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WHY, how now, Billy Bowles?
(To the public) How can you, d-n your souls!
OH, Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now;
So Castlereagh has cut his throat!—The worst
Of this is, that his own was not the first.
So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who?
POSTERITY will ne'er survey
February 22, 1821.
WHO kill'd John Keats?
"I," says the Quarterly,
1 [It was pretended at the time, that the death of sarcastic article on his poetry in the Quarterly Review. that he died of consumption and not of criticism.]
Keats was occasioned by a
All the world knows now
Who shot the arrow?
THE Son of Love and Lord of War I sing;
Not fann'd alone by Victory's fleeting wing,
He rear'd his bold and brilliant throne on high:
TO MR. MURRAY.
FOR Orford and for Waldegrave
You give much more than me you gave;
Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
March 8-9, 1828.
And if, as the opinion goes,
2 [This fragment was found amongst Lord Byron's papers, after his departure from Genoa for Greece.]
3 [Horace Walpole's Memoirs of the last nine Years of the Reign of George II.]
4 [Memoirs by James Earl Waldegrave, Governor of George III. when Prince of Wales.]
But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd,
THE IRISH AVATAR.6
"And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant, kneeling to receive the paltry rider."-CURRAN.
ERE the daughter of Brunswick is cold in her grave,
And her ashes still float to their home o'er the tide, Lo! George the triumphant speeds over the wave,
To the long-cherish'd isle which he loved like his-bride.
True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,
The rain-bow-like epoch where Freedom could pause For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her cause.
True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags,
The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.
To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands.
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth; Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.
5 ["Can't accept your courteous offer. These matters must be arranged with Mr. Douglas Kinnaird. He is my trustee, and a man of honour. To him you can state all your mercantile reasons, which you might not like to state to me personally, such as 'heavy season 'flat public'- 'don't go off'-' lordship writes too much '- .' won't take advice ’—‘declining popularity'—' deduction for the trade'—' make very little’— 'generally lose by him-pirated edition '-'foreign edition'- 'severe criticisms,' &c., with other hints and howls for an oration, which I leave Douglas, who is an orator, to answer."-Lord B. to Mr. Murray, August 23, 1821.]
6 ["The enclosed lines, as you will directly perceive, are written by the Rev. W. L. Bowles. Of course it is for him to deny them, if they are not."-Lord B. to Mr. Moore, September 17, 1821.]
But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!
He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part-
Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now?
Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-
Ever glorious Grattan! the best of the good!
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.
Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,
Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun-
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!
7 ["After the stanza on Grattan, will it please you to cause to insert the following addenda, which I dreamed of during to-day's siesta."-Lord B. to Mr. Moore, September 20, 1821.]
With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute;
And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his mind.
But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves!
When a week's saturnalia hath loosen’d her chain.
Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford,
(As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide) Gild over the palace, Lo! Erin, thy lord!
Kiss his foot with thy blessing, his blessings denied!
Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield their prey?
Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reign,-
From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised!
Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, proclaim
His accomplishments! His!!! and thy country convince Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,
And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young prince!"
Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?
Ay! "build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite!
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison !