A poor artificer had sold
Some sweepings of his master's gold,
And when he was brought into court.
The jury had condemn'd him for't,
But the wise judge, more angry with
The plaintiff than the needy smith,
Said, "Is it not too shabby, sir,
To make for sweepings such a stir?"
"My lord," said he,
you little know
The worth of gold who reckon so.
These sweepings in a year or two
Weigh more than what the king pays you."
"Call me not forth," said one who sate retired, Whom Love had once, but Envy never, fired. "I scorn the crowd: no clap of hands he seeks Who walks among the stateliest of the Greeks."
My fragrant Lime, I loved thee long before, Rose calls thee Linden, now I love thee more. Her breath can make the unripe blossom blow, And Spring revive afresh, entombed in snow.
Squibs, crackers, serpents, rockets, Bengal lights,
Lead thousands running to the Dardanelles,
Where girls by sackfuls bubble thro' the wave;
I, leaving good old Homer, not o'erlong,
Enjoy the merriment of Chaucer's tales
Or louder glee of the large-hearted Burns,
And then partaking Southey's wholesome fare,
Plenteous and savoury without spice, I turn
To my own sofa, where incontinent
Wordsworth's low coo brings over me sound sleep.
ADVICE TO AN OLD POET.
After edition comes edition,
And scarce a dozen copies gone ;
Suppose you take another "mission'
And let the weary press alone.
Thou hast not lost all glory, Rome!
With thee have found their quiet home
Two whom we followers most admire
Of those that swell our sacred quire;
And many a lower'd voice repeats
Hush! here lies Shelley! here lies Keats!
He says, My reign is peace, so slays
A thousand in the dead of night.
Are you all happy now? he says,
And those he leaves behind cry quite.
He swears he will have no contention,
And sets all nations by the ears ;
He shouts aloud, No intervention!
Invades, and drowns them all in tears.
Outrageous hourly with his wife is Peter,
Some do aver he has been known to beat her.
"She seems unhappy," said a friend one day,
Peter turn'd sharply.. "What is that you say?
Her temper you have there misunderstood,
She dares not be unhappy if she would."
Of those who speak about Voltaire
The least malicious are unfair.
The groundlings neither heed nor know
The victories of Apollo's bow;
What powers of darkness he withstood
And stampt upon the Python's blood.
Observing still his easy pace,
They call it levity, not grace.
A dying man was sore perplext
About what people would do next.
"Now was it not too bad that lead
Should fasten down the helpless dead,
But iron coffins must be made
To suit the tricksters of the trade?
I will not have one, for I doubt
How in the world I should get out.
A strip of deal is not so tough,
Yet may be troublesome enough.
REPLY TO AN INVITATION.
Will you come to the bower I have shaded for you?
Our couch shall be roses all spangled with dew.
Tommy Moore, Tommy Moore, I'll be hang'd if I do,
It would give me a cough, and a rheumatise too.
I well remember one departed now,
Who raised in wonder an unbraided brow,
When I said, "Come to me, my pretty child!".
She hesitated, ran to me, and smiled.
"Now mind!" cried she, "don't tumble my Nothing like that would dear mamma take ill.” She grew in beauty to her twentieth year,
Then knew, nor fear'd to know, that death was near. Like ripen'd corn was laid her patient head,
Yet say not, impious Man! that she is dead.
Oft, when the Muses would be festive,
Unruly Pegasus runs restive,
And, over the Pierian fount
Flies upward to their sacred mount;
Aware that marshes rot the hoof
He proudly wings his way aloof.
He loves the highest ground the best,
And takes where eagles soar his rest.
ANSWER TO A DOG'S INVITATION.
Faithfullest of a faithful race,
Plainly I read it in thy face
Thou wishest me to mount the stairs
And leave behind me all my cares.
No; I shall never see again
Her who now sails across the main ;
Nor wilt thou ever, as before,
Rear two white feet against her door.
Therefore do thou nor whine nor roam,
But rest thee and curl round at home.
How calm, how bland, appears the moon above us!
Surely there dwell the Spirits who most love us.
So think we, and gaze on the well-pois'd glass
Suddenly bids the sweet illusion pass,
And tells us, bright as may be this outside,
Within are gulphs and desolation wide,
Craters extinct and barren rocks around,
And darkest depths no plummet-line could sound;
Then on the heart these jarring words descend..
Man! hast thou never found such in a friend?
ON THE DEATH OF IANTHE.
I dare not trust my pen, it trembles so,
It seems to feel a portion of my woe,
And makes me credulous that trees and stones
At mournful fates have utter'd mournful tones.
While I look back again on days long past
How gladly would I yours might be my last.
Sad our first severance was, but sadder this,
When death forbids one hour of mutual bliss.
We hear no more an attic song,
Teuton cuts out the Athenian's tongue,
And witches, ghosts, and goblins fill
Each crevice of the Aonian hill.
An aged man who loved to doze away
An hour by daylight, for his eyes were dim,
And he had seen too many suns go down
And rise again, dreamt that he saw two forms
Of radiant beauty: he would clasp them both,
But both flew stealthily away.
"I never thought, O Youth, That thou, altho' so cherisht, wouldst return,
But I did think that he who came with thee,
Love, who could swear more sweetly than birds sing,
Would never leave me comfortless and lone."
A sigh broke thro' his slumber, not the last.
REPLY TO SOME HUDIBRASTICS.
O could I cull such rhymes as thou
Cullest from under cloudless brow;
Such as were erst the Faeries gift
To Butler and his godson Swift.
But here 'tis plainly seen that I'm
A very bad one at a rhyme.
The Graces now are past their dancing days,
The Muses have forgot their earlier lays,
And of the latter you would give a score
For one fresh ballad of light-hearted Moore.
Of the nine sisters eight are grown uncouth,
And even the ninth has lost the bloom of youth.
Some jealous poet may have written so;
Is there truth in it? Tell me, yes or no.
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