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that day, EROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. But I mark'd not the twilight-beam melting
away; 1, Mariamne! now for thee
Oh! would that the lightning had glared The heart for which thou bled'st is
in its stead, bleeding;
And the thunderbolt burst on the conquerevenge is lost in agony,
or's head! And wild remorse to rage succeeding. h, Mariamne! where art thou?
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading:
profane h,couldst thou—thon wouldst pardon now. The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to Though Heaven were to my prayer un
reign ; heeding. And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people
may be, nd is she dead ?—and did they dare Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee. Obey my phrensy's jealous raving? ly wrath but doom'd my own despair: The sword that smote her 's o'er me
XXI. waving. lat thou art cold, my murder'd love!
WB sat down and wept by the waters And this dark heart is vainly craving Of Babel, and thought of the day for her who soars alone above,
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, And leaves my soul unworthy saving.
I Made Salem's high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate Daughters! he's gone, who shared my diadem; Were scatter'd all weeping away. She sunk, with her my joys entombing; swept that flower from Judah's stem
While sadly we gazed on the river Whose leaves for me alone were blooming; Which rollid on in freedom below, Ind mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, They demanded the song; but, oh never This bosom's desolation dooming;
That triumph the stranger shall know! Ind I have earn'd those tortures well, May this right hand be wither'd for ever, Which unconsumed are still consuming!! Ere it string our high harp for the foe!
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free; DN THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION
JON And the hour when thy glories were ended,
But left me that token of thee: OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS.
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 'ROM the last hill that looks on thy once
With the voice of the spoiler by me! holy dome beheld thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome:
XXII. Twas thy last sun went down, and the
flames of thy fall THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNA?lash'd back on the last glance I gave to
CHERIB. thy wall.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my
on the fold, home,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple Ind forgot for a moment my bondage tocome;
and gold; beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy And the sheen of their spears was like stars fane,
on the sea, Ind the fast-fetter'd hands that made ven- When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep geance in vain.
Galilee. On many an eve, the high spot whence I Like the leaves of the forest when Summer
is green, Had reflected the last beam of day as it That host with their banners at sunset blazed ;
were seen: While I stood on the height, and beheld Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn the decline
hath blown, of the rays from the mountain that shone That host on the morrow lay wither'd and on thy shrine.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
on the blast, And the might of the Gentile, unsinote by And breathed in the face of the foe as he
the sword, pass'd;
Hatb melted like snow in the glance of the And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly
Lord! and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for
XXI. ever grew still!
FROM JOB. And there' lay the steed with his nostril
A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld But through it there rollid not the breath The face of Immortality unveil'd
of his pride: Deep sleep came down on every eye sare And the foam of his gasping lay white on
And there it stood, all formless_bnt divine: And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake: And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on “Is man more just than God? Is man his mail;
more pure And the tents were all silent, the banners Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure!
Creatures of clay-vain dwellers in the dust! The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. The moth survives you,and are ye more just
| Things of a day! you wither ere the night, And the vidove of Ashur are loud in Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted
ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE.
Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo
By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years,
'T18 dono—bat yesterday a King! | With might unquestion'd,-power to saveAnd arm'd with Kings to strive
Thine only gift hath been the grave And now thou art a nameless thing
To those that worshipp'd thee; So abject-yet alive!
Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess Is this the man of thousand thrones, Ambition's less than littleness ! Who strew'd our Earth with hostile
Thanks for that lesson-it will teach And can he thus survive ?
To after-warriors more
| That spell upon the minds of men Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind Breaks never to unite again, Who bow'd so low the knee?
That led them to adore
| With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.
he triumph, and the vanity,
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, The rapture of the strife
When thus thy mightiest foes their four he earthquake-shout of Victory,
In humblest gaise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
Thine evil deeds are writ in goro,
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain. he Desolator desolate!
If thou hadet died as honogr dies, The Victor overthrown!
Some new Napoleon might arise, he Arbiter of others' fate
To shame the world againA Suppliant for his own!
But who would soar the solar height, it some yet imperial hope
To set in such a starless night
Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust o die a prince-or live a slave
Is vile as vulgar clay; 'hy choice is most ignobly brave! Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away; le who of old would rend the oak, But yet methought the living great Dream'd not of the rebound;
Some higher sparks should animate, hain'd by the trunk he vainly broke, To dazzle and dismay; Alone-- how look'd he round?
Nor deemd contempt could thus make mirth Thon, in the sternness of thy strength Of these, the Conquerors of the earth! In equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found :
And She, proud Austria's mournful flower, le fell, the forest-prowlers' prey;
Thy still imperial bride; But thou must eat thy heart away!
How bears her breast the torturing hour
Still clings she to thy side ? Che Roman, when his burning heart Must she too bend, must she too share Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Thy late repentance, long despair, Chrew down the dagger - dared depart,
Thou throneless Homicide ? In savage grandeur, home.
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, He dared depart, in utter scorn
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! Di men that such a yoke had borne,
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, Yet left him such a doom!
And gaze upon the sea; His only glory was that hour
That element may meet thy smile, Di self-upheld abandon'd power.
It ne'er was ruled by thee! The Spaniard, when the last of sway
Or trace with thine all idle hand, Had lost its quickening spell,
In Joitering mood, upon the sand,
That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue bath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. A subtle disputant on creeds,
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage His dotage trifled well:
What thoughts will there be thine, Yet better had he neither known
While brooding in thy prison'd rage? A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But one—“The world was mine :"
Uuless, like he of Babylon,
Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd go widely forth-
So long obey'd -90 little worth !
Or like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
| His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, | And that last act, though not thy worst, Who thus can hoard his own!
The very Fiend's arch mock;
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !
A SAT I R E.
I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Such shameless Bards we have; and yet, 'tis true,
į any production which was not entirely and
exclnsively my own composition. TO THE SECOND EDITION.
With regard to the real talents of many
of the poetical persons whose performances ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, are mentioned or alluded to in the follayhave urged me not to publish this Satire ing pages, it is presumed by the author with my name. If I were to be “turn'd that there can be little difference of opinie from the career of my humour by quibbles in the public at large; though, like other quick, and paper-bullets of the brain,” I sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle should have complied with their counsel. of proselytes, by whom his abilities are But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or overrated, his faults overlooked, and his bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. metrical canons received without scruple I can safely say that I have attacked none and without consideration. But the unpersonally who did not commence on the questionable possession of considerable ge offensive. An author's works are public nius by several of the writers here censured. property: he who purchases may judge, renders their mental prostitution more ta and publish his opinion if he pleases; and be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, the authors I have endeavoured to comme- at worst, laughed at and forgotten ; permorate may do by me as I have done by verted powers demand the most decided them. I dare say they will succeed better reprehension. No one can wish more than in condemning my scribblings, than in the author, that some known and able wrimending their own. But my object is not ter had undertaken their exposure; but to prove that I can write well, but, if pos- Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Mar sible, to make others write better.
singer, and, in the absence of the regular As the Poem has met with far more suc- physician, a country-practitioner may, in cess than I expected, I have endeavoured cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to in this edition to make some additions and prescribe his nostrnm, to prevent the eralterations to render it more worthy of tension of so deplorable an epidemic, pro public perusal.
vided there be no quackery in his treatment In the first edition of this Satire, published of the malady. A caustic is here offered. anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject as it is to be feared nothing short of actual of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted cautery can recover the numerous patients at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, afflicted with the present prevalent and who has now in the press a volume of distressing rabies for rhyming.-As to the poetry. In the present edition they are Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, reerased, and some of my own substituted in quire a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but their stead: my only reason for this being if the author succeeds in merely bruising that which I conceive would operate with one of the heads of the serpent," though any other person in the same manner-ahis own hand should suffer in the encoundetermination not to publish with my name' ter, he will be amply satisfied.
STILL must I hear?shall hoarse Fitz-The cry is up, and Scribblers are my games
GERALD bawl Speed, Pegasus !-ye strains of great and is creaking couplets in a tavern-hall,
small, nd I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all! bould dub me scribbler, and denounce my I too can scrawl, and once upon a time
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhymerepare for rhyme -I'll publish, right or a schoolboy - freak, unworthy praise or wrong:
blame: ools are my theme, let Satire be my song. I printed-older children do the same.
| 'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book's a book, altho' there's nothing in't. Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose-Not that a title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: lave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, This LAMB must own, since his patrician orn from thy parent-bird to form a pen,
name hat mighty instrument of little men! Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from 'he pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, f brains that labour, big with verse or Tho' now the name is veil'd from public prose,
- sight. 'hough nymphs forsake, and critics may Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own he lover's solace, and the author's pride:
review: That wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! Not seek great JEFFREY's - yet, like him, low frequent is thy use, how small thy
will be praise !
Self-constituted judge of poesy. ondemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, fith all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
A man must serve his time to every trade, ut thou, at least, mine own especial pen! Save censure-critics all are ready made. ince laid aside, but now assumed again, Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by lur task complete, like Hamet's shall be
With just enough of learning to misquote, 'ho' spurn’d by others, yet beloved by me: A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fanlt; 'hen let us soar to-day; no common theme, A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; o eastern vision, no distemper'd dream To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, ispires our path, though full of thorns, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill scem a lucky hit; mooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for
Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest, When Vice triumphant holds her sove- And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd.
reign sway, nd men, through life her willing slaves,
| And shall we own such judgment? noThen Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
as soon Infolds her motley store to suit the time; Seek roses in December, ice in June; Then knaves and fools combined o'er all Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman, or an epitaph; Then Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, Or any other thing that's false, before 'en then the boldest start from public You trust in critics who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled fraid of shame, unknown to other fears, By JEFFREY's heart, or LAMB'S Bæotian lore darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
head. nd shrink from ridicule, though not from law. To these young tyrants, by themselves
misplaced, Such is the force of Wit! but not belong Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste; to me the arrows of satiric song;
To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 'he royal vices of our age demand
And hail their voice as truth, their word Keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
as law; till there are follies e'en for me to chase, While these are censors, 'twould be sin to nd yield at least amusement in the race:
spare; augh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-- While such are critics,why should I forbear?