New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue; With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Glo'ster's mien, From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, That spot where hearts were once supposed to be; + The stranger's hand may wander undisplaced; As princely paunches offer to her touch. Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, Thus front to front the partners move or stand, Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date)- The genial contact gently undergo; Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, If "nothing follows all this palming work?"+ True, honest Mirza!-you may trust my rhyme- The breast thus publicly resign'd to man *The gentle, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank as he pleases-there are several dissyllabic names at his service, (being already in the Regent's); it would not be fair to back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as every month will add to the list now entered for the sweepstakes:-a distinguished consonant is said to be the favourite, much against the wishes of the knowing ones. "We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor-'tis all gone-Asmodeus knows where. After all, it is of no great importance how women's hearts are disposed of; they have nature's privilege to distribute them as absurdly as possible. But there are also some men with hearts so thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenomena often mentioned in natural history, viz., a mass of solid stone-only to be opened by force-and when divided, you find a toad in the centre, lively, and with the reputation of being venomous. In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and superfluous questionliterally put, as in the text, by a Persian to Morier, on seeing a waltz in Pera. -Vide Morier's Travels. O ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more! And thou, my prince! whose sovereign taste and will. Thou ghost of Queensbury! whose judging sprite But ye-who never felt a single thought Voluptuous Waltz! and dare I thus blaspheme? My wife now waltzes-and my daughters shall; Will wear as green a bough for him as me)— POEMS ON NAPOLEON. ODE TO NAPOLEON. Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo Invenies?" "The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues, and military talents, were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till."-GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220. 'TIS done but yesterday a King! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew'd our hearth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive? Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind With might unquestion'd-power to save,- To those that worshipp'd thee; Thanks for that lesson-it will teach Than high Philosophy can preach, That led them to adore Those Pagod things of sabre sway, The triumph, and the vanity, The sword, the sceptre, and that sway All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be The Desolator desolate ! The Victor overthrown! A Suppliant for his own! That with such change can calmly cope? To die a prince-or live a slave- He who of old would rend the oak, Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, The Roman, when his burning heart His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandon'd power. The Spaniard, when the lust of sway A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. But thou-from thy reluctant hand Too late thou leav'st the high command * "Certaminis gaudia"-the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus. All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Thy scales, Mortality! are just To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay; Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride; How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she, too, bend,—must she, too, share, Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem; "Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, That element may meet thy smile- |