And they handle their reins with such a grace,

I have something for both at the end of their race.

"So now for the earth to take my chance :"
Then up to the earth sprung he;

And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp'd across the sea,

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,

No very great way from a bishop's abode.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say,

That he hover'd a moment upon his way,

To look upon Leipsic plain;

And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;

And he gazed with delight from its growing height, Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,

Nor his work done half as well:

For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead, That it blush'd like the waves of hell!

Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he: "Methinks they have here little need of me!"

But the softest note that sooth'd his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying—
As round her fell her long fair hair;

And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air,
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!

And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,

With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
A child of famine dying :

And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,
And the fall of the vainly flying!

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day:

But he made a tour, and kept a journal

Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,

And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,

Who bid pretty well-but they cheated him, though!

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,

Its coachman and his coat;

So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
And seized him by the throat:

"Aha!" quoth he, "what have we here?
"Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer?"

So he sat him on his box again,

And bade him have no fear,

But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein,
His brothel, and his beer;

"Next to seeing a lord at the council board,
I would rather see him here."

The Devil gat next to Westminster,

*

And he turn'd to "the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there,

That "the Lords" had received a summons;

And he thought, as a "quondam aristocrat,"

He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;
And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own,
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk—a man of some size-
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,
Because the Catholics would not rise,
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;

And he heard which set Satan himself a-staring-
A certain chief Justice say something like swearing.
And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, "I must go,
For I find we have much better manners below:
If thus he harangues when he passes my border,

I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."

WINDSOR POETICS.

Lines composed on the occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor.

FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies ;
Between them stands another sceptred thing—
It moves, it reigns—in all but name, a king:

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
-In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.

Ah, what can tombs avail !-since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both-to mould a George."

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame :
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

5 ["I cannot conceive how the Vault has got about; but so it is. It is too farouche; but truth to say, my sallies are not very playful."-Lord B. to Mr. Moore, March 12, 1814.]

6 [Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase.”— Lord B. to Mr. Moore, May 10, 1814.]

VOL. II.

A A

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,

Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain,—
We will part, we will fly to-unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one!-forsake, if thou wilt ;-
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased
And man shall not break it—whatever thou mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be:

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign—
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

May, 1814.

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE
CALEDONIAN MEETING.

WHO hath not glow'd above the page where fame
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name;
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain,
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No foe could tame-no tyrant could command?
That race is gone-but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath :
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine.
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free,
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support the world hath given him fame!

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led—
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath-'tis all their fate allows-
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose
The Highland Seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
While sad, she chants the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave!

"Tis Heaven-not man-must charm away the woe,
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

May, 1814.

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE.

"WHAT say I?"-not a syllable further in prose;
I'm your man" of all measures," dear Tom,-so, here goes!
Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,

On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme.
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud,
Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap,
And Southey's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep ;-
That "Felo de se," who, half drunk with his malmsey,
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,

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