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For time makes all but true love old;
Until the heart itself be cold
What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
Or Genii twine beneath the deep
But strew his ashes to the wind,
Whose sword or voice has saved mankind-
Is 't death to fall for Freedom's right?
Give that: and welcome War to brace
The charging cheer,
Though Death's pale horse lead on the chase, Shall still be dear.
And place our trophies where men kneel
O God above! Transfer it from the sword's appeal To peace and love!
Peace, Love-the cherubim that join
The heart alone can make divine
To incantations dost thou trust,
That men can bless one pile of dust
The ticking wood-worm mocks thee, man!
Its roof star-pictured, Nature's ceiling,
Fair Stars! are not your beings pure?
Ye must be heavens that make us sure
And in your harmony sublime
What's hallowed ground? 'T is what gives birth
And your high-priesthood shall make earth
OLLAPOD AND SIR CHARLES CROPLAND.—Colman.
Ollapod. SIR CHARLES, I have the honour to be your slave. Hope your health is good. Been a hard winter here -Sore throats were plenty; so were woodcocks. Flushed four couple, one morning, in a half-mile walk, from our town, to cure Mrs. Quarles of a quinsy. May coming on soon, Sir Charles. Hope you come to sojourn. Should n't be always on the wing-that's being too flighty. Do you take, good sir, do you take?
Sir Charles. Oh, yes, I take. But, by the cockade in your hat, Ollapod, you have added lately, it seems, to your avocations.
Olla. My dear Sir Charles, I have now the honour to be cornet in the volunteer association corps of our town. It fell out unexpected-pop on a sudden; like the going off of a fieldpiece, or an alderman in an apoplexy.
Sir C. Explain.
Olla. Happening to be at home-rainy day-no going out to sport, blister, shoot, nor bleed-was busy behind the counter. You know my shop, Sir Charles-Galen's head over the door-new gilt him last week, by the by-looks as fresh as a pill.
Sir C. Well, no more on that head now-proceed. Olla. On that head! That's very well, very well indeed! Thank you, good sir, I owe you one-Churchwarden Posh, of our town, being ill of an indigestion, from eating three pounds of measly pork, at a vestry dinner, I was making up a cathartic for the patient; when, who should strut into the shop, but Lieutenant Grains, the brewersleek as a drayhorse-in a smart scarlet jacket, tastily turn
ed up with a rhubarb-colored lapel. I confess his figure struck me. I looked at him, as I was thumping the mortar, and felt instantly inoculated with a military ardour.
Sir C. Inoculated! I hope your ardour was of a very favourable sort.
Olla. Ha! ha! That 's very well-very well, indeed!Thank you, good sir-I owe you one. We first talked of shooting-He knew my celebrity that way, Sir Charles. I told him, the day before, I had killed six brace of birdsI thumped on at the mortar-We then talked of physic-I told him, the day before, I had killed-lost, I mean-six brace of patients-I thumped on at the mortar-eyeing him all the while; for he looked mighty flashy, to be sure; and I felt an itching to belong to the corps. The medical, and military, both deal in death, you know-so, 't was natural. Do you take, good sir? do you take?
Sir C. Take? Oh, nobody can miss.
Olla. He then talked of the corps itself: said it was sickly; and if a professional person would administer to the health of the association-dose the men, and drench the horses-he could, perhaps, procure him a cornetcy.
Sir C. Well, you jumped at the offer?
Olla. Jumped! I jumped over the counter-kicked down Churchwarden Posh's cathartic, into the pocket of Lieutenant Grain's smart scarlet jacket, tastily turned up with a rhubarb-colored lapel; embraced him and his offer, and I am now Cornet Ollapod, apothecary, at the Galen's Head, of the association corps of cavalry, at your service.
Sir C. I wish you joy of your appointment. You may now distil water for the shop, from the laurels you gather in the field.
Olla. Water for Oh! laurel water. Come, that 's very well-very well, indeed! Thank you, good sir-I owe you one. Why, I fancy fame will follow, when the poison of a small mistake I made, has ceased to operate.
Sir C. A mistake?
Olla. Having to attend Lady Kitty Carbuncle on a grand field day, clapped a pint bottle of her ladyship's diet-drink into one of my holsters; intending to proceed to the patient, after the exercise was over. I reached the martial ground, and jalaped-galloped, I mean-wheeled, and flourished, with great eclât; but when the word 'fire' was given, meaning to pull out my pistol, in a horrible hurry, I presented, neck foremost, the villanous diet-drink of Lady
Kitty Carbuncle; and the medicine being, unfortunately, fermented by the jolting of my horse, it forced out the cork with a prodigious pop, full in the face of my gallant commander. Sir C. But, in the midst of so many pursuits, how proceeds practice among the ladies? Any new faces, since I left the country?
Olla. Nothing worth an item-Nothing new arrived in our town. In the village, to be sure, hard by, Miss Emily Worthington, a most brilliant beauty, has lately given lustre to the estate of Farmer Harrowby.
Sir C. My dear Doctor, the lady of all others I wish most to know. Introduce yourself to the family, and pave the way for me. Come! mount your horse-I'll explain more as you go to the stable:-but I am in a flame, in a fever, till I see you off.
Olla. In a fever! I'll send you physic enough to fill a baggage wagon. Sir C. liteness!
[Aside.] So! a long bill as the price of his po
Olla. You need not bleed; but you must have medicine. Sir C. If I must have medicine, Ollapod, I fancy I shall bleed pretty freely.
Olla. Come, that 's well! very well indeed! Thank you, good sir-I owe you one. Before dinner, a strong dose of coloquintida, senna, scammony, and gamboge;
Sir C. Oh, confound scammony and gamboge!
Olla. At night a narcotic; next day, saline draughts, camphorated julap, and
Sir C. Zounds! only go, and I'll swallow your whole shop.
Ölla. Galen, forbid! 'Tis enough to kill every customer I have in the parish!-Then we 'll throw in the barkBy the by, talking of bark, Sir Charles, that Juno of yours is the prettiest pointer
Sir C. Well, well, she is yours.
My dear Sir Charles! such sport next shooting
Olla. My dear Sir Charles!-Here's morning's work; senna and coloquintida
Sir C. Well, be gone, then.
Olla. I'm off-Scammony and gamboge.