Such peals of laughter rend the quiet air,
As with the rest the boys bespatter'd mix;
As when Jack-pudding at a Country fair,
Shews to the gaping crowd his monkey tricks.
But these to quiet were again restor❜d,
And sweetly play'd the pipers all the while;
When from the windows kindly bow'd my Lord,
And many a lady gay was seen to smile.
Now cups of wine in temp'rate sort was dealt,
For more than needful must not be allow'd;
O! what a glow the generous donor felt,
To see the bliss that reign'd among the crowd.
The feast was ended, and the good Lord Mayor,
Bad them all welcome, and retire in peace;
And promis'd this-it soon should be his care,
To fix the custom never more to cease.
He fix'd the custom, as old records tell,
And ever since the lads of London round,
Forego their labours when the pancake bell,
From Bow's tall steeple spreads its cheerful sound.
Tho' surly gravity condemn the tale,
Or scorn Sir Simon for his friendly part;
Still London lads shall take the rich regale,
And bless the donor for his lib'ral heart.
He leaves this moral, not a better's heard,
As all shall own who're not of morals rude;
Like good Sir Simon, ever keep your word,
And teach the world to honour gratitude!
Holcroft's "Tale of Mystery" performed at Covent Garden in 1802, was, we believe, the first productions of the English stage to which the appellation of Melo-drama was affixed. Since that period, the rage for these compositions has constantly been increasing, till it has at last attained to such a height, that poor Tragedy and Comedy appear stand a fair chance of being in a short time wholly excluded from the seat of their ancient dominion. The growth of merit, however, in these eccentric dramas has been exactly in
(Extracted from the Champion.)
SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY MADAME D'ANGLADE, DURING HER IMPRISONMENT, AS RELATED IN LES CAUSES CELEBRES OF THE FRENCH.
The misfortunes of the Duke D'Anglade are generally known, and have excited much interest from the elegant pen of Mrs. Opie. The Count died in banishment, and his Lady in prison, after being convicted of theft by the evidence of villains, who were themselves afterwards tried and condemnod for the offence, and the innocence of the unhappy D'Anglade, too late discovered!
The night is drear-no beam my cell befriends,
No ray from heaven its cheerful gleaming lends ;
The waning moon is up, but vainly tries,
To pierce the gloomy horror of the skiën ; ·
The winds, though howling, heedless of iny grief,
Yield as they pass, my fever'd brain relief.
Burst from the shatter'd clouds now lightnings glare,
And thunders roar along the troubled air !--
Now let the wretches tremble, who so late
Renounced their God, and wrought our cruel fate!
For them alone the stormy wrath be given,
Blast with its frowns, and teach too late of heaven!
Ono! →0! rather let repentance comè,
And snatch them from the terrors of the tomb !
Pale, motionless, from earth my eyes 1 raise,
And calmly passive on the tempest gaze ;
C From Nature's desolation still to find,
Horrors that rage congenial with my mind !ẽ
The blast that sweeps destruction as it flies,
Responsive seems to echo back my sighs,
The moon is hid with an impervious shadé,
Dark as my soul, by sorrows, hopeless, made!
But soon, pale orb! O! soon thou wilt retorn,
The storm be hush'd, and leave me still to moura”
The blast with morning beam will be effac'd,
Like track of keel o'er ocean's surface trac'd,
Not so, the grief that doth my bosom fill,
Morning returns-my heart is beating still!
Obdurate tenant of my aching breast.
In vain I seek from thee eternal rest!
Forgive me heaven !-despair can urge no mere
O yet forgive for yet I must deplore!
I
There sure are daimons-hail the wretches states
Revel with woe, and smile o'er mis'ry's fate,.
Triumphant chase soft pity from the heart,
And direst rancour in its place impart.
Why ignominious, else this fatal doom ?.
A living tenant of a prison tomb!
Or why, more sad, dear partner of my woë,
Why doom'd, relentless from these arms to go
We liv'd, till this, we thought, we lov'd, as ones
E'er fled, we scarcely dreamt our joys begun.
Ah! little knew we, as the minutes flew,
The fate to crush us, with our raptures grew →]
Aht less we thought, our pure, our spotless name
villains destin'd for a felon's fame!
Ö! name for ever lov'd, for ever dear!
My sighs will breathe thee to the midnight air.
My husband, brother, whither dost thou stray ♪
The winds I hear, perchance, havè pav'd thy way
O, lov'd idea my arms in fancy twine,
I gaze! I cling! I breathe my soul in thine?
-Frantic-the prison echoes to my cries,
Till grief subdued, has nothing left but sighs ↑
Again, my senses burn, infuriate, wild→
I'm hush'd-I'm calm to sooth my waking child
Thou hope and joy of all I lov’d—ador'd !
Thou dear, blest offspring of my exil❜d lord ?
How oft all eloquent thy infant smiles
Reproach my sorrows and my care beguile t
A transient joy yet seen o'er sorrow's wave,
A spark still lingering by, hopes mournful gravet
These smiles were his whose absence I deplore,
His were those looks which ne'er shall cheer me more
Maternal fondness yet would ask for life,
But nature sinking, yields the mortal strife !
What hand shall tend thee, when my spirit's flown ?
What voice shall soothe thee, when thy mother's gono
Whose love shall hang whole pights upon thy bed,
To watch my sleeping babe, when I am fled ♪
I will not dare not trust my frantic brain,
Lest mad despair should urge to end thy paid?
No! live my child-for thee a hope is giv'n,
An orphan's tear pleads not in vain to heaven!
Live! for thy parents wrongs each danger brave
Restor'd to honour-live! and bless our grave l
FROM ANNALS OF THE FINE ARTS.
(Continued from page 48.)
His empire o'er ether, old ocean, and land;
And teach British Artists the place of their birth,
Concentrates whatever is various on earth;
Her wilds and her cultures, her mutable clime,
Ennoble her beauty, and stamp her sublime:
And hence we may hope that her sons will impart
The proudest productions to dignify Art.
From this I was drawn by the pow'rful attraction,
Of Glover's Cathedral, with great satisfaction;
What radiance of light! what perspective and tone!
Atmospherical beauty and truth are here shown;
The tints so aerial, so tenderly warm,
They heighten each object and double each charm,
Whether thrown on the tow'rs that magnificent rise,
Or tinging the mountains that melt in the skies.
A picture by Chalons, chaste, simple, and true,
Has a richness and breadth which too seldom we view;
And a mixture more happy of sunshine and shade,
With figures more natʼral I never survey?d. .
How lovely the lustre which Calcott has thrown,
O'er a fine tinted sky, which old Wilson might own.
His magical pencil some art loving sprite,
Has dipt in the sun-beams best essence of light;
And Hoffland has travers'd the dale and the mountain,
And drawn his best treasures from nature's pure fountain.
In Reinagle's pencil we certainly meet
Whatever is dignified, graceful, and sweet.
See Barrowdale mountains, rude, simple, and wild,
Where the dread hand of nature her barrier has pil'd;
And forbade all approach from the world that's below it,
Save to children so dear as the painter and poet;
Wherever she beckons, 'tis theirs to obey,
Regardless how dan'rous, or rugged the way.
With the eagle they mount on the rock's craggy steep,
With the sea-boy explore the vast wilds of the deep;
Or, stretch'd on the carpet where Flora reposes,
Inhale the pure zephyr that breathes o'er her roses,
Assur'd that the fingers of Fancy, at least,
From horror, or beauty, will cull them a feast;
Since Fortune, less bounteous, but seldom affords
Substantial enjoyment to visit their boards.
Ah! often I wish, that these pets of creation
Could feel less acutely the ills of their station;
Nor struggle with feelings so keenly intense,
Gainst the sneers of contempt, and the cravings of reuse.
Oh! 'tis hard that the soul which with seraphs could glow,
Should be chain'd by the heart-ache to languish below;
With keen disappointment and penury to cope,
And sink with the sickness of long blasted hope;
O'er the labours of genius to sigh in dejection,
And shrink from the claims of imploring affection':
To mourn-but no more for the picture's so grievous ;
Tis well there are many around to relieve us.
ON THE INFLUENCE OF THE GYMNASTIC EXERCISES, ON THE MANNERS AND CONSTITUTIONS OF THE ANCIENT GREEKS.
Among all the various institutions which owed their origin to Greece, it is not possible to conceive one more pernicious, or more calculated to sabilitate the human species, than the Gymnastic art. Galen has completely demonstrated this in an express treatise on the subject, as weli as by innumerable arguments scattered among his other writings, in which he refutes, in the most convincing manner, all that had been advanced by their defenders, in favour of the athletic exercises. Yet there have appeared, among the moderns, some weak writers and feeble critics, who have attempted to justify practices for ever condemned by the greatest physician of antiquity, who spoke of what fell daily under his own observation, the minutest circumstances of which could not escape his notice; if his opinion may be trusted, these modern authors, who have written in defence of such institutions, are blinded travellers, led astray by the thread of a false and fallacious system.
Those among the ancients who constantly practised the art of boxing, or of wrestling, turned emaciated in the limbs, from the lips down to the feet, while the upper part of their bodies acquired an enormous bulk. Such on the contrary as exercised themselves in running and leaping, grew emaciated from the head downwards to the waist, and the lower part of their body and limbs increased to a size beyond all proportion too great. This is a remark made by Xenophon, and it is agreeable to reason, as it may be easily conceived that the nutricious juices of the body would be most copi ously directed to those parts that were exposed to the most violent and long-continued exertions.
Though the ancients have said nothing of the symptoms in
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