Memoranda Poetica.

Chapter XLVI. **

Memoranda Poetica.** **

Poets and Poetasters - Major Roche’s extraordinary poem on the battle of Waterloo - Tears *of the British Muse - French climax of love - A man’s age discovered by his poetry - Evils of a motto - Amorous feelings of youth - Love verses of a boy; of a young man - Loves of the Angels - *Dinner verses of an Oxonian - The Highlander, a poem - Extracts from the poetical manuscripts of Miss T---n, &c.

There cannot be a juster aphorism than *Poeta nascitur, non fit: *the paucity of those literary productions which deserve the epithet of poetry, compared with the thousand volumes of what rhyming authors call poems, forms a conclusive illustration.

A true *poet *lives for ever; a *poetaster *just till another relieves him in the circulating libraries, or on the toilets of young ladies - used to keep them awake at night and send them to sleep in the morning.

There may possibly be three degrees of excellency in true, poetry, but certainly no more. A fourth-rate *poet *must be in my idea, a mere forger of rhymes - a manufacturer of versification; but if he minds his prosody, and writes in a style either vastly interesting, immensely tender, or delightfully luxurious, he will probably find readers amongst the fair sex from 15 to 45.

Major Roche, an Irishman, who in 1815 printed and published at Paris a full and true hexameter account of the great battle of Waterloo, with his own portrait emblazoned in the front, and the Duke of Wellington’s in the rear, must certainly be held to exceed in ingenuity all the poets and poetasters great and small of the present generation.

The alphabetical printed list of subscribers to his work set forth the name of every emperor, king, prince, nobleman, general, minister, and diplomatist - Russian, Prussian, Austrian, German, Dutch, English, Irish, Don Cossack, &c. Such an imperial, royal, and everyway magnificent list was never before, nor ever will be again appended to any poem, civil, political, military, religious, or scientific; and as the major thought very truly that a book so patronised and garnished must be worth at least 50 times as much as any other poem of the same dimensions, he stated that “a few copies might still be procured at two guineas each.” he succeeded admirably, and I believe got more money at Paris than any one of the army did at Waterloo.

His introduction of the Duke of Wellington was well worth the money: he described his grace as Mars on horseback (new!), riding helter-skelter, and charging fiercely over everything in his headlong course; friends and foes, men, women, and children having no chance of remaining perpendicular if they crossed his way; his horse’s hoofs striking flames of fire even out of the regimental buttons of the dead bodies which he galloped over! whilst swords, muskets, spears, and cuirasses, pounded down by his trampling steed, formed as it were a turnpike road, whereupon he seemed to fly in his endeavours to catch Buonaparte.

I really think Major Roche’s idea of making Lord Wellington Mars was a much better one than that of making him Achilles, as they have done at Hyde Park Corner. Paris found out the weak point of Achilles and finished him, but Mars is immortal; and though Diomed knocked him down, neither his carcass nor character is a jot the worse. Besides, though Achilles killed Hector, it was not Lord Wellington who killed Buonaparte.

A remark of mine which, though of no value, is, however, rather a curious one I cannot omit - namely, that every man who has been in the habit of scribbling rhyme of any description involuntarily betrays his age by the nature of his composition. The truth of this observation I will endeavour to illustrate by quotations from some jingling couplets written at different periods of life by a friend of mine, merely to shew the strange and gradual transitions and propensities of the human mind from youth to maturity, and from maturity to age.

I was brought up at a school where poetry was cultivated, whether the soil would bear a crop or not: I early got, however, somehow or other an idea of *what *it was, which boys in general at that age never think of. But I had no practical genius, and never set up for it. Our second master, the son of the principal one, was a parson, and as he thought, a poet, and wrote a thing called *The Tears of the British Muse, *which we were all obliged to purchase, and repeat once a month: In fact, of all matters prosody was most assiduously whipped into us.

Love is the first theme of all the poets in the world. Though the French do not understand that matter a bit better than other folks, yet their language certainly *expresses *amatory ideas far more comprehensively than ours. In talking of love they do not speak of refinement: I never knew a Frenchwoman tie them together fast: their terms of gradation are - L’AMOUR. *naturel, bien sensible, tres fort, a son gout, superbe; *forming the climax with *nécessaire encore: *this classing of the passion with the palate is certainly a very simple mode of defining one of its varieties.

The state of the feelings and propensities of men is regulated by the amount of their years - ladies in general stick to their text longest. In early youth poetry flows from natural sensations; and at this period verses in general have much modesty, much feeling, and a visible struggle to keep in with refinement.

In the next degree of age, which runs quite close upon the former, the scene nevertheless sadly alters. We then see plain amatory sonnets turning poor *refinement *out of company, and shewing that it was not so very pure as we had reason to suppose. Next comes that stage wherein sensualists, wits, ballad singers, gourmands, experienced lovers, and most kinds of poetasters, male and female, give their varieties. All the organs of craniology swell up in the brain and begin to prepare themselves for development: this is rather a lasting stage, and gently glides into and amalgamates with the final one, filled by satirists, psalmists, epigrammatists, and other specimens of antiquity and ill-nature. But I fancy this latter must be a very unproductive line of versification for the writer, as few ladies ever read such things till after they begin to wear spectacles. Few persons like to see themselves caricatured; and the moment a lady is convince that she ceases to be an object of *love, *she fancies that as matter of course she at once becomes an object of *ridicule: *so that she takes care to run no chance of reading to her own mortification, till she feels that it is time to commence devotee.

I recollect a friend of mine writing a poem of satire so general, that everybody might attribute it to their neighbours, without taking it to themselves. The first edition having gone off well, he published a second, announcing improvements, and giving as a motto the words of Hamlet:-

“To hold as ‘twere the mirror up to Nature.”

This motto was fatal; the idea of the *mirror *condemned the book: nobody would venture to look into it, and the entire impression is, I daresay, in the act of rotting on the bookseller’s shelves at the present moment.

Oh! that delicious dream of life, when age is too far distant to be seen, and childhood fast receding from our vision when Nature pauses briefly between refinement and sensuality, first imparting to our wondering senses what we are and what we shall be, before she consigns us to the dangerous guardianship of chance and of our passions!

That is the crisis when lasting traits of character begin to bud and blossom and acquire sap; and every effort should *then *be made to crop and prune, and train the young shoots whilst yet they retain the principle of ductility.

During that period the youth is far too chary to avow a passion which he does not fully comprehend, satisfied with making known his feelings by delicate allusions, and thus contriving to disclose the principle without mentioning its existence. All sorts of pretty sentimentalities are employed to this end: shepherds and shepherdesses are pressed into the service; as are likewise tropes of Arcadian happiness and simplicity, with abundance of metaphorical roses with thorns to them, perfumes and flowers.

A particular friend of mine, nearly as well known to me as myself, and who, when a young man, had a great propensity to fall in love and make verses accordingly, has often told me his whole progress in both, and says positively that he should ascertain in a moment a man’s decimal from his versification. He entertained me one morning by shewing me certain memorandums which he had from time to time made upon his subject, and from which he permitted me to take extracts, as also from some of his own effusions, which he said he had kept out of curiosity.

It appears that at the age of 15 he fell in love with a Miss Lyddy St. John, who was herself a poetess of 14, and the most delicate young *Celestial *he had ever seen. The purity of her thoughts and verses filtered all his sentiments as clear as spring water, and did not leave an atom of grossness in the whole body of them.

Before he left school he wrote the following lines on this young lady, which he had suffered to stand as the poetical illustration of his boyhood:- **

I.**

What sylph that flits athwart the air,

Or hovers round its favourite fair,

Can paint such charms to fancy’s eye,

Or feebly trace

The unconscious grace

Other for whom I sigh? **

II.**

As silver flakes of falling snow

Tell the pure sphere from whence they flow,

So the chaste beauties of her eye

Faintly impart

The chaster heart

Of her for whom I sigh.

Lyddy, however, objected to the last line of each stanza, as she did not understand what he meant by *sighing *for her and he not being able to solve the question, she seemed to entertain rather a contempt for his intellects, and palpably gave the preference to one of his school-fellows - a *bolder *boy.

In the next stage towards maturity the poet and lover began to know better what he was about, and determined to pay a visit to the fair one, and try if any lucky circumstance might give him a *delicate *opportunity of disclosing his sentiments and sufferings.

He unfortunately found that the innocent cause of his torment had gone on a tour, and that his interview must be adjourned *sine die. *However, he explored the garden, sat down in all the arbours. walked pensively over the flowerplats, peeped into her chamber-window, which was on the ground-floor, and embroidered with honeysuckles and jessamine. His very soul swelled with thoughts of love and rural retirement; and thus his heart, as it were, burst open, and let out a gush of poetry, which he immediately committed to writing in the garb of a lamentation for the fair one’s absence, and forced under the window-frame of her bed-chamber; after wich he disconsolately departed, though somewhat relieved by this effort of his Muse. The words ran thus:-

Lamentation of Croneroe for the absence of its sylvan nymph. **

I.**

Ah, where has she wandered? ah, where has she strayed?

What clime now possesses our lost sylvan maid?

No myrtle now blossoms, no tulip will blow,

And the lively arbutus now fades at Croneroe. **

II.**

No glowing carnation now waves round her seat,

Nor crocus, nor cowslip, weave turf for her feet;

And the woodbine’s soft tendrils, once trained by her hand,

Now wild round her arbour distractedly stand. **

III.**

Her golden-clothed fishes now deaden their hue

The birds cease to warble, the wood-dove to coo;

The cypress spreads wide, and the willow droops low,

And the noon’s brightest ray can’t enliven Croneroe. **

IV**

In the low-winding glen, all embosomed in green,

Where the thrush courts her muse, and the blackbird is seen

The rill as it flows - limpid, silent, and slow -

Trickles down the grey rock as the tears of Croneroe **

V.**

Then return, sylvan maid, and the flowers will all spring,

And the wood-dove will coo, and the linnet will sing;

The gold-fish will sparkle, the silver streams flow,

And the noon ray shine bright through the glen of Croneroe.

Nothing very interesting occurred for above two months to our amorous lyrist, when he began to tire of waiting for the nymph of Croneroe, and grew fond of one of his own cousins, without being able to give any very particular reason for it, further than that he was becoming more and more enlightened in the ways of the world. But this family flame soon burnt itself out; and he next fell into a sort of furious passion for a fine, strong, ruddy country girl, the parson’s daughter. She was a capital housekeeper, and the parson himself a jolly hunting fellow. At his house there was a *good table, *and a hearty style of joking - which advantages, together with a walk in the shrubbery, a sillabub under the cow, and a romp in the haymaking field soon sent poor refinement about its business. The poet became absolutely *mortal, *and began to write common hexameters. However, before he was confirmed in his mortality, he happened one day to mention a *sylph *to his new sweetheart; she merely replied that she *never saw one, *and asked her mamma privately what it was, who desired her never to mention *such *a *word *again.

But by the time he set out for Oxford he had got tolerably well quit of all his ethereal visions, celestials, and snow-drops; and to convince his love what an admiration he had for sensible, *substantial *beauty like hers, he wrote the following lines in a blank leaf of her prayer-book, which she had left in his way as if suspecting his intention:-

Refinement’s a very nice thing in its way,

And so is Platonic regard

Melting sympathy too - as the *highfliers *say -

Is the only true theme for a bard.

Then give them love’s phantoms and flights for their pains;

But grant me, ye gods! *flesh and blood and blue veins,

*And dear Dolly - dear Dolly Haynes. **

II.**

I like that full fire and expression of eyes,

Where love’s true *material *presides;

With a glance now and then to the jellies and pies,

To ensure us good living besides.

Ye refiners, take *angels *and *sylphs *for your pains

But grant me, ye gods! flesh and blood and blue veins,

And dear Dolly - dear Dolly Flaynes.

I should not omit mentioning here an incident which at the time extremely amused me. A friend of mine, a barrister, whose extravagant ideas of *refinement *have frequently proved a source of great entertainment to me was also a most enthusiastic admirer of Mr. Thomas Moore’s writings, prose and verse. I had read over to him the foregoing rather “of the earth earthy” composition, to which he listened with a shrug of the shoulders and a contraction of the upper lip; and I was desirous of drawing out his opinion thereon by adverting to his own favourite bard.

“Here,” said I, “we have a fine illustration of the natural progress from refinement to sensuality - the amalgamation of which principles is so beautifully depicted by Mr. Thomas Moore in his ‘Loves of the Angels.”’

“Your observation is just,” replied my friend. “I cannot conceive why those elegant amours have been so much carped at, since their only object is to prove that flesh and blood is in very high estimation even with the spirituals.”

“What a triumph to mortality!” replied I.

“And why,” continued he, “should people be so very sceptical as to the *authenticity *of these angelic love-matches? Surely there are no negative proofs, and are we not every day told by the gravest authorities that we are bound at our peril to believe divers matters not an atom more intelligible? For my part; I can’t comprehend why a poet should not be as credible a witness as a bishop on matters that are equally and totally invisible to both of them.”

“True,” observed I smiling; “and the more so as poets, generally residing nearer the sky than any other members of society, are likely to get better information.”

“Ay, poor fellows, ‘on compulsion!”’ said my friend with a compassionate sigh “But” resumed he; falling in with my tone of raillery; there is one point which I could have wished that our most melodious of lyrists had cleared up to my satisfaction - videlicet, what *gender *angels really are of?”

“Very little doubt, by logical reasoning, need exist upon that point,” answered I “Mr. Moore represents his angels in the characters of* gay deceivers, *and those characters being performed by the male sex, *ergo, *angds must be males. You perceive the syllogism is complete.”

Ay, ay,” said my friend; “but how comes it, then, that when we see a beautiful woman, we cry out involuntarily, “What* an angel”*

“The word *homo *signifies either man or woman,” replied I. “Give a similar latitude to the word *angel *and you have your choice of sexes! Divers of the classics, and some of the sculptors, perfectly authorise Mr. Moore’s delicious ambiguity.”

” That,” said my *Moorish *friend, “is certainly the *fact, *and most elegantly has our lyrist handled this question of celestial sexuality. He has paid the highest compliment ever yet conceived to human beauty, by asserting that ethereal spirits, instead of taking up with their own transparent species, prefer the opaque body-colouring of terrestrial dairy-maids, though fastidious casuists may perhaps call that a depraved taste.”

“No such thing,” replied I; “it is rather a proof of refined and filtered epicurism. The heathen mythology is crammed with precedents on that point. Every god and goddess in former times-and the sky was then quite crowded with them,”

“And may be so still,” interrupted my friend, “for anything we *know *to the contrary.”

“They played their several pranks upon our globe,” continued I, “without the slightest compunction. Even Jupiter himself frequently became a trespasser on the honour and peace of several very respectable fleshly families. The distinction between the spiritual and corporeal is likewise dexterously touched on by the dramatist Farquhar who makes one of his characters [Archer in The Beaux Stratagem] exclaim to another, ‘1’ll take her *body, *you her *mind. *Which has the better bargain?’

But,” rejoined my friend, “modern sentiment, which brings all these matters into collision, had not then been invented. Now we can have both in one lot.”

Finally, we determined to consult Mr. Thomas Moore himself upon this most interesting consideration, agreeing that nobody could possibly understand such a refined subject so well as the person who wrote a book about it. We therefore proceeded, as I shall now do, to the next stage of years and of poetry.

The poet and lover was soon fixed at the university, where he shortly made fast acquaintance with a couple of hot young Irishmen, who lost no time in easing him of the dregs of his sentimentality, and convinced him dearly that no *rational *man should ever be in love except when he is drunk, in which case it signifies little whom he falls in love with. Thus our youth soon forgot the parsonage, and grew enamoured of the bottle; but having some lees of poetry still remaining within him, the classics and the wine set them a fermenting, and he now wrote drinking songs, hunting songs, boating songs, satires on the shopkeepers’ daughters, and lampoons on the fellows of Jesus and Brazenose Colleges, answered letters in verse, and in a word turned out what the lads called a genius.

The reverend private tutor of these young Irishmen wrote one day a letter to our poet in verse, inviting him to “meet at dinner a few fellow-countrymen, just arrived.” The tutor was a hard-going old parson, fond of wine and versification, who had been sent over from Ireland by the father of the two young men above alluded to, with direction to “take care that the lads did not fall into the d---d English morals, which would soon turn them into *snowballs; *and disqualify them ever after from living in their own *proper *country and *natural society. *These instructions the tutor faithfully acted up to, and the young poet very much amused the whole party by his humour and turn for rhyming, and was compelled to swear that he would pay them a *visit *for a couple of years at Belturbet, in Ireland, where they would shew him what *living was. *Their father was himself dotingly fond of *poetry *and the bagpipes, and was induced to send them to Oxford only to please their mother’s brother, who was, most unfortunately, an Englishman.

My friend’s reply to the parson’s invitation was also in verse, and ran as follows. It was not amiss for a young tipster, and smacked in some degree both of Oxford and “Belturbet”:-

When parsons and poets their functions unite,

And court the old Muses to sing “an invite,”

The profane and the sacred connected we find,

And are sure of a banquet to every man’s mind.

Though on Pegasus mounted, to Bacchus we fly,

Yet we’ll quaff just like Christians - our priest tells us why:

“Tis moist hospitality banishes sin,

‘Tis the wine-opened heart lets benevolence in.”

There no long canting grace cools our spicy ragout,

Whilst the impatient champagne bristles up all mousseu,*

***Our eyes darting toward heaven, we cry, “Come goblets give!

This old Pagan cream teaches Christians to live!”

Thus the pastor and flock will soon empty the bowl,

And its spirit divide ‘twixt the head and the soul.

Though the Jove of our banquet no eagle can boast,

We’ll have plenty of “kytes flying” all round our host:

Midst loud peals of humour, undaunted we’ll sit,

And for flashes of lightning have flashes of wit.

Should his Reverence perceive that our spirits are laid,

Then hot-peppered devils he ‘II call to his aid,

And, all Christians surpassing, old Tantalus see

The more liquor he quaffs, still the drier he’ll be!

But two modes of death sinful mortals should know,

Break their necks from Parnassus, or drown in Bordeaux;

And to which of those deaths I am doomed from on high,

I’m sure of a parson who’ll teach me to die.

Then who can refuse to accept of a dinner,

Where the host is from Erin, a priest, saint, *and sinner?

• The Rev. Luke O’Maher had been thus sportively nicknamed, on account of his being so *very good *a fellow.

In *fact, *this same friend of mine, of whose poetry, or rather versification, I have thus given samples to the reader, is a very peculiar personage. Bred to a profession which he never followed, with ample means and no occupation, he has arrived at a ripe age without much increasing his stock of wisdom, or at all diminishing that of his peculiarity. He told me he found his standard relief against *ennui *was invoking the Muses, which by ransacking his ideas and puzzling his genius, operated as a stimulus to his brain, and prevented that stagnation of the fluids which our ablest nosologists say is so often the inducement to suicide. My friend argues that the inexhaustible variety of passions, propensities, sentiments, and so forth, inherent to the human frame, and which poets, like noblemen’s fools in days of yore, have a licence for daubing with any colours they think proper, affords to the language of poetry a vast superiority over that of prose: which latter, being in its nature but a *humdrum *concern, is generally expected to be reasonably correct, tolerably intelligible, and moderately decent - astringent qualifications which our modem poets appear to have conspired to disregard.

My friend, however, observed, that he himself was not enabled to take other than a limited advantage of this licence, inasmuch as he had been frequently jilted by the Muses, who never would do more than flirt with him; and hence, for want of a sufficient modicum of inspiration, he was necessitated to put up with the ordinary subjects of verse, such as epigrams, satires, odes on natal *days, *epitaphs on lapdogs and little children, translations of Greek songs that he never saw, and of Italian poetry that had never existed, &c. It was true, he went on to inform me, he had occasionally flown at higher game in the regions of poesy; but somehow or other no bookseller would publish his effusions: one said they were too flat, another that they were too *elevated, *a third characterised them as too *wild *for the critics, and a fourth pronounced them too *tame *for the ladies.

At length, however, the true state of the matter was candidly developed by a very intelligent presbyterian book seller in the city, who told my friend that he was quite *too late *as to poetry with which the shops were crammed and the public nauseated. Besides, he said, all the poetic stations in any way productive were already occupied: for instance, a Poet Fitzgerald, whom Lord Byron calls “Hoarse Fitzgerald,” had, ever since the days of the “Rejected Addresses,” been considered as the writer, reciter, and proprietor of the fulsome line of poetry: the amatory, celestial, and horticultural departments had long been considered the property of Mr. Thomas Moore; and every dactyl or spondee relating to roses, posies, dewdrops, and thorns, grapes, lilies, kisses, blisses, blushes, angels, &c., would be considered as gross plagiarism, emanating from any other pen than that of our justly celebrated lyrist; whilst as to historic or Caledonian poetry, Walter Scott had not left an idea unappropriated for any fresh penman: he had raised an obscure people to eternal celebrity, by recording their murders in English versification; and by his *Battle of Waterloo *had proved that his own Muse, in the department of manslaughter, was in a very declining state of health, probably owing to the extraordinary fatigue she had previously undergone.

My friend was proceeding to detail further the admonitory conversation of this honest bibliopole, when I interrupted him by asking, naturally enough, how he could continue to derive any pleasure from a pursuit in which he admitted himself to have been so very unsuccessful? To which he adroitly replied, “On the very same principle that a bad shot may have just as much amusement as a capital sports man; perhaps more, *one *good hit being as gratifying to him as 20 to an undeviating slaughterer.” I coincided in my friend’s remark, adding that the same sort of observation would apply to random jokers as well as rhymesters, and that 1 have more than once absolutely envied the inordinate happiness of a universal punster when he *chanced *to say anything that had a symptom of wit in it.

My friend then gravely opening his portfolio, selected two of his productions, which he gave me permission to publish, particularly as one of them had been most abruptly rejected by an eminent newspaper, and the other by a magazine of considerable reputation.

The intended magazine article ran as follows:- **

The Highlander**

A *sans-culotte *from Caledonia’s wilds,

Rasped into form by Nature’s roughest files-

Hearing of savoury meats - of money made -

Of unsmoked women - and of gaining trade,

Resolved, from sooty cot, to seek a town

And to the lowlands boldly stump it down.

But then, alas! his garb would never do -

The greasy kilt, bare loins, and tattered shoe;

Yet urged to better food and better fame

He borrowed breeches and assumed a name;

Then tucked his hilt, gartered his motley hose,

New nailed his heels, and caped the peeping toes.

His freckled fist a swineherd’s bludgeon wields,

His tried companion through the styes and fields

(Full many a jeering clown had felt its sway),

Now to a cane promoted, helps its master’s way.

Full fifty bawbees Sandy had in store,

And piteous tales had raised him fifty more;

His knife, his pipe, and eke his bawbee bank,

In Basil pouch hung dangling from his flank.

No empty wallet on his shoulder floats -

Hard eggs, soft cheese, tobacco, salt, and oats,

Crammed in one end, wagged o’er his brawny chest,

And what was once a blanket poised the rest;

Thus wealthy, victualled, proud, content, and gay,

Down Grampian’s sterile steeps young Sandy wound his way.

Hail food! hail raiment! hail that happy lot

Which lured such genius from the smoky cot,

To mingle in the ranks of breeches’d men,

And coin a name and family again!

Where famed St. Andrews’ turrets tower on high,

Where learned doctors lecture, dose and die,

Where knowledge sleeps, and science seeks repose,

And mouldering halls more mouldering heads disclose -

Where Roman Virgil pipes in Celtic verse

And Grecian Homer sings to god in Erse -

‘Twas there that Sandy formed his worldly creed,

Brushed gowns, swept book-shelves learned to shave and read:

From craft to craft his willing genius rose,

When cash was scarce he wisely wrought for clothes,

And threadbare trophies once the kiksmen s pride,

Mickle by mickle swelled his wallet’s side.

Well turned, well washed, the rags denied their age,

Whilst Sandy’s granite visage aped the sage.

Here, great Lavater! here thy science stands

Confessed and proved by more than mortal bands.

Though o’er his features Nature’s art we see,

Her deepest secrets are disclosed through thee.

The green-tinged eye, curled lip, and lowering brows,

Which malice harrows, and which treachery plows,

In deep sunk furrows on his front we find,

Tilling the crops that thrive in Sandy’s mind.

No soft sensations can that face impart;

No gratitude springs glowing from the heart;

As deadly nightshade creeping on the ground,

He tries to poison what he cannot wound.

Yet Sandy has a most consistent mind,

Too low to rise, too coarse to be refined,

Too rough to polish, and too loose to bind:

Yet if … .

On looking over the residue, I found I could not with’ propriety continue the publication of this satire. Were I to proceed five or six lines further, ill-natured people might possibly find a pretence for *designation, *and I should be very sorry to be considered as capable of becoming an instrument in so improper a procedure. I therefore returned the copy to my portfolio, and subsequently to the author, mentioning my reasons, and advising him to burn the rest. His reply to me was laconic - “My dear B---, qui caput ille facit.”

The other trifle is a mere *jeu d’esprit, *and cannot be disagreeable to anybody, unless it may be taken amiss by some West Indian proprietor, whose probable touchiness at the introduction of the word slavery, I do not feel called on to compassionate. **

Epigram.**

*Sir Sydney Smirk and Miss Rumbold. *

Says Sidney - “I’ll put all white slavery down:

All Europe I’ll summon to arms.”

But fair Rumbold replied - “I’ll reverse my renown,

For all men shall be *slaves *to my charms.”

If thus, lovely champion, that tongue and those eyes

Can set all mankind by the ears,

Go, fire off your glances, explode a few sighs,

And make captive the Dey of Algiers!

Thus you’ll rival Sir Sidney in glory and gains;

He may conquer the tyrant - you’ll lead him in chains

I cannot conclude these memoranda without adding a few fragments from some unpublished and nearly unknown works, the production of Miss T---n, the amiable young lady to whom I have before introduced the reader, and who commenced versifying at the early age of 15. Her compositions are numerous, and comprise a variety of subjects and of styles, from the fugitive lyric to the pretending epic; but with a natural and becoming modesty (though in her case, in my opinion, unnecessarily retained), she refuses to submit them to the ordeal of the public. **

The Bard**

Extracted from an unpublished poem, called “Boadicea.”

Amid those aged sons of song

One seemed to tower the rest among:

For though the heavy hand of Time

Had somewhat marred his youthful prime;

Though the sunny glow had faded

On the locks his brow that shaded;

Stern Time, not ev’n thy icy sway

Might quench the heaven-enkindled lay

Which wakened to achievements high

Those heroes of antiquity.

Howe’er it were, from that bright band

Sadly apart he seemed to stand,

And lowly on his harp he leant

With eye of gloom and eyebrow bent;

But still, despite his sterner mood,

By all with reverence he was viewed,

Such charm of dignity hath age

When on the brow experience sage

Hath stamped the brow of years that sleep,

And when the mind hath known to reap

Harvests of scientific lore,

And well secured the precious store;-

When all the stormy dreams of youth

Fade in the beacon light of truth;

When fiery feelings are repressed,

The spirit calmed, the heart at rest

Then in the form of age we find

Somewhat surpassing earthly kind.

Now forth his harp that minstrel drew,

And o’er the chords his fingers threw,

The while beneath their lighter sway

Murmured the scarcely bidden lay,

In soft, half-warbled cadence stealing

O’er the melting soul of feeling,

But when he caught the transport high

Which marked the kindling melody,

His upturned eye and heaving breast

The mighty frenzy quick confessed;

The sympathetic strings beneath

A wild, inspiring chorus breathe,

And, borne the lofty halls along,

Floats high the patriot minstrel’s song:-

The mildew of time steeps the laurel-hound wreath,

And the war- sword ingloriously rusts in its sheath,

Which burst on the foe as the bolt from on high,

And sprinkled the blood of revenge to the sky.

The arm is unbraced, and the nerves are unstrung,

Of him who in combat that dark weapon swung;

For the souls of the heroes of loftier days,

Kindled high in their glory, have sunk in the blaze:

And the laurels of Britain, drooped, withered, and shrunk,

And her standard of freedom all hopelessly sunk,

And the sons of the isles, scattered thin on the hill,

Stood forsaken and drooping, but dauntlessly still.

Ye sons of the brave is the bold spirit fled

Which to combat and conquest your forefathers led?

Oh no! it but sleeps in the souls it should warm,

The more fiercely to burn in the day of the storm.

But too long it hath slept; for the hearts of the brave

Are a country’s best bulwarks to guard and to save.

Oh, then, be the lion aroused in each breast,

Triumphant to conquer, or nobly to rest.

Be it yours to divulge the dark volume of fate-

Be it yours to revenge, ere revenge be too late:

Oh let not the spirit of freedom repose

Till it visit the wrongs of our land on its foes.

‘Tis your country that calls; shall that cry be in vain?

All bleeding she lies in the conqueror’s chain:

Chiefs! but one struggle more, and her freedom is won;

Let us triumph or die, as our fathers have done.

Like the lightning of heaven be your arms on the heath;

Loud, loud ring your shields with the thunder of death:

As the waves of your ocean rush down to the strife,

And each stroke be for Britain - for freedom and life

The bard has ceased the lofty lay

In long vibrations dies away.

And melts upon the air around.

Till silence blends away the sound.

The bard upon each warrior gazed,

To mark what thoughts his strain had raised.

The eye, that late flashed high with mirth,

In altered cheer now sought the earth;

The cheek, that bright with joy had blushed,

Far other feeling now had flushed.

It might have seemed throughout the hall

(So motionless, so mute were all),

As though the spirit of the storm

Had swept along each stately form.

A moment - and what chance was wrought

In every look and every thought!

Roused by the breath of life, they seem

To start at once from their death-like dream:

A sudden impulse wild and strong,

Agitates the moving throng.

And like the billows of the deep,

When darkening tempests o’er it sweep,

In every freeborn heart that strain

Concordant echoes roused again!

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