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His fellow-soldiers round his fall
Inclosed him like a living wall,

Mixing their kindred gore!
Nor was the day of Flodden done,
Till they were slaughter'd one by one;
And this may serve to show:
When kings are patriots, none will fly-
When such a king was doom'd to die,
Oh who would death forego?

TO JEMIMA, ROSE, AND ELEANORE,

THREE CELEBRATED SCOTTISH BEAUTIES.

ADIEU, romance's heroines!
Give me the nymphs, who this good hour
May charm me, not in fiction's scenes,
But teach me beauty's living power;-
My harp, that has been mute too long,
Shall sleep at beauty's name no more,
So but your smiles reward my song,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore,-

In whose benignant eyes are beaming
The rays of purity and truth;
Such as we fancy woman's seeming,
In the creation's golden youth;-
The more I look upon thy grace,
Rosina, I could look the more,
But for Jemima's witching face,
And the sweet voice of Eleanore.

Had I been Lawrence, kings had wanted
Their portraits, till I'd painted yours;
And these had future hearts enchanted
When this poor verse no more endures;
I would have left the congress faces,
A dull-eyed diplomatic corps,

Till I had grouped you as the graces-
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

The Catholic bids fair saints befriend him;
Your poet's heart is Catholic too,-
His rosary shall be flowers ye send him,
His saint-days when he visits you.
And my sere laurels for my duty,
Miraculous at your touch would rise,
Could I give verse one trace of beauty
Like that which glads me from your eyes.

Unseal'd by you, these lips have spoken,
Disused to song for many a day;

Ye've tuned a harp whose strings were broken,
And warm'd a heart of callous clay;
So, when my fancy next refuses
To twine for you a garland more,
Come back again and be my muses,
Jemima, Rose, and Eleanore.

SONG.

"T is now the hour-'t is now the hour
To bow at beauty's shrine;
Now, whilst our hearts confess the power
Of women, wit, and wine;
And bearning eyes look on so bright,
Wit springs, wine sparkles in their light.

In such an hour-in such an hour,
In such an hour as this,

While pleasure's fount throws up a shower
Of social sprinkling bliss,

Why does my bosom heave the sigh
That mars delight?-She is not by !
There was an hour-there was an hour
When I indulged the spell,

That love wound round me with a power
Words vainly try to tell ;-

Though love has fill'd my chequer'd doom
With fruits and thorns, and light and gloom-
Yet there's an hour-there's still an hour
Whose coming sunshine may

Clear from the clouds that hang and lour
My fortune's future day:

That hour of hours beloved will be
That hour that gives thee back to me!

LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER,
ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.

My heart is with you, Bulwer! and portrays
The blessings of your first paternal days;
To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith,
To taste one's own and love-born infant's breath,
I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss.
I've felt that to a father's heart that kiss,
As o'er its little lips you smile and cling,
Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring.
Such are the joys, ill mock'd in ribald song,
In thought, ev'n fresh'ning life our life-time long,
That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn bloom:
Without them we are weeds upon a tomb.

Joy be to thee, and her whose lot with thine
Propitious stars saw truth and passion twine:
Joy be to her who in your rising name
Feels love's bower brighten'd by the beams of fame!
I lack'd a father's claim to her--but knew
Regard for her young years so pure and true,
That, when she at the altar stood your bride,
A sire could scarce have felt more sire-like pride.

SONG.

WHEN Love came first to Earth, the Spring
Spread rose-buds to receive him,
And back he vow'd his flight he'd wing
To heaven, if she should leave him.

But Spring, departing, saw his faith

Pledged to the next new-comerHe revell'd in the warmer breath

And richer bowers of Summer. Then sportive Autumn claim'd by rights An archer for her lover,

And even in Winter's dark, cold nights A charm he could discover.

Her routs and balls, and fireside joy,

For this time were his reasonsIn short, young Love's a gallant boy, That likes all times and seasons.

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For water and a crust they crave,
Those mouths that, even on Lent days,
Scarce knew the taste of water, save
When watering for dainties.

Quoth Jacquez, "That were sorry cheer
For men fatigued and dusty;
And if you supp'd on crusts, I fear
You'd go to bed but crusty."

So forth he brought a flask of rich
Wine fit to feast Silenus,
And viands, at the sight of which
They laugh'd like two hyenas.

Alternately, the host and spouse

Regaled each pardon-gauger, Who told them tales right marvellous, And lied as for a wager

'Bout churches like balloons convey'd
With aeronautic martyrs;
And wells made warm, where holy maid
Had only dipt her garters.

And if their hearers gaped, I guess,
With jaws three inch asunder,
"T was partly out of weariness,
And partly out of wonder.

Then striking up duets, the frères

Went on to sing in matches, From psalms to sentimental airs,

From these to glees and catches.

At last they would have danced outright,
Like a baboon and tame bear,

If Jacquez had not drunk Good Night,
And shown them to their chamber.

The room was high, the host's was nigh: Had wife or he suspicion

That monks would make a raree-show Of chinks in the partition?

Or that two confessors would come,
Their holy ears outreaching
To conversations as humdrum

Almost as their own preaching?
Shame on you, friars of orders grey,

That peeping knelt, and wriggling, And when ye should have gone to pray, Betook yourselves to giggling!

But every deed will have its meed :
And hark! what information
Has made the sinners, in a trice,

Look black with consternation.

The farmer on a hone prepares

His knife, a long and keen one; And talks of killing both the frères, The fat one and the lean one.

To-morrow by the break of day, He orders, too, saltpetre

And pickling tubs-But, reader, stay, Our host was no man-eater.

The priests knew not that country-folks
Gave pigs the name of friars ;
But startled, witless of the joke,
As if they trod on briers.

Meanwhile, as they perspired with dread, The hair of either craven

Had stood erect upon his head,
But that their heads were shaven.

"What! pickle and smoke us limb by limb?
God curse him and his larders!
St. Peter will bedevil him
If he saltpetre friars.

"Yet, Dominick, to die!-the bare
Idea shakes one oddly;
Yes, Boniface, 'tis time we were
Beginning to be godly.

"Would that, for absolution's sake, Of all our sins and cogging, We had a whip to give and take

A last kind mutual flogging,

"O Dominick! thy nether end Should bleed for expiation,

And thou shouldst have, my dear fat friend, A glorious flagellation."

But having ne'er a switch, poor souls! They bow'd like weeping willows, And told the Saints long rigmaroles Of all their peccadilloes.

Yet, 'midst this penitential plight,

A thought their fancies tickled; "T were better brave the window's height Than be at morning pickled.

And so they girt themselves to leap,
Both under breath imploring
A regiment of saints, to keep

Their host and hostess snoring.

The lean one 'lighted like a cat,

Then scamper'd off like Jehu, Nor stopp'd to help the man of fat,

Whose cheek was of a clay hueWho, being by nature more design'd For resting than for jumping, Fell heavy on his parts behind,

That broaden'd with the plumping.

There long beneath the window's sconce
His bruises he sat pawing,
Squat as the figure of a bonze
Upon a Chinese drawing.

At length he waddled to a sty;

The pigs, you'd thought for game-sake, Came round and nosed him lovingly,

As if they'd known their namesake.

Meanwhile the other flew to town, And with short respiration Bray'd like a donkey up and down, Ass-ass-ass-assination!"

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