
 
 To throw from oft' my mind the daily caies 
 
 To which my sadden'd pilgrimage is dooni'd,— 
 
 How oft, when wrapp'd in pleasing solitude's 
 
 Consoling veil, — when musing on the day's 
 
 Alternate hours of joy, and hours of grief; 
 
 How often then, I've watch'd thy beauteous shade 
 
 Reflecting in the sea beneath, whose waves, 
 
 (In gentle undulations rolling on, 
 
 As they approach'd to wash the chalky cliff 
 
 Whereon I stood) made but feeble efforts 
 
 To disturb the brilliant shadow of 
 
 Thy heavenly orb; they gently toss'd it 
 
 Passing on, as though each impelling wave 
 
 Jealous of the embrace, would seek to gain 
 
 The shade itself, and having bath'd it in 
 
 The soft and cooling spray, resign'd it to 
 
 The busom of the next compeer. From this,
 
 MY LEISURE HOUUS. 33 
 
 III rapt'rous gaze I'd look on high, and view 
 
 Thee sliine in rays resplendent ; and the while 
 
 I saw thee riding through the liquid air 
 
 With pond'ringmind, I'd ask why thou wert forni'd, 
 
 And what thou art — and if the God of Heav'n 
 
 Had not some grand design in placing thee 
 
 'Mongst other declarations of his might. 
 
 Say, what art thou? — a globe, e'en like to ours, 
 
 And peopled by a race of mortals, such 
 
 As dwell on Earth, on this, thy fellow star? 
 
 Art thou terraqueous? and is thy land 
 
 In empires form'd, and independent states, 
 
 With here a tyrant, his bloody sceptre 
 
 Wielding, with despotic sway, dares enslave 
 
 The hearts of free-born men? and there, a soul 
 
 That swells with all the fire of Liberty, 
 
 Stretching his arm to hold the standard up. 
 
 And raising high his voice, to bid his friend* 
 
 Come one and all, and res'lute flock around? 
 
 For such there are on Earth : O we have had 
 
 Fell tyrants who'd scourge the heart of Freedom 
 
 *Till it bttrst; and Btill — still rule on, with rod 
 
 F
 
 34 MY I.r.ISURF, II0UK5, 
 
 Of irou, and with cruel spur would goad, 
 'Till roused at last some noble spkit, 
 rir'd with ail the projects of revenge, 
 "Would call his sleeping countrymen to arm's. 
 And drag with mighty force, the t\ rant from 
 His blood polluted throne I And we have had 
 Base cowards, who would unrepining gnaw 
 The curs'd corroding chains of Slavery ! 
 Say, hast thou such? — Is there an Albiort 
 Amongst thine isles, where Freedom ever reigns ? 
 Hadst thou e'er a Greece?'' and Oh ! are her sons, 
 (The sons of those who fought, who bled, who died 
 Their country's independence to maintain) 
 Fall'n from the high renown of their great sires. 
 Who plac'd upon the pinnacle of fame, 
 Preserv'd their sov'reign rights; and are their sons 
 Now fall'n into the base state of abject. 
 Wretched slavery ? If so, then kindly draw 
 A veil, over their blotted page, nor let , 
 
 Succeeding ages know, they once were FiiEii ! 
 
 But the Patriot's arm, and rousing voice, 
 Perhaps thou ncedest not ; ihy sons, may be
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 35 
 
 Have ne'er by sin, to leave fair Eden's grove 
 Condemned been ; and here the theme, stibHme 
 Becomes. O say, have ihey their priv'iege lost? 
 Or do they in Elysian valleys dwell, 
 Where first Creation's God had planted them ? 
 Say, have they ne'er sinned, nor hath for Ihem 
 A Saviour bled ! 
 
 Here rest my muse. In awful mystery 
 The solemn works of God are hid ! too grand 
 For man, weak man, to dare essay to pierce. 
 Then farewell lovely star, " awhile farewell," 
 And when thou next shall come to cheer the dull 
 Tedium of ray walk, I'll watch thy bright 
 Rays through the twilight breaking, and will hail 
 The coming of the Star of Eve, 
 
 .«~«*^h|»<^H§»i^<"«"^
 
 36 MY lt:isure hours. 
 
 i 
 
 AN ACROSTIC ON THE VIOLET. 
 
 — •»')S*® ■# *•'— 
 
 Violet thy name — violet thy hue, 
 
 la smell delightful, pleasing to the view. 
 
 Offspring of beauty, and of virtue too. 
 
 How lovely. 
 
 Like thee, I fain would spend my days so well. 
 E'en that in death my wovks should grateful tell. 
 To all around, I fondly sought t' excel 
 
 In virtue. 
 
 — ">^.i^^<i
 
 MY LEISURE HOUBS. 37 
 
 ON HEARING A FRIEND SAY, H E WOULD 
 NEVER MARRY BUT FOR MONEY. 
 
 They say fiietid Dick, you oft declare 
 Hymeiiial bonds you'll never wear. 
 Unless perchance a lass you find, 
 AVho's gifted with a golden mind. 
 No matter then, if plain or smart. 
 Quickly you'll try to win her heart; 
 Deaf, blind, or dumb, you care not how. 
 Softly you'll breathe your love-sick vow : 
 Ev'n should she be a Devil form'd, 
 Ugly as sin, and eke deform'd. 
 Still will you seek a time t' unfold 
 Yonr monstrous love for all her— Gold. 
 And should you by good luck deceive. 
 And make the Hag your vows believe,
 
 38 MY LEISUIiE HOURS. 
 
 Willi joyful heart you'd freely wed, 
 
 And Eiidor's Witch receive in bed. 
 
 But when tlie Gold was well nigh spent, 
 
 Yon'd care not if to th' De'il she went: 
 
 In short, you'd try by ev'ry art, 
 
 To break the life-strings of her heart. 
 
 And are you Dick, so great an elf, 
 
 To barter Love for fdthy pelf? 
 
 Shall all the joys that women give. 
 
 When we united with them live, — 
 
 Shall all the love they can inspire — 
 
 Shall all their beauty we admire, — 
 
 And shall their sweetly soothing smil«, 
 
 Which can e'en sorrow's woes beguile; 
 
 Shall these, and thousand other joys, 
 
 So truly drawn by am'rous boys. 
 
 In thee, find one, who would resign 
 
 Them all, to gain a golden mine? 
 
 In thee, find one, who would not pause, 
 
 And shed a tear in woman's cause? 
 
 Who would not breathe a heart-drawn sigh 
 
 WlHjn Love shone bright from beauty's eye ?
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 39 
 
 And could you such a stoic prove, 
 
 For Gold to leave a Woman's Lovel 
 
 Could you, — no Dick, I'll ne'er believe 
 
 You'd rather, for a wife, receive 
 
 A Hag — though with a dow'r of gold, 
 
 ^hose wrinkled brow proclaims a scold. 
 
 Than join in wedlock's holy bond 
 
 "With the fair, lovely maiden fond. 
 
 If such your sentiment, then go, 
 
 Go spend your days in Lapland's snow; 
 
 Its sterile soil your heart would suit, 
 
 Whose best of passions you pollute: 
 
 There in perpetual exile 
 
 For ever dwell ; nor more defile 
 
 The purer love of Britain's Isle. 
 
 FORGET ME NOT.' 
 
 — >^< — 
 'Twas beauteous Rosa's piercing eye, 
 
 That rais'd in me a tender sigh; 
 O may that sigh ensure me — What ? 
 
 That Rosa will — *« Forget me not."
 
 'JO MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 O N TI 1 1: M U T A BILIT Y O F M A N. 
 
 Oh man ! liow mutable is thy lot, — 
 
 Thy state, scarce the same tliroughout a tlay. 
 
 But as the yeering weather changes, 
 
 So does thy happiness or misery. 
 
 Alternately they their empire take, 
 
 And doom thee to perpetual change. 
 
 This morning (wrapt in melancholy) 
 
 I observ'd the dawn, — hazy clouds expanded 
 
 Their sombre shades o'er the golden tints 
 
 Which bright Aurora rising gently shed. 
 
 Yet were they unable to dispel 
 
 Completely, the radiant rays ; — no, 
 
 Their lustre for awhile pierc'd the gloom, 
 
 The dismal gloom, which would else have reigivd. 
 
 This to my imagination drew, 
 
 The birlh and youth of our mortal race.
 
 MY LEISL'KE HODRS. 41 
 
 Aurora's tints, obscur'd by humid clouds, 
 
 As emblems serv'd to paint the joy and sorrow. 
 
 Which by turns invade the infant breast. 
 
 Soon the sun, in splendid majesty 
 
 Arose triumphant ! quick vanish'd ev'ry gloom, 
 
 And nought was seen of darksome nature 
 
 Throughout the brilliant firmament. 
 
 But here and there, a lofty cloud, 
 
 Which, flitting by the glorious sun, 
 
 But momentarily hid his rays. 
 
 Methought it seem'd to bear similitude 
 
 To the happy days of youthful manhood ; 
 
 When, releas'd from irksome task, and warm'd 
 
 M'ith desires of ent'iing into life. 
 
 The youngster quits his school ; then all 
 
 A Imppy aspect wears, save trifling 
 
 Disappointments of folly's pleasures. 
 
 Petty alloys like these, may to the sun's 
 
 Partial obscuration be compar'd 
 
 With reason. The flying clouds pourtray 
 
 His short liv'd sorrows, which, when fled, 
 
 Give greater relish to new sprung joy. 
 
 G
 
 42 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Thus pass'il some time, when a ruder wind, 
 
 Rising with humid wings dispelled 
 
 The sweet serenity that before 
 
 Had with romantic stillness play'd around. 
 
 The sky a wilder aspect now assum'd ; 
 
 Its etherial shades were quickly veil'd 
 
 In horrid, dismal, darkness ! 
 
 Of its former glare, not e'en a glimpse 
 
 Hemain'd. All in pond'rous clouds was wrapt ; 
 
 Tlie floods of heaven were loos'd, and in 
 
 Abundance pour'd their watery store. 
 
 Here O Man ! thy fate again I road. 
 
 And in the storm, saw thy changeful life. 
 
 Fortune for awhile with bounteous hand, 
 
 lis richest benefits may have shed ; 
 
 Thy whole concerns appear to flourish, 
 
 Rendering thy happiness complete ! 
 
 Complete — ah no ! does not yon conflict 
 
 In heaven'.* high amphitln-atrc, 
 
 Th' assert'on contradict. 
 
 Plung'd from his imaginary bliss 
 
 By unforeseen misfortune, he's hurl'd
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 43 
 
 Into Ihe gulph of melancholy. 
 
 flis cheerless state still more wretched made 
 
 By the retrospect of pleasures past. 
 
 Thus in continual change, thy days 
 
 Pass round ; and while each revolving hour, 
 
 Brings new trouble or new pleasure adds, 
 
 This useful lesson it ought t' iuspire, 
 
 *.* That in Eternity alone, O ! Man, 
 
 ** Real constancy is found !"
 
 4 1 MY LEISURE HOUR*. 
 
 THE TEAR OF SYIVirATHY. 
 
 "•►4* — 
 
 " Oh happy, happy task to inspire the jobless with joy ! to make 
 glad the heart where no gladness reigned I to restore comfort to the 
 grief struck mind ! cause the tear-charged eye again to sparkle." 
 
 Ladies' MAGAZiNEr 
 
 If aught on earth can aid to cheer 
 The wretched captive's woe, 
 
 'Tis Sympathy's consoling tear, 
 Which down the cheek doth flow. 
 
 With lustre it resplendent shines. 
 
 Resembling vernal dews ; 
 Tis like the rose, its sweet combines, 
 
 And grief and pain subdues. 
 
 Oh thou, to whom misfortune's known, 
 Whose breast hath felt a fear, 
 
 Say, hath not half thy sorrow flown. 
 When friendship shed a tear ?
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 45 
 
 When cross'd in love the fair one sighs. 
 
 Her hapless fixie deplores, 
 If Sympathy her voice applies, 
 
 If. peace again restores. 
 
 When sickness o'er us throws his yoke, 
 
 A feeling friend attend. 
 How sweet, while heaven we invoke. 
 
 To see the drop descend. 
 
 The parent fond — the tender child, — 
 
 E'en he to hardness prone : 
 All confess its influence mild, 
 
 And hail it as his own. 
 
 No charm in wealth can e'er impart. 
 
 No joy can ever spread. 
 So sweet a soother to the heart, 
 
 As tears of pity shed. 
 
 Then flow my tears, and lend your aid, 
 
 To gladden ne'er refuse, 
 To friendship be your tribute paid 
 
 "With sorrow,~joy infuse.
 
 46 MY LEISnilE nOI'RS. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF HER MAJESTY 
 QUEEN CAROLINE. 
 
 She's gone! peace to her soul ! the struggle's o'er 
 
 Great Caroline of Brunswick's now no more ! 
 Weep, O ! Albion weep — bow low thine head, 
 
 Indulge in grief — thy Caroline is dead. 
 
 Peace to her Soul ! each loyal Briton cries, 
 
 While briny tears suft'use his downcast eyes ! 
 
 The pious pray'r with pious fervour's breath'd, 
 
 Our brow meantime with sorrow's gloom enwrealh'd. 
 
 Yes we will weep— for sure we've cause to mourn, 
 
 The fairesr orb that Brunswick's ever worn 
 
 Heart-broken breath'd her last — resign'd her breath, 
 
 And sought repose within th' embrace of death. 
 
 Weep, Brunswick weep ! oh shed mild pity's tear 
 
 O'er the lamented Carolina's bier. 
 
 But soft ! a cheering light with radiance sweet 
 
 Dispels the gloom, and shines with lustre great;
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. AT 
 
 My brow ( obscur'd with woe-worn grief) illumes 
 
 And joy th' ascendence o'er my mind assumes : 
 
 I see her lovely form enshrouded lie, 
 
 O happy thought ! attendant seraphs by : 
 
 They waft her soul to God, ihey cliaunt His praise, 
 
 And Hallelujahs loud triumphant raise. 
 
 High on His divine empyrean throne, 
 
 " The God of all " receives her as His own : 
 
 Yes, there she joins amid the heav'nly choir. 
 
 Her sainted Charlotte — her angelic ^"^e. 
 
 Ah ! now shall Queens on earth with thee compare ? 
 
 Thy realm is heav'n — % Coronation's there! 
 
 O sacred shade ! amon^ the bless'd thy 'bode, 
 
 In peace thou reign'st, and dwellest with thy God. 
 
 Weep, England weep ! thy tears shall grateful lave. 
 And wash the stain of slander from her grave. 
 
 — »^>|»^..
 
 48 MS LCISUKE HOURS. 
 
 TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED ME WITH 
 A SILVER PEN. 
 
 Yes then, fair girl, your gift I'll lake,' 
 Anil keep it ever, for yonr sake. 
 And when the muse shall aid enilite, 
 \^ iih that you gave, my songs I'll write. 
 O they shall be etfusions true, 
 I'll write of love, and Ro.-a too. 
 
 And with the pen that Rosa ga c, 
 At home — abroad—beyond the wave, 
 Still with her shall I seem to dwell. 
 Nor e'er have cause to say •' rarcwcll ;" 
 Tor I will bear in mind the smile, 
 That bcam'd upon her face e'en while. 
 The precious gift she bade me take. 
 And keep it ever, for II eR Sakk. 
 
 — ^m-c^ —
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 49 
 
 SONG. 
 
 MARY OF THE VALE. 
 
 7 I " 
 
 Tune, — -'In a Cottage near a Wood 
 
 Thoughtless youth, away, away, 
 
 I cannot, must not hear your tale, 
 Fain would you my heart betray. 
 
 Then leave poor Mary of the Vale. 
 Sigh not thus, 'tis not sincere. 
 
 For love, true love, you do not feel. 
 Away, away, I must not hear, 
 
 You wrong poor Mary of the Vale, 
 
 Ah! why fond youth, why seek to gain. 
 My heart, and woe on me entail ; 
 
 Cease, then cease, your hopes are vaiu, 
 Go, quit poor Mary of the Vale. 
 
 H
 
 50 
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Go, fair youth, nor more suppose 
 Those luring arts will e'er avail,- 
 
 Away, away, for virtue glows 
 VVitliiii poor Mary ol tlie Vale.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 51 
 
 TO MY DONKEY. 
 
 WRITTEN MANY YEARS AGO. 
 
 Donkey ! you and I do pass 
 
 Many an hour together, 
 I am thy friend, — thou my ass, 
 
 And friend, when on the leather 
 Saddle I most easv sit 
 
 And gently jog along, 
 For on thy back I've often writ, 
 
 Many a love-sick song. 
 And safely you have carried me. 
 
 Both out and home ac;ain, 
 Yet sometimes dull, and sometimes free. 
 
 But never did complain. 
 Then I will scorn to use thee ill. 
 
 Or ever be unkind to thee ;
 
 MY M.ISURi: HOURS. 
 
 For if we have I' asceiul a hill, 
 
 All heedless of the weather, 
 I will disraoun!, and so will we 
 
 Both trudge up together. 
 Nor will I Johnny beat thee more, 
 
 With cudgel thick and round, 
 Nor with the rowel of my spur, 
 
 Inflict a painful wound. 
 But when I wish to speed thee on, 
 
 WiJl gently bid thee mend thy pace, 
 Although I must confess upon 
 
 Thy long renowned stubborn race ; 
 To little purpose words are us'd, 
 
 Of non effect to pull the rein. 
 This makes their carcase so abus'd, 
 
 And gives them all extreme of pain, 
 
 For obstinate they will remain. 
 But never yet I've known that you 
 
 Self-vfill'd resolv'd to prove, 
 Nor yet have found you would pursue 
 One road, or would not move ; 
 
 J
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 53 
 
 For yoti, my faithful, grisly Jack, 
 
 When sickness brought me low, 
 Bore me with pleasure on thy back, 
 
 And did most gently go. 
 Besides all this, another claim 
 
 You have upon my care, 
 For even in your very name 
 
 I come in for a share ; 
 For oft indeed, it liaps, good lack. 
 
 And it has come to pass, 
 That, as I'm called stubborn Jack, 
 
 I'm sometimes nam'J Jack Ass.
 
 51 MY LEISURE HOL RS. 
 
 MUSIC OF GREAT UTILITY IN CASE OF 
 A FRATL MEMORY. 
 
 Monsieur Benoit, fiom Paris come, 
 Seeing that we accept the scum 
 Of either Italy or France^ 
 Provided they can teach to dance ; 
 Had pilch'd his tent in London town, 
 A place you'll own of great renown, 
 For Amateurs of Violin, 
 Some even say they're fond of sin ; 
 This'twixt ourselves, one thing wcknow, 
 They to the outcast mercy show." 
 Perchance poor Benoit knew this too, 
 And thought he better could not do 
 Than leave his native land and come 
 To England, where he'd find a liomc.
 
 MY LEISUUE HOURS. 55 
 
 This he had done — e'er long behold 
 
 His pockets bHrn'd with English gold ; 
 
 Por he was fam'd as cat-gut scraper, 
 
 And 'mongst the best to cut a caper. 
 
 No wonder then he wealth enjoy'd ; 
 
 By nobles too he was eraploy'd, 
 
 To teach their girls, whose pretty face, 
 
 Made them desire to dance with grace. 
 
 Much of this work our Benoit had. 
 
 Yet still he spoke so very bad, 
 
 (In English, I would say of course, 
 
 Tho' some do hint he spoke French worse,) 
 
 That little Miss could scarce refrain 
 
 From titt'ring when he'd try t' explain ; 
 
 For instance now, if well she'd done 
 
 " Ah ma cheie, dat indeed is bonne ; 
 
 Your angel forme, yourejolie face 
 
 Do make my tear, de very grace. 
 
 Dat, dat is good, — encore dat step, 
 
 Upon my verd you're tres adept." 
 
 Thus was he once employ'd, when lo ! 
 
 Just as he'd reach'd his hat to go.
 
 5(; MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 And with the greatest neatness bow'd, 
 The sun retir'd behind a cloud ; 
 Unceremonious 'twas, tis true, 
 Uncheering look'd to Benoit's view : 
 Not many houses had he past. 
 Ere N^ubes shower'd her favours fast. 
 Although he could not English speak, 
 He'd learnt an English sign to make, 
 So to a Coachman near the sp»>t 
 He bent his finger, quick as shot ; 
 The Jehu drives to poor Benoit, 
 And in a twinkling opes the door. 
 Then stepping up, as lightly vaults, 
 As when he danc'd the Prussian waltz. 
 The Coachman now requests to know, 
 Where his honor would wish to go. 
 " Ah! by raafoi, me vill go home, 
 You shall take me from where I come; 
 M' eutcndez vous, — you must me drive 
 To the Maisou wheie 1 do live." 
 Coach. " Yoy, your honor, but will ye tell. 
 
 The street and number where you dwell ;"
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. '5^ 
 
 Ben. ''Ah! ah! dat is anoder ting— 
 
 Diable ! — me liave forgot him. 
 
 Begar — would any one suppose, 
 
 I forget vere I toujours goes. 
 
 Vraimrnt 'tis drolle, dat me no know 
 
 Of dat same street le sacre nom : 
 
 Vy vat de devil will I do. 
 
 Me neder know no morq dan you. 
 
 Sa-preste !'' cried out poor Benoit, 
 
 " Dis be indeed, one great big bore !" 
 
 Poor Jehu grinn'd— as well he might, 
 
 At sweet Criraona's honour'd knigiit. 
 
 " Ah ! par ma foi you're very gay, 
 
 Ecoutcz Monsieur, Vip 1 say, 
 
 You understand la musique eh ?" 
 Coach. " Me ! devil's note do I know, 
 
 But come Mounsecr, I want to go." 
 Ben. " Bon Dieu dis is most malheureux :" • 
 
 But nothing heeding, out he drew. 
 
 From his side pouch a little Kit ; 
 
 " Now coachee si vons vill permit, 
 1
 
 58 MY rKISt'RE HOURS. 
 
 (Readers you must admire his \\'\l,) 
 *' Me bientot tell 
 You vera 1 dwell." 
 Tlien quickly he corameiic'd an air, — 
 Gods ! had you seen poor Jeliu stare, 
 With eyes, as iho' they'd burst their bounds. 
 And mouth, as if he meant the sounds, 
 Instead of hearing, prepare to eat, 
 By its extension monstrous great. 
 Ben. " Ah ! vouz verrez — now, now you know 
 
 The street vere I desire to go." 
 Coac/i. Why as for that, Mounseer, why look 
 
 That's nothing else but old MollbrooIv. 
 Ben. ** Bah! oui — c'estca — de very same, 
 Vous avez raisou — dat's de name. 
 Oui JMarlbro' Street, now you go drive. 
 Your fastest man, for dere me live." 
 Jehu still grinning like a fox. 
 Speedily resumed his box, 
 While Benoitnow devoid of care. 
 Gaily humm'd " MalOrok s'en va-i-en geurre^'
 
 J 
 
 MY LEI8UUE HOURS. 59 
 
 And Coachy's whip in chorus rung, 
 (Doubtless the horses curs'd the song^ 
 Mir ton tare on tare. 
 
 ~~"*^'*§''€' " 
 AN ACROSTIC ON THE PRIMROSE. 
 
 P ale peq)ingfVonj its leafy root, 
 R ob'd in the richest green, 
 I ts fragrant odour all its fruit, 
 M em's fav'rite flow'r is seen. 
 R egaling is the scent it spreads 
 O 'er the expanded vale ; 
 S equestei'd lie its lowly beds, 
 E nriching ev'ry gale.
 
 -60 
 
 MV LriSUnE HOURS. 
 
 INSENSIBILITY. 
 
 Ye, therefore, wlio love mercy, tcacli your sons 
 To love it too ! 
 
 Mercy to him that shows it, is the ru!e 
 
 And righteous limitation of its act, 
 
 By which Heav'n moves in pard'r ing guilty man. 
 
 And he that shows none, being ripe in years. 
 
 And conscious of the outrage lie commits. 
 
 Shall seek it and not find it, in his turn. 
 
 COWPER, 
 
 Is tlicre a heart so dead to feeling 
 
 That docs not beat in sorrow's cause? 
 That when misfortune is appealing 
 To one of nature's brightest laws ; — 
 No rai!d compassion's genial rays — 
 No sympathetic tear displays, 
 Nor does from mirth an instant pause, 
 Nor Pity's soothing Toice obeys.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 61 
 
 Or in the world's wide expanse is there, 
 ,. . .The wretch when rais'ry's told his woe, 
 AVith breast so steel'd would fiend-like dare, 
 L<augh at the tears that quickly tlow ; 
 ti , VVould scorn to hear the tale of grief, 
 
 Nor deign to minister relief; 
 Such a wretch shall one day know 
 Oppression's sting and learn belief 
 
 Oh ! retribution's hour shall come, 
 
 Nor long alas will be delay'd 
 When th' unfeeling shall receive his doom. 
 And by misfortune be repaid : 
 In vain on friendship he shall call, 
 For him no heart-felt tear shall fall. 
 No breast in Pity be array'd, 
 
 Despis'd, condemn'd, and shunn'd by all.
 
 62 
 
 MY LEISL'UE HOURS. 
 
 Stung, Stung by remorse, he feels despair 
 Consume his woe-fraught, sullen mind. 
 Subdued by grief — oppressed by care, 
 No cheering solace shall he find ; 
 
 His soul obscur'd by dark'ning gloom, 
 Flies for repose beyond the tomb, 
 In vain, — for there to grief consign'd — 
 
 The hour is come — he meets his doom.
 
 MV LEISURE HOURS. 63 
 
 PROLOGUE TO THE PLAY OF THE WAY 
 TO GET MARRIED, 
 
 As spoken by Master IJollozcaj/, at the Private Thea- 
 tricals at Cliff House Academy, Dec. I6ih 1820. 
 
 — »-^#'@<-« — 
 
 Speaking behind the scenes. 
 
 CoMii lads, prepare, made ready to begin 
 
 I'll just step on and speak to those within. 
 
 Peeping round the scene. 
 
 What! no company? ah, was that your fear: 
 
 You'll find your error when you get out here ; 
 
 Ladies and Gentlemen in great plenties, 
 
 Kot two by two, but here they sit by twenties. 
 Coming forKard and bovcing. 
 
 Tlianks my kind friends for your condescension ; — 
 
 Hold, — when first I spoke 'twas my intention 
 
 To give each sex a separate address,
 
 01 MY LEISURE HOUaS. 
 
 By way of coaxing you, our work to bless. 
 Ladies, — yes, I know 'lis by right your duo, 
 Not by right aK)nc, but by good breeding too, 
 Our first petition should be made to you. 
 Well then, a suppliant you here behold, 
 AVho humbly sues you'll not froju us wilhold 
 Those cheering, heart-felt smiles, which quick dispel 
 'J'he timid, modest fears, that o'er us dwell. 
 Throughout the play, by our bills annouuc'd, 
 Immodest words are carefully renounc'd ; 
 Virtue is pictur'd in the highest style, 
 And vice you'll find our author doth revile; 
 While wit and humour still shall bear a part, 
 And Comedy enliven ev'ry heart. 
 Added to this, you who long have tarried, 
 Shall now be shown " The zoaij to get Marriedy 
 
 And now to friends of my own sex I'll plead, 
 Say ma\'iit I trust our efforts will succeed ; 
 O say, kind Gents, may we not hope to meet, 
 That praise for which so many bosoms beat ?
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 6S 
 
 Your noisy /aughter ne'er will fail t' inspire. 
 
 And fill our breasts with histrionic fire. 
 
 Ah ! were you here, to see behind this scene 
 
 The woeful looks, and most dejected mien 
 
 Of those, whose task is presently to coine, 
 
 (I can't help langhing, they look so pure and gram) 
 
 To claim that praise to which they dare aspire, 
 
 That praise they've sought most ardently t' acquire. 
 
 Here stands one, sly peeping round the corner. 
 
 Sure actor's face ne'er looked forlorner. 
 
 When the tired audience in a rage, 
 
 Combin'd to hoot and hiss him off the stage : 
 
 There at his back, another trembling stands, 
 
 Shaking as if the palsy touch'd his hands. 
 
 Thus of your kindly smiles you see we've need, 
 
 If they're bestow'd, we cannot but succeed. 
 
 Would you then all-in one applause combine. 
 
 And all essay to make our efforts shine, 
 
 <jratefully, thanks shall be loturn'd to you. 
 
 Whose kindness, shall have rtnder'd thanks your due.
 
 6fi MY LEISURE IIOUIIS. 
 
 A rUACMENT 
 
 The syren sung — I heard her voice — 
 She (oiich'd tlic lyre — the living sounds 
 llau through my soul — my heart still bounds, 
 And even angels might rejoice, 
 To hear a lay so sweet. 
 So tender and so soft. 
 ^Then rapt'rous rose the notes on high, 
 My senses thrili'd virith extacy ; 
 So heav'nly were the strains 
 That seraphs from aloft 
 Might stoop to earth to meet 
 And dwell among our plaius. 
 Ah! me! I felt their force, — my heart confess'd 
 The tender passion, while my breast 
 Shar'd all the charms, the pangs that love inspires, 
 And vainly burn'd beneath its fatal tires. 
 For 'twas a syren sung — her bosom felt 
 
 Not the endearing love of virtue's way, 
 To dissipation's giddy shrine she knelt, 
 Iler voice a snare— slic song but to betray.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS, 67 
 
 THE LAMENT OF THE OUICAST. 
 
 Scene. — St. Margaret's ClifF." 
 
 Dark was the niglit, and bitter b'evv the wind, 
 On yonder cliff, where friendless Edwin stood 
 Unshelter'd from the blast ; bewailing there 
 In accents niark'd by writhing grief, his sad — 
 His mournful fate! There, as the piercing sleet, 
 Blown by the wind against his tender frame, 
 (Unus'd 'till then, to such extreme of pain) 
 Caus'd many a tear to flow, it bade him 
 Drink reflection's sad ernbitter'd cup. — 
 
 " Ah" ! he exclaim'd, " is Edwin come to this! 
 Is this the state of him, who but for vile 
 Temptation's luring maze, would now have been, 
 Unstaiu'd by sin, the happy Edwin still!
 
 68 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Oh! once I had a home — a cherish'd home, 
 Aud once had friends I fondly lov'd — but now, 
 (A treble curse on the unhappy change) that home 
 So much endear'd, — those friends so truly lov'd. 
 To me are ever lost ! Bereav'd of all, 
 I wander now deserted and unknown. 
 No more, my Mother, smiling on her son 
 Hails his approach, and clasps him to her breast. — 
 No more the lips of fond affection press 
 The tear drench'd cheek of Edwin! No, his tears 
 Must now unheeded fall! no Sistei'snear 
 To kiss them off, and bid them cease to flow. 
 No kind consoling voice of Father, cheers 
 On this bleak spot, the exil'd heart of his 
 Once loved, but now — abandon'd Son ! 
 
 There was a time,— but 'tis past, when Brothers 
 Bade me welcome ! and grasp'd my hand in theirs, 
 As with a cordial greeting they would all 
 Strive which should please the happy Edwin most. 
 
 Yes, 'tis past! — afl'eclion's ties no longer 
 Bind their spotless hearts to me: nor is it
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. GS" 
 
 y- They alone, whose love I've madly lost. O no, 
 
 I ne'er again shall hear the cheerful voice 
 Of Friends \ That sacred name shall ne'er to me. 
 In happy converse be again address'd. 
 Stern— dreadful thought! Still in the prime of years 
 
 In youth — to be condemn'd to know no Friend. 
 
 It is a thought that dries up ev'ry vein, 
 And freezes ev'ry genial warmth and tire 
 With which the tender age of youth abounds. 
 
 And is it so ? must ev'ry tie, alas ! 
 Be banish'd from this isolated breast ? 
 O whither then for comfort can I fly. 
 Into whose bosom can 1 pour my woe, 
 Or dare to ask, one kind consoling. tear? 
 No there's none will let the trace of sorrow 
 Stain their cheek, for Edwin — wretched Edwin. 
 — A magic name still rings within my ears, 
 Eliza's sainted form presents itself 
 In these horrific clouds of night. My blood 
 Recoils ! — yes — tender pity once was there ; 
 Her's was the bosom which defying storms
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Like this, would bared have been to shelter me. 
 
 * » « * Oh! God, 
 
 Forgive — forgive — even as she forgave! 
 
 Hark ! yon curfew sounds and calls the trav'ller 
 From these stupendous heights : O would to hcav'a 
 It were a knell, whose dull, yet warning tone. 
 Told the inquiring world, that he, who once 
 Was Edwin call'd, lay now repos'd in death. 
 Yet — would there be one who'd his requiem sinj 
 And breathe a hope that his departed soul 
 Might rest in peace? — Shall I obey the sound 
 And leave this spot — to go— whither I know not. 
 Or by the impulse of mad despair, plunge 
 From this height, thus meet my doom, and rush. 
 Into the presence of my God uncall'd. 
 Ah ! no! lend mercy heaven ! shield me from 
 The awful act, and bid me yet live on. 
 To expiate my sins on earth, ere yet 
 Eternity, to eternal woe, shall 
 Doom the lost,— the outcast Edwin." 
 
 He pray'd, and left the place ; sleep clos'd his eyes. 
 And sooth'd till morn, his then renewed grief.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 71 
 
 THOUGHTS ON HE A KING THE KNELL. 
 
 — #^<a^ — 
 
 Heavily tolls the be'.I, — its dismal sounds 
 Lew grating on the watchful ear, proclaim 
 That Death's destroying hand again hath fell'd. 
 Another Victim! yes, another soul 
 Hath quit its mortal pari, and soaring fled 
 To Immortality — to meet its God, 
 And ah! of him receive the just reward 
 Of a well or mispent life. 
 Oh, 'tis an awful thought, a thought sublime, 
 That well deserves t' employ the christian's mind, 
 And bids us all reflect. Each time I hear 
 The solemn tone, with warning voice it seems 
 To say, " Prepare !" God of my life, O grant 
 may prepare; witliin my youthful heart
 
 ^2 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 A proper sense of thy divinity 
 
 Instill. Inspire my mind with gratitude 
 
 For all thy num'rous blessings past, and deign 
 
 Instruct me how to merit those to come. 
 
 Teach me so t' employ my time, O God, 
 
 That when thy great Almighty pow'r shall please 
 
 To stay my vital breath, I may obey 
 
 "Without a rankling fear, a pang t' inflict 
 
 In my dying moments. Oh may I feel 
 
 So assur'dof Heaven, e'en as my soul 
 
 Shall wing its flight — e'en with my parting breath 
 I may exclaim, " O Death where is thy sling ! 
 O Grave where is thy victory ! " 
 
 ,^g^^,^*—
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 73 
 
 ELLEN. 
 
 ^- — And still she soothes and feeds (he fiatt'ring pain, 
 False as he is, still, siill she loves her swain ; 
 To hopeless passion yields her heart a prey. 
 And siihs and sings the livelong hours away. 
 
 FITZGERALD. 
 
 All Hush ! 'tis the voice of poor Elleii I hear, 
 
 Bewilder'd she travels forlorn ; 
 O give her not cause for alarm or for fear. 
 Her grief from your heart claims a pitying tear. 
 
 Not the glance of contemptuous scorn. 
 
 See, see she approaches, Oh, turn not away 
 
 But list to her gentle complaint. 
 For while in the grove she doth harmlessly stray 
 She chaunts to the winds melodious her lay. 
 
 Unconscious of any restraint. 
 
 K.
 
 74 MY LF.ISUKE HOURS. 
 
 I Staid and I saw a most beautiful girl 
 
 Quick through the green foliage glide, 
 O'er her fair neck of snow loose flow'd the black curl 
 That fingers so taper did gracefully twirl, 
 As to her lone bower she hied. 
 
 And there on its mossy banks careless she lay 
 
 Her head on her hand reclining ; 
 
 'Twas this she enjoy'd, and oft would she stray 
 From her home and her friends to grief to give way. 
 
 For joy she felt in repining. 
 
 O sweetly she look'd, — now fix'd was her eye 
 
 On a bracelet bound on her arm — 
 Then directed its gaze towards Heav'n on high, 
 Her bosom convuls'd with many a sigh — 
 Now still'd by some powerful charm. 
 
 Then looking again on the bracelet I saw 
 
 A tear its confines at last break, 
 It glistening stood, then obeyed the law 
 That hade it arise, her grief to withdraw, 
 
 Bedewing her beauteous cheek.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 75 
 
 She wiped it away — again could I trace 
 
 Another beginning to flow, 
 She wip'd it away — but soon was her face 
 (The loveliest of all I could wish to embrace,) 
 
 Suffus'd with those streamlets of woe. 
 
 Then having wept freely, benignly she wrung 
 
 In calm resignation her bands. 
 Though to sorrow consign'd, to sorrow she clung, 
 Yet still in a strain most enchanting she sung 
 
 Effusions her fancy expands, 
 
 *• Oh ! joy to me for evei's fled. 
 No more its balmy paths I'll tread. 
 Despair in all its terrors drest 
 Resides within my wounded breast; 
 To me the world is lone and drear. 
 Repose I And but only here. 
 
 This is the spot where Harry swore 
 To love me daily more and more ; 
 Here is the place where tirst he taught 
 My heart to love, and often sought
 
 ire MY LKISLRE IIOTRS. 
 
 To gain me to confess tlie same. 
 And add new ardour to his flame. 
 To me the world is lone and drear, 
 Ivepose 1 (ind but only here. 
 
 The Jasmin through my bow'r entwines 
 And mixes witii the fragrant bines, 
 And still in freshcn'd beauty blows 
 '^^'hat Harry term'd his fav'rite rose; 
 With them the curling suckle spreads, 
 Hanging on each its honied heads. 
 To me the world is lone and drear, 
 Repose I find but only here. 
 
 And while we bent thejasmin's spray 
 You talk'd of love and hail'd the day 
 AVhen we in union might entwine 
 Like yonder rose and eglantine. 
 But Oh tis past — those hours are o'er; 
 Harry, thy voice I hear no more. 
 To me the world is lone and drear, 
 Repose I Hnd but only here.
 
 MY I-EISURE HOURS. 
 
 77 
 
 Wlien together we set that rose, 
 
 " Ellen" yoii sigh'cl '• my bosom glows 
 
 AVith true and constant— constant love, 
 
 Nor will I ever faithless prove." 
 
 But thou hast fled, those joys are gone, 
 
 1 see the rose, but feel its thorn. 
 
 To me the world is lone and drear. 
 
 Repose 1 find but only here. 
 
 Here in my heart I feel the blow, 
 Still, I'll not curse thee Harry — no ! 
 But may the gifts of heav'n descend, 
 May Heaven ever prove your friend : 
 May no remorse e'er sting thy breast. 
 No thoughts of Ellen mar thy rest. 
 To her the world is lone and drear. 
 Repose she finds but only here." 
 
 Then ceasing to warble she sprung from the ground. 
 
 Retracing her steps to her home ; 
 Yet still in my ear the wild sorrowful sound 
 With the sympathy tuii'J, that bade my heait bound 
 For giict' that caus'd Ellon to roam.
 
 p 
 
 78 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF BOILEA.U. 
 
 Since one fatal hour 
 O the pain that I prove, 
 
 Ah ! Ann, 'tis the pow'r 
 Of the tenderest love. 
 
 Nay, be not afraid 
 Nor make such an ado, 
 
 Believe me, sweet maid, 
 'Tis indeed — not for you.
 
 MV LEISURE HOUR 79 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O give nie the maid who is lovely and fair 
 
 Whose bosom will beat to the voice of true love. 
 
 Bright blue be her eye, while in ringlets her hair, 
 A veil for her neck shall as modestly prove. 
 
 With the riches of knowledge stor'd be her mind, 
 I care not for bounties fortune may give. 
 
 Her actions be pleasing, her manners refin'd — 
 For her would I die — Oh ! for her would I live.
 
 80 MV r.r.isuKE nouu<?. 
 
 ANTHONY, OR THE COMPARISON. 
 
 — »*^^g>-.,|« — 
 
 A poor simple Frenchman, not remarkably fat, 
 
 That's to say, much resembling a juvenile sprat; 
 
 'Tis a simile here in the country wc use 
 
 When, as thin as a lath, but four feet from his shoes. 
 
 In manhood erect the pigmy will stand, 
 
 Look knowing around and fain would command. 
 
 Of this stamp was Monsieur, his name Anthony too, 
 
 Which carries the metaphor charmingly thro' 
 
 As we're told that saint was the first of our species. 
 
 Who troubled himself to harangue little fishes. 
 
 Now, our hero was standing, one day, it should seem. 
 To look at a sow, with a charming fine teem, 
 Nine in number, of pigs, she iliat morning gave birth, 
 And Monsieur was thinking how much they were worthy
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 81 
 
 Expressing contempt at " de Engulish pig, 
 In France dey are larger— near two times aa big. 
 Ma foi — qu'ils sent petits, me no like dera at all, 
 Look dere — vot a little von, how diableraent small." 
 
 His companion James was pleased with the brood, 
 Praised each pig in its turn and thought them all good ; 
 'Till laughing aloud in his arms one he takes, 
 " 'Tis Anthonij ,''"' he says, "ihe poor thing how it shakes." 
 " Vot Sare, you say? dat's me! vot de devil you mean 
 No, Sare, you are wrong sare, me no c&chon have been ; 
 But dere is de mamma of dc whole teem, 
 And she is, par bleu, von very big Jim." 
 
 >i^«
 
 1^*2 MY LEISURE IIOVRS. 
 
 THE POLANDER'S FAREWELL TO lUS 
 COUNTRY, 
 
 Suggested by reading Miss Porter's " Tbaddeus of Warsaw." 
 
 Now adieu to the land of my birth, 
 
 Poor Poland for ever farewell. 
 Most desolate nation on earth. 
 
 Thy wrongs in this bosom shall dwell r 
 To the land of the stranger I go 
 
 Unceasing from thee must I roam, 
 O Thaddeus thou nerer must know 
 
 The land of thy birth as thy home. 
 
 The invaders thy children oppress— 
 The swords of the spoilers have spread 
 
 O'er thy valleys a ruthless distress. 
 Thy heroes repose with the dead.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 83 
 
 Where's thy standard which bravery bore, 
 No longer 'tis held by the brave, 
 
 Their valor is past— thy freedom is o'er. 
 They've found in the battle their grave. 
 
 Then, fare thee well Poland ! yet ere I go, 
 
 This pledge of affection receive, 
 I weep for thy fate : see, my tears flow, 
 
 And such is the tribute I leave. 
 Where the palace of Villanow rose. 
 
 Its still reeking ashes appear, 
 Where its ruins still speak of thy foes, 
 
 There falls from thy Prince the sad tear. 
 
 And still will I weep, sorrow is mine 
 
 These ruinous heaps I deplore. 
 Sacred the spot! for O 'tis the shrine, 
 
 Where freedom fell, to rise no more. 
 'Tis past, and I go— never again 
 
 This land shall behold my return, 
 We sought to be free— the hope was vain, 
 
 Thy fate while away will I mourn.
 
 84 MY LEISUHE HOURS. 
 
 AL\A[\i:Z AND ANNA." 
 
 A SPAMSH TALK. 
 
 O 'iwas in the land where the bigot resides, 
 
 Where tyranny reigns, and oppression does wield 
 The sabre of power, and mercy derides, 
 AVhere the mask of religion the people misguides, 
 And hypocrisy base doth act as a shield. 
 
 Yes 'twas in that land where the fair Anna dwelt 
 So blooming, so mild, so virtuous, so young; 
 Religion her theme, with devotion she knelt 
 Each day to the shiine of the virgin and felt, 
 
 The purest of zeal, as pray'rs fell from her tongue.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 83 
 
 And taught by the precepts her mother impress'd, 
 
 A duty she felt it, and oft would retire 
 To th' hallowed place, with the priest, and confess'd 
 
 Not a sin — ah! no, her immaculate breast, 
 
 No sin ever knew or unholy desire. 
 
 Not so the fell priest, whom religion appear'd 
 
 His every action to guide and to sway; 
 She thought be was pious, and Anna rever'd 
 The maxims he taught, while she strictly adhei'd 
 To each penance inflicted, cheerful t' obey. 
 
 But ah ! in his breast a passion there glowed, 
 
 Which his office as priest forbade him to feel, 
 Its empire he felt, as raging it flowed 
 Through his every vein, a pang it bestow'd 
 Oppressive to bear, yet compell'd to conceal 
 
 But 'twas not the love in which virtue delights, 
 
 O no; 'twas a madness that fevei'd his brain. 
 It was not the love that affection excites, 
 It was not the love where the young heart unites, 
 'Twas frenzy that heated and boil'd in the vein.
 
 8G MY LEISURE HOURS. 
 
 Nor was it such love as reigned in the breast 
 
 Of youthful Alvarez whose bosom beat high, 
 He saw the fair Anna, array'd in the vest 
 Of virtue so pure, by her actions express'd, 
 111 fated Alvarez — he lov'd but to die. 
 
 With ardour he breath'd to the maiden his vows, 
 
 She listened — she heard — and quickly the flame 
 Is felt in her breast ; — to its empire she bows, 
 Confesses she loves, — the soft passion allows, 
 
 And sighing she breathes with a fondness his name. 
 
 Long time had their hearts in affection been tied^ 
 
 And long had they felt all the joys of true lo 
 Each one on the other could fully confide, / 
 
 For virtue so pure o'er them both did preside, 
 So happy and chaste, unblemished they prove. 
 
 But 'twas for a season! there lurked within, 
 
 The dark soul of the priest (of vice the abode,) 
 A passion most deadly, 'twas Jealousy's sin. 
 The demon he felt, aud with horrible grin 
 
 He curs'd the fair Anna, and mis'ry forebode.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 87 
 
 But this was in secret, as wretched he lay 
 
 On his couch where no more he met with repose ; 
 
 Not a vesper he chaunted, — nor pray'r did say, 
 
 For Jealousy held its demoniac sway; 
 
 By cursing he slept not — by cursing he rose. 
 
 Wretch, wretch that he is; O thou miscreant dust, 
 Shall thy pray'rs be heard, d'ost thou vainly surmise ? 
 Remember, the God of high heaven is just. 
 Thy infernal desires His mercy disgust, 
 
 For ne'er o'er His creatures will He tyrannize* 
 
 Deep laid were the plans of the priest to ensnare, 
 
 His projects the foulest by Jealousy fram'd, 
 To entrap in his toils the immaculate pair. 
 To surprise like th' hunter the prey in its lair, 
 To blight their young hopes too fatally aim'd. 
 
 And veiled in the mask th&t hypocrites wear, 
 
 A disgrace to mankind too oft it is worn. 
 From children t' impose on their guardians dare, 
 To the men, who grown older in vice prepare, 
 And preparing perform — regardless who mourn.
 
 f^S MY r.F.rsuKF. nouns. 
 
 Then resolving to pass as though he nor knew, 
 
 Nor other emotion he felt at the scene, 
 Than joy pure and grateful, h j secm'd to subdue, 
 Tlie grief of his heart, and with pleasure would \te\v 
 His rival and Anna with eye so serene, 
 
 That all would have sworn the old monk would have 
 bless'd. 
 
 Their union with ardour, and orisons raise, 
 To heaven above, to the mansions of rest, 
 That of joys unalloy'd they might be possess'd 
 
 So calm were his looks, so deceitful his ways. 
 
 But now comes the trial, the moment arrives, 
 
 When the mask must be thrown off, nor longer 
 be worn ; 
 Quick, quick as it comes, so his malice revives, 
 The green demon exults, stern jealousy thrives. 
 And fate does her worst, O the lover must mourn. 
 
 The day is arriv'd when their hearts should be tied 
 In bonds their affection prompts them to weave, 
 By whom then so well, can they be allied, 
 By whom the fair Anna declared a bride. 
 
 As by Pedro the priest — fheir/nV«(/ they'd believe.
 
 MY LEISURE HOURS. 89 
 
 The wish is express'd — the occasion is seiz'd, 
 And Pedro consents the rights to perform ; 
 Has virtue prevailed, and has he appeas'd 
 The workings of hell in his mind so diseas'd, 
 The impulse of revenge — and is he reform'd ? 
 
 To the altar they go, how lovely they seem; 
 
 Say, where is the heart that refuses to beat, 
 Or where is the eye that with joy will not beam, 
 When gazing it dwells on so hea.v'nly a theme, 
 
 Or where is the hand such joy would defeat? 
 
 Yet there was a hand, and a heart, and an eye, 
 Which puls'd not, and beat not, and beam'd not 
 with love^ 
 And there was a heart that could vilely comply, 
 And there was a hand which the steel could apply, 
 And bury it deep in the innocent dove. 
 
 The prayer is said, — Alvarez allied 
 
 To his Anna, exults; then hastes to embrace, — 
 Out Gods! scarcely yet the knot has been tied, 
 V/hen his Anna becomes — Oh! a spiritless bride. 
 
 See, — see — Ah ! she falls — her blood flows apace. 
 
 M
 
 00 MY LEISURE IIOUKS. 
 
 "J}ie! Die!" cried the priest, "from me comes 
 the blow, 
 
 'Tis mine is the hand, that directed the steel; 
 'Twas revenge bade me strike, nor could I forego, 
 For Anna, I lov'd thee, and now may ye know 
 
 Though forbidden to love, the passion zee feel! " 
 
 They bore the bleeding corpse away, 
 While he who caus'd the sad affray 
 
 Is giv'n to Justice' hands: 
 Ah! why pollute that sacred word. 
 In Spain 'tis now scarce ever heard 
 
 Throughout her fertile lands. 
 It seems as though she'd taken wing. 
 Nor more her aid expands ; 
 
 But bent her way to other climes, 
 For he who reigns is priestcraft's King, 
 
 Th' unwilling punisher of crimes, 
 Done by hei monkish bands. 
 
 But w here's Alvarez? O 'tis past — 
 Was not his bridal hour his last ? 
 Think ye not ye see him lie
 
 MY I-F-ISURC HOUUS. 91 
 
 Oil Anna's lifeless form? Oh ! yes, 
 And think ye not ye see him press 
 
 Her pale lips? — now mark his eye; 
 It dims, it fades, its lustre's o'er. 
 
 Fled is the soul with that deep sigh, 
 Stopp'd is the pulse, nor longer now, 
 Vibrates the heart which just before, 
 Embrac'd the sacred marriage vow,— 
 lie gasps for breath, see, see him die. 
 
 — ♦^^<^'@'|**"
 
 92 MY LtlSURF. HOURS. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A WOULD HE CRiriC. 
 
 Whose spiteful remarks zsere so ridiculously stupid^ 
 that, did they not combine falsehood nith illiberal criti- 
 cw/n, they zcouldpass unnoticed. 
 
 Once on a time, 'tis said, it came to pass, 
 A harmless boy was staDding near an ass; 
 The beast, though unprovok'd, began to bray. 
 And feats peculiar to his race display ; 
 Turn'd slily round, uprais'd his heels and quick, 
 Bestow'd on Giles a most malicious kick. 
 Sore with the pain at first he nearly cried, 
 Then half resolv'd to lash the creature's hide; 
 But stifling soon liis rage, exclaim'd, *' Alas, 
 I'll take it whence it comes, thou'rt but an Ass."
 
 f ^f f Iff f 10'tf f f !!| l.f Kl If f i5|(If f Iff f f f 0!^ 
 
 NOTES- 
 
 •THE BATTLE OF CRESCY. 
 
 The famous Battle alluded to, was fought August the 25t}\, 
 1346, near C rescy, a small Town'in France, whence it derives 
 its name. Edward III. had landed an army in France with 
 a view of claiming the Crov\n, which he pretended was usurped 
 by Philip the Tall, who was brother to Lewis Hutin, the eldest 
 son of Philip the Fair. Edward giotnded his pretenions as 
 rightful heir to the Throne, being the son of Isabella, who was 
 daughter to Philip the Fair, and sister to the three last Kings 
 of France ; of course his claims were objected to, as the Salic 
 law forbade the descendants of females a right to the crown, 
 
 ^His valiant son in sable armour cas'd. 
 
 Edward the Black Prince, so called from his wearing black 
 aimour. 
 
 '^ Sc 3rce fifteen suns had yet his bosom warni'd. 
 
 He was just fifteen years old when this memorable battle 
 took place; and was already remarkable for understanding and 
 valour above his age. 
 
 ^The sun had scarce its high meridian passed. 
 
 This battle began about three in the afternoon, and accord- 
 ing to Speed, the phenomena in Heaven were great. To use his
 
 9 4 N0TE1. 
 
 own words, (page 590) he says, " And even as the first wounds 
 were ready in a manner to be given and taken, behold God, 
 to let them know he was awake, and that there was one above 
 to whom so many thousands sliould within a few minutes 
 appear, to give an account of their whole lives to that present ; 
 he caused the blacke clouds to poure downe upon them store of 
 funeral! tears, enarching the air with a spacious rainbow, and 
 discharging sundry fire and peals of thundery the Sunne also 
 at the same time drawing more to set, would gladly have hid 
 his face, by thrusting it under a partill Eclipse, but God, (who 
 meant good to the English.*) would not suffer him to withdraw 
 his more necessary office, so that freed from that temporary 
 shadow, he shone directly into the Frenclmien's eyes. At the 
 same time also sholes and cloudes of baleful ravens, and other 
 birds of prey, and ravin as foreshowing the harvest of car- 
 cases at hand, came flying over the French hoast." 
 
 'Unknown to Gallia were such sounds before. 
 To them unheard the dreadful cannon's roar. 
 
 I have, I believe, here overshot the mark, if we come closely 
 to the point, for I find by Lowndes that although in this battle 
 theEnglish first made use of artillery, they had cannon inFrance; 
 but Philip only anxious to overtake the enemy, had left them 
 behind, being so assured of victory from the superiority of 
 number, that he regarded his artillery as useless incumbrance. 
 However, in a History of France, publislied in 1817, I find 
 this observation j — "Cefut, dit on dans cette journee, que les 
 Anglais firent pour la premiere fois usage de I'artillerie, ils 
 avoient six pieces de cannon, I'efTroi qu'elles inspiroient acheva 
 de determiner en leur faveur une victoire que I'imprudence 
 des Fran^ais les avoient deja preparee." 
 
 * We can but observe Speed's Amor I'atriit.
 
 f There great Bohemias King though old and blind. 
 To fate rusKd on, and was to fate resign d. 
 
 Robertson says " He was blind from age, but being resolved 
 to hazard his person, and set an example to ot!iers, he ordered 
 the reins of his bridle to be tied to two Gentlemen's horses of 
 his train, and his dead body and those of his attendants, were 
 afterwards found among the slain, with their horses standing by 
 them in that situation." Speed uses these words ; — " But to 
 what purpose seives writing if the high resolution of the King 
 of Bohemia should be unremembered ? He (as only seeking 
 an honourable grave for his old age) put himself into the first 
 rank of his owne horsemen, and with full random charging the 
 English, was slain with sword in hand, the troupe of his 
 faithful followers with theirslaughteied bodies covering him even 
 in death. There lay this Trophea of the English Chevalrie !" 
 
 tThousands who view'd the sun that morn arise 
 Had now in death for ever clos'd their eyes. 
 
 " On the day of Battle and on the ensuing^ there fell by a 
 moderate computation, 1200 knights, 1400 gentlemen, 4000 
 men at arms, besides about 3000 men of inferior rank. The 
 Kings of Majorca and Bohemia, and many of the principal 
 nobility of France were slain." — Robertson. 
 
 •• The crest with which his silver locks were bound. 
 
 The crest of the King of Bohemia was three Ostrich plumes, 
 and the motto these German words, Ich Dien (I serve) which 
 the Prince of Wales adopted (as seen in the concluding lines) 
 in memory of the battle, and his successors have worn them 
 ever since.
 
 •96 NOTES. 
 
 Reflection on War. 
 
 Rejection on the natural consequences of a Battle can but 
 strike the bosoms of the humane with sentiments of horror. 
 ■• Tis awful in the extreme to think on the thousands who are un . 
 warily pluaged into eternity with their still unrepen'ed crimes, 
 devoting them to misery's horrid gulph. — Surely among the 
 numberless deceased an affectionate father lies! Doub'less, 
 many a true loving lad, instead of reposing on the fond bosom 
 of his amiable lass, is destined to stretch his stitfene ' limbs 
 upon the gory plain ! And how often is it the case that a 
 doating mother has to deplore the loss of a duteous son, a 
 portion of whose hard-earned stipend was always devoted to her! 
 The greater the victory, it is but too fatally true, the greater 
 number of widows aid orphans have cause to mourn. Methinks 
 vshilethe breast of humanity contemplates the conquest, it 
 nust participate in the woes of the unfortunate j and the bosom 
 of the female admirer of heroic valour must heave a sigh at the 
 untimely death of those who claimed her admiration. I grant 
 that the soldier who dies in his country's cause, dies a Hero ! 
 and I can venerate his memory as such ; but alas, what com- 
 pensationns his glorious fall to the disappointed mother, — the 
 bereaved wife, — the deserted orphan, the hopeless lover. They 
 equally mourn his death, as though he breathed his last on the 
 Led of sickness, their loss is equally the same, and their grief 
 as unrestrained. 
 
 AN EVENING PIECE, &c. 
 
 'J/je lonely bell Us solemn tones loud lolid, 
 jlndlo my mind recaWd UC intended aid 
 It was to give. 
 
 Some years ago, a sliepherd returning from his labour on a 
 foggy night, unfortunately fell over lh(i C'l.ff. Jle liv'cd but a few
 
 NOTES. 97 
 
 hours, and in his last moments, left a piece of ground to be 
 given to the person, who would undertake to ring the village 
 bell in winter, at eight o'clock in the evening, in the hope that 
 the sound might guide some wandering traveller from the dread- 
 ful precipice down which a false step might hurl hira. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 ^Succeeding ages know they once were free. 
 
 When this piece was written, the Greeks were still groaning 
 under the despotism of the Turks, those cruel task-masters, 
 whose tyranny oppressed a people — the descendants of the 
 wisdom and valour of the ancient world. It is true, a spark of 
 freedom had already kindled in the bosoms of some, but a 
 people so long under the dominion of a despot, as were the 
 Greeks, become too much enervated and enfeebled, — are too 
 much wrapped in the dark clouds of ignorance and superstition, 
 to be able to grasp with resolution, even at freedom ! Happily, 
 however, that spark has burned with vigour ;— -encouraged by 
 the example of some, aided by the benevolent and patriotic of 
 Britain, — animated by the now departed Bvron, who fell a 
 victim in her cause, — Greece shall once more rank among the 
 FRKE, — literature shall again flourish, — -and after ages shall see 
 another Lycurgus, another Solon arise I 
 
 •FORGET ME NOT. 
 In imitation of "The wild Flower, Forget rae not."
 
 93 NOTF.!i. 
 
 MUSIC OF GREAT UTILITY IN CASE OF A FRAIL 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 The idea of this piec e was taken from a jeu d' esprit in a very 
 entertaining little work, entiled, "The Miniature Magazine." 
 
 "• They to the outcast mercy show. 
 
 The reader has but to reflect on the merciful reception they 
 gave the Refugees in the time of the Frencli Revolution. 
 
 " That''s nothing else but old MofWrooJc. 
 
 Every one knows that MoUbrook, and Malbrool: are cor- 
 ruptions of Marfborough ; the tulie nlluded to (with a song^ 
 was composed by the French, at the lime of the victorioUg 
 achievements of the Duke of Marlborough in France; when 
 they, unable to drive him aWay by their arms, sought to do it 
 by their voices, in singing ridiculous songs, &c. ; but the 
 English Lion was never frighted by the crowing of the Gallic 
 Cock. 
 
 •"THE LAMENT OF THE OUTCAST. 
 
 After having sauntered for some hours in the delightful walks 
 of Dean Park,* I sought bhelterfTrom a sudden summershower 
 in the porch of the deserted mansion. The hour spent heie was 
 not idly passed, for curiosity, that ever busy principle innate 
 with us, prompted me to read tlie sciaps written on the walls. 
 
 • DiMii I'iirk, Wiiii;liain, Kent, tlic scat of Sir Hciiiy OxendcD, 
 Bait. Tlic uiausiou has not for several years bceu itiliabitcd.
 
 NOTES. 99 
 
 &c. of the porch, by the different visitors. Of these were, 
 "some good, some bad, some neither one nor t'other." Among 
 others, was one, the melancholy strain of which, so touched 
 me, that, after having mascd for some time on the wretched 
 state of the poor forlorn who wrote it, I copied it into a blank 
 leaf of Mackenzie's " Man of Feeling," which had been the 
 companion of my walk} what a subject would this have been 
 for him, — it was a string on which Henry could have harped, 
 till he tuned the dull soul to sympathy. 
 
 *' Here then have I passed a night— the outcast Edwin here has 
 
 slept — wliere he shall next lay his head, that Heaven, 
 
 whom he has offended, only knows. — Oh ! luy father— my mother 
 
 -^thy son is penitent — but cannot — tnows not how to return. — 
 
 The wide world is now his only home, 'tfs all he claims, God can 
 
 tell how freely he'd resign that claim. — Once more I wander 
 
 forth — yon path — I go. Oh I readei, (if these lines should 
 
 ever be read) I have sinned, — hut if sorrow claim a tear, let the 
 
 woes of Edwin meet with sympathy ! " 
 
 I had some trouble in in copying it, as it was written on the 
 
 seat with pencil, and had undoubtedly been there a long time. 
 
 In several places it was almost illegible, being blotted, perhaps 
 
 with tear-. From this I took the idea of the piece, and having, 
 
 in imagination, followed the poor Edwin to the romantic heights 
 
 of St. Margaret's, there fixed the scene. 
 
 -ALVAREZ^ AND ANNA. 
 
 The subject whence this ballad is taken, forms a part of the 
 9th Letter of a work, entitled " Letters from Spain, by Don 
 Leucadio Doblado." 
 
 FINIS.
 
 G. WOOD, PRINTER, HIGH STREET, CANTERBURY.
 
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