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I called my father thrice, but no one came;
It was not fear or grief that shook my frame,
But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home,
Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come.
The door invitingly stood open wide;
I shook my dust, and set my staff aside.

How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appeared the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! The same old clock
Struck the same bell, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget. A short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling almanacs behind,
And up they flew like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down, down, down they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold; though so tame,
At first he looked distrustful, almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
And seemed to say-past friendship to renew—
"Ah ha! old worn-out soldier, is it you?"
Through the room ranged the imprisoned humble-
bee,

And boomed, and bounced, and struggled to be free;
Dashing against the panes with sullen roar,
That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor;
That floor, clean sanded, where my fancy strayed,
O'er undulating waves the broom had made;
Reminding me of those of hideous forms
That met us as we passed the Cape of Storms,
Where high and loud they break, and peace comes

never;

They roll and foam, and roll and foam forever.

But here was peace, that peace which home cau yield;

The grasshopper, the partridge in the field,
And ticking clock, were all at once become
The substitute for clarion, fife, and drum.
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window-sill,
I deemed no moss my eyes had ever seen
Had been so lovely, brilliant, fresh, and green,
And guessed some infant hand had placed it there,
And prized its hue so exquisite, so rare.
Feelings on feelings mingling, doubling rose;
My heart felt everything but calm repose;
I could not reckon minutes, hours, nor years,
But rose at once-rose, and burst into tears;
Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain.

I raved at war and all its horrid cost,
And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,
And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.
Two shadows then I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.
In stepped my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasped me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid;
And stooping to the child, the old man said:
"Come hither, Naucy, kiss me once again :
This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain."
The child approached, and with her fingers light
Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.
But why thus spin my tale-thus tedious be?
Happy old soldier! what's the world to me?

Richard Alfred Milliken.

Milliken (1767-1815) was a native of the county of Cork, Ireland. He seems to have been the originator of a humorous vein of verse, afterward cultivated with success by Mahony and other Irish poets. There are several versions of the following comical extravaganza.

THE GROVES OF BLARNEY.

The groves of Blarney, they look so charming,

Down by the purling of sweet silent brooks; Being banked with posies that spontaneous grow there,

Planted in order in the rocky nooks.
'Tis there's the daisy, and the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink, and the rose so fair;
The daffadowndilly, likewise the lily,-
All flowers that scent the sweet, open air!

"Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation, Like Alexander, or like Helen fair; There's no commander in all the nation

For emulation can with her compare. Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder Could ever plunder her place of strength; But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel, And made a breach in her battlement.

There's gravel-walks there for speculation
And conversation in sweet solitude:
'Tis there the lover may hear the dove, or
The gentle plover in the afternoon.
And if a lady should be so engaging

As to walk alone in those shady bowers,

'Tis there her courtier he may transport her Into some fort, or all underground.

For 'tis there's a cave where no daylight enters,
But bats and badgers are forever bred;
Being mossed by natur', that makes it sweeter,
Than a coach-and-six, or a feather-bed.
Tis there the lake is, well stored with perches,
And comely eels in the verdant mud;
Besides the leeches and groves of beeches,
Standing in order for to guard the flood!

Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in,
With the maids a-stitching upon the stair;
The bread and biske', the beer and whiskey,
Would make you frisky if you were there.
Tis there you'd see Peg Murphy's daughter
A-washing praties forenent the door,
With Roger Cleary and Father Healy,

All blood-relations to my Lord Donoughmore.

There's statues gracing this noble place in,-
All heathen gods and nymphs so fair;
Bold Neptune, Plutarch, and Nicodemus,
All standing naked in the open air.
There is a boat on the lake to float on,
And lots of beauties which I can't entwine;
But were I a preacher or a classic teacher,
In every feature I'd make 'em shine.

There is a stone there that whoever kisses,
Oh, he never misses to grow eloquent;
Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a member of Parliament:
A clever spouter he'll soon turn out, or
An out-and-outer, to be let alone :
Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him,
Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone!
So now to finish this brave narration

Which my poor genius could not entwine:
But were I Homer or Nebuchadnezzar,
Tis in every feature I would make it shine.

John Hookham Frere.

Frere (1769-1846) was a native of Norfolk. He entered the diplomatic service of England, and was minister to Spain in 1808. At one time he contributed to the Etonian, with Moultrie and Praed. He is commended by Scott and Byron. In 1817 Mr. Murray published a small poetical volume, under the eccentric title of "Prospectus and Specimen of an Intended National Work by William and Robert Whistlecraft, of Stowmarket, in Suffolk,

Harness and Collar Makers: intended to comprise the most interesting particulars relating to King Arthur and his Round Table." For many years Mr. Frere resided in Malta, in the enjoyment of a handsome pension for diplomatic services; and in Malta he died, on the 7th of January, 1846, aged seventy-seven. In 1871 his works in prose and verse, and a memoir by his nephews, were published in two volumes.

THE PROEM.

I've often wished that I could write a book,
Such as all English people might peruse:

I never should regret the pains it took;
That's just the sort of fame that I should choose.
To sail about the world like Captain Cook,

I'd sling a cot up for my favorite Muse;
And we'd take verses out to Demarara,
To New South Wales, and up to Niagára.

Poets consume excisable commodities:

They raise the nation's spirit when victorious; They drive an export trade in whims and oddities, Making our commerce and revenue glorious. As an industrious and painstaking body 'tis That poets should be reckoned meritorious; And therefore I submissively propose

To erect one board for verse, and one for prose.

Princes protecting sciences and art

I've often seen, in copper-plate and print;

I never saw them elsewhere, for my part,
And therefore I conclude there's nothing in't:
But everybody knows the Regent's heart

(I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint)— Each board to have twelve members, with a seat To bring them in per ann. five hundred neat.

From princes I descend to the nobility:

In former times all persons of high stations, Lords, baronets, and persons of gentility, Paid twenty guineas for the dedications. This practice was attended with utility:

The patrons lived to future generations, The poets lived by their industrious earning,— So men alive and dead could live by learning.

Then twenty guineas was a little fortune;

Now we must starve unless the times should

mend:

Our poets nowadays are deemed importune
If their addresses are diffusely penned.

Most fashionable authors make a short one
To their own wife, or child, or private friend,

To show their independence, I suppose; And that may do for gentlemen like those.

Lastly, the common people I beseech:

Dear people, if you think my verses clever, Preserve with care your noble parts of speech, And take it as a maxim to endeavor

To talk as your good mothers used to teach,

And then these lines of mine may last forever; And don't confound the language of the nation With long-tailed words in osity and ation.

I think that poets-whether Whig or ToryWhether they go to meeting or to churchShould study to promote their country's glory With patriotic, diligent research,

That children yet unborn may learn the story, With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch. It stands to reason-this was Homer's plan; And we must do-like him-the best we can.

Madoc, and Marmion, and many more,

Are out in print, and most of them are sold; Perhaps together they may make a score.

Richard the First has had his story told; But there were lords and princes long before That had behaved themselves like warriors bold: Among the rest there was the great King Arthur— What hero's fame was ever carried farther?

King Arthur, and the Knights of his Round Table,
Were reckoned the best king, and bravest lords,
Of all that flourished since the tower of Babel,
At least of all that history records;
Therefore, I shall endeavor, if I'm able,

To paint their famous actions by my words.
Heroes exert themselves in hopes of fame;
And, having such a strong decisive claim,

It grieves me much that names that were respected

In former ages-persons of such mark, And countrymen of ours-should lie neglected, Just like old portraits lumbering in the dark. An error such as this should be corrected;

And if my Muse can strike a single spark, Why, then (as poets say), I'll string my lyre; And then I'll light a great poetic fire:

I'll air them all, and rub down the Round Table, And wash the canvas clean, and scour the frames, And put a coat of varnish on the fable,

And try to puzzle out the dates and names;

Then (as I said before) I'll heave my cable,

And take a pilot, and drop down the Thames : -These first eleven stanzas make a Proem, And now I must sit down and write my poem.

WHISTLECRAFT AND MURRAY.
FROM CANTO III.

I've a proposal here from Mr. Murray.
He offers handsomely-the money down.
My dear, you might recover from your flurry
In a nice airy lodging out of town,
At Croydon, Epsom-anywhere in Surrey:
If every stanza brings us in a crown,
I think that I might venture to bespeak
A bedroom and front parlor for next week.

Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think.
Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock ;
Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink:

On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock; And I'd be sure to keep away from drink,

And always go to bed by twelve o'clock. We'll travel down there in the morning stages; Our verses shall go down to distant ages.

And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls, And you shall have a better shawl to wear: These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes; By Monday next I'll compass a new pair. Come now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals,

And take away the things you hung to air; Set out the tea-things, and bid Phœbe bring The kettle up. Arms and the Monks I sing.

John Tobin.

Tobin (1770-1804) was a native of Salisbury, England, and was educated for the law. "He passed many years," says Mrs. Inchbald, "in the anxious labor of writing plays, which were rejected by the managers; and no sooner had they accepted 'The Honey-moon' than he died, and he never enjoyed the recompense of seeing it performed." He attempted to unite literary composition with a faithful attention to legal studies. He overworked himself, and fell a victim to a pulmonary complaint. In the hope of relieving it, he had embarked for the West Indies. "The Honey-moon" is a romantic drama, chiefly in blank verse, and still keeps honest possession of the stage. It shows the true poetical faculty. The plot resembles that of "The Taming of the Shrew." The Duke of Aranza conducts his bride to a cottage in the country, pretending that he is a peasant, and that he

has obtained her hand by deception.

The proud Juliana, after a struggle, submits; and the duke, having accomplished his object, asserts his true rank, and places her in his palace.

"This truth to manifest: a gentle wife

Is still the sterling comfort of man's life;
To fools a torment, but a lasting boon

To those who-wisely keep their honey-moon."

THE DUKE ARANZA TO JULIANA.
FROM "THE HONEY-MOON."

Duke. I'll have no glittering gewgaws stuck about you,

To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder,
And make men stare upon a piece of earth
As on the star-wrought firmament; no feathers
To wave as streamers to your vanity;

Nor cumbrous silk, that, with its rustling sound,
Makes proud the flesh that bears it. She's adorned
Amply that in her husband's eye looks lovely-
The truest mirror that an honest wife
Can see her beauty in!

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Duke. No, love, the white. Thus modestly attired, A half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair,With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of, No deeper rubies than compose thy lips, Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them,With the pure red and white which that same hand Which blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks,— This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter) In graceful motion to harmonious sounds, And thy free tresses dancing in the wind,— Thon't fix as much observance as chaste dames Can meet without a blush.

George Canning.

Canning (1770-1827), a native of London, was educated at Eton and Oxford. He entered Parliament in 1793, and became distinguished as a statesman and orator, In 1797, with some associates, he started a paper, styled The Anti-Jacobin, the object of which was to attack the writers of the day whose sympathies were with the French Revolution. Gifford was the editor. The contributions of Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin. In a satire entitled "New Morality" occur the following often-quoted lines:

"Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe:
Bold I can meet, perhaps may turn, the blow;

But of all plagnes, good Heaven, thy wrath can send, Save, save, oh, save me from the candid friend!" The poetry of The Anti-Jacobin, collected and published in a separate form, reached a sixth edition. One of the writers was John Hookham Frere, who showed an elegant and scholarly wit in various poetical productions. Southey had written the following Inscription for the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten, the regicide, was imprisoned thirty years:

INSCRIPTION.

"For thirty years secluded from mankind
Here Marten lingered. Often have these walls
Echoed his footsteps, as, with even tread,
He paced around his prison. Not to him
Did Nature's fair varieties exist:

He never saw the sun's delightful beams,
Save when through yon high bars he poured a sad
And broken splendor. Dost thou ask his crime?
He had rebelled against the king, and sat
In judgment on him; for his ardent mind
Shaped goodliest plans of happiness on earth,
And peace, and liberty. Wild dreams! but such
As Plato loved; such as with holy zeal
Our Milton worshipped. Blesséd hopes! awhile
From man withheld, even to the latter days,
When Christ shall come, and all things be fulfilled!
The above was thus wittily parodied, Canning, Frere,
and George Ellis each having a hand in the burlesque:

INSCRIPTION FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE,

WHERE MRS. BROWNRIGG, THE 'PRENTICE-CIDE, WAS CONFINED
PREVIOUS TO HER EXECUTION.

"For one long term, or e'er her trial came,
Here Brownrigg lingered. Often have these cells
Echoed her blasphemies, as, with shrill voice,
She screamed for fresh geneva. Not to her
Did the blithe fields of Tothill, or thy street,
St. Giles, its fair varieties expand,

Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went
To execution. Dost thou ask her crime?
She whipped two female 'prentices to death,
And hid them in the coal-hole; for her mind
Shaped strictest plans of discipline. Sage schemes!
Such as Lycurgus taught, when at the shrine
Of the Orthyan goddess he bade flog

The little Spartans; such as erst chastised

Our Milton, when at college. For this act

Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed!"

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE

KNIFE-GRINDER.

A PARODY ON SOUTHEY'S LINES, ENTITLED "THE WIDOW."

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order; Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches!

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Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope
For mild redeeming virtues-faith and hope,
Meek resignation, pious charity;

And, since this world was not the world for thee,
Far from thy path removed, with partial care,
Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare,
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by,
And fixed on heaven thine uureverted eye!
Oh, marked from birth, and nurtured for the skies!
In youth with more than learning's wisdom wise!
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure!
Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure-
Pure from all stain (save that of human clay,
Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away)!
By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed,
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest!
While I-reversed our nature's kindlier doom-
Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb.

SONG BY ROGERO.

SCENE FROM "THE ROVERS."

This was levelled at Schiller's "Robbers," and Goethe's "Stella." It is introduced by a soliloquy, supposed to be spoken by Rogero, a student who has been immured eleven years in "a subterraneous vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh."

Whene'er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,

I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-

-niversity of Gottingen--
-niversity of Gottingen.

[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda then was true!-
At least I thought so at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

[At the repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.]

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew,
Her neat post-wagon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languished at the U-

-niversity of Gottingen--
-niversity of Gottingen.

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