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that day, HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. But I mark'd not the twilight-beam melting
away; Da, Mariamne! now for thee
Oh! would that the lightning had glared The heart for which thou bled'st is
in its stead, bleeding;
And the thunderbolt burst on the conquerRevenge is lost in agony,
or's head! And wild remorse to rage succeeding. Oh, Mariamne! where art thou ?
But the Gods of the Pagan shall never Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading :
profane Ah,couldst thou—thon wouldst pardon now, The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to Though Heaven were to my prayer un
reign ; heeding.
And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people And is she dead ?—and did they dare Our worship, oh Father! is only for thee.
Obey my phrensy's jealous raving?
We sat down and wept by the waters And this dark heart is vainly craving Of Babel, and thought of the day For her who soars alone above,
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, And leaves my soul unworthy saving. Made Salem's high places his prey ;
And ye, oh her desolate Daughters! She's gone, who shared my diadem; Were scatter'd all weeping away.
She sunk, with her my joys entombing; I swept that flower from Judah's stem
While sadly we gazed on the river Whose leaves for me alone were blooming; Which rollid on in freedom below, And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, They demanded the song; but, oh never
This bosom's desolation dooming; And I have earn'd those tortures well,
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be wither'd for ever, Which unconsumed are still consuming!
Ere it string our high harp for the foe! XX.
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
But left me that token of thee:
And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended From the last hill that looks on thy once
With the voice of the spoiler by me!
holy dome I beheld thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome:
XXII. 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the
flames of thy fall THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNAFlash'd back on the last glance I gave to
Tnx Assyrian came down like the wolf I look’d for thy temple, I look’d for my
on the fold, home,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple And forgot for a moment my bondage tocome;
and gold; I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy And the sheen of their spears was like stars fane,
on the sea, And the fast-fetter'd hands that made ven- When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep
geance in vain.
many an eve, the high spot whence I Like the leaves of the forest when Summer Had reflected the last beam of day as it That host with their banners at sunset
blazed ; While I stood on the height, and beheld Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn the decline
hath blown, of the rays from the mountain that shone That host on the morrow lay wither'd and on thy shrine.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings And the idols are broko in the temple of Baal;
on the blast, And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by And breathed in the face of the foe as he
the sword, pass'd;
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly
Lord ! and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for
XXIII. ever grew still!
FROM JOB. And there' lay the steed' with his nostril
A SPIRIT pass'd before me: I beheld But through it there roll'd not the breath The face of Immortality unveil'd
of his pride: Deep sleep came down on every eye sare And the foam of his gasping lay white on
And there it stood, all formless_but divide: And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. Along my bones the creeping filesh did quake;
And as my damp hair stiffen'd, thus it spake: And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on “Is man more just than God? Is mar his mail;
more pure And the tents were all silent, the banners Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure!
Creatures of clay- vain dwellers in the dust! The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. The moth survives you,and are ye more just!
Things of a day! you wither ere the nighi, And the vidove of Ashur are loud in Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted their wail,
ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE.
Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo
By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years,
T18 done but yesterday a King! With might unquestion'd,-power to save
And arm’d with Kings to strive- Thine only gift hath been the grave And now thou art a nameless thing
To those that worshipp'd thee; So abject-yet alive!
Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess Is this the man of thousand thrones, Ambition's less than littleness ! Who strew'd our Earth with hostile
Thanks for that lesson-it will teach
To after-warriors more
That spell upon the minds of men
That led them to adore
With fronts of bruss, and foet of clay.
The triumph, and the vanity,
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, The rapture of the strife
When thus thy mightiest foes their four The earthquake-shout of Victory,
In humblest gnise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
Thine evil deeds are writ in goro,
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain. The Desolator desolate!
If thou hadst died as honour dies, The Victor overthrown!
Some new Napoleon might arise, The Arbiter of others' fate
To shame the world again, A Suppliant for his own!
But who would soar the solar height, Is it some yet imperial hope
To set in such a starless night?
Weigh'd in the balance, hero-dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
To all that pass away;
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay; Alonehow look'd he round ?
Nor deem'd contempt could thus make mirth Thon, in the sternness of thy strength Of these, the Conquerors of the earth! An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found :
And She, proud Austria's mournful flower, He fell, the forest-prowlers' prey ;
Thy still imperial bride; But thou must eat thy heart away!
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side? The Roman, when his burning heart
Must she too bend, must she too share Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Thy late repentance, long despair, Threw down the dagger - dared depart,
Thou throneless Homicide? In savage grandeur, home.
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, He dared depart, in utter scorn
'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem ! Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea ;
That element may meet thy smile,
It ne'er was ruled by thee! The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Or trace with thine all idle hand, Had lost its quickening spell,
In loitering mood, upon the sand,
That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue bath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage His dotage trifled well:
What thoughts will there be thine, Yet better had he neither known
While brooding in thy prison'd rage? A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But one-“The world was mine:"
Uuless, like he of Babylon,
Life will not long confine
So long obey'd -80 little worth !
Or like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock ?
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And that last act, though not thy worst, Who thus can hoard his own!
The very Fiend's arch mock;
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !
any production which was not entirely and
exclusively my own composition. SECOND
With regard to the real talents of many
of the poetical persons whose performances ALL my friends, learned and unlearned, are mentioned or alluded to in the followhave urged me not to publish this Satire ing pages, it is presumed by the author ! with my name. If I were to be “turn'd that there can be little difference of opinion from the career of my humour by quibbles in the public at large; though, like other quick, and paper-bullets of the brain,” I sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle should have complied with their counsel. of proselytes, by whom his abilities are But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or overrated, his faults overlooked, and bis bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. metrical canons received without scruple I can safely say that I have attacked none and without consideration. But the utpersonally who did not commence on the questionable possession of considerable geoffensive. An author's works are public nius by several of the writers here censured, property: he who purchases may judge, renders their mental prostitution more to and publish his opinion if he pleases; and be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, ot, the authors I have endeavoured to comme- at worst, laughed at and forgotten ; per. morate may do by me as I have done by verted powers demand the most decided them. I dare say they will succeed better reprehension. No one can wish more than in condemning my scribblings, than in the author, that some known and able wri
. mending their own. But my object is not ter had undertaken their exposure; but to prove that I can write well, but, if pos- Mr. GIFFORD has devoted himself to Massible, to make others write better.
singer, and, in the absence of the regular As the Poem has met with far more suc- physician, a country-practitioner may, in cess than I expected, I have endeavoured cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to in this edition to make some additions and prescribe his nostrum, to prevent the eralterations to render it more worthy of tension of so deplorable an epidemic. propublic perusal.
vided there be no quackery in his treatment In the first edition of this Satire, published of the malady. A caustic is here offered, anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject as it is to be feared nothing short of actual of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted cautery can recover the numerons patients at the request of an ingenious friend of mine, afflicted with the present prevalent and who has now in the press a volume of distressing rabies for rhyming.-As to the poetry. In the present edition they are Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, reerased, and some of my own substituted inquire a Hercules to crush the Hydra; but their stead: my only reason for this being if the author succeeds in merely bruising that which I conceive would operate with one of the heads of the serpent," though any other person in the same manner-a his own hand should suffer in the encoundetermination not to publish with my name' ter, he will be amply satisfied.
Still must I hear?_shall hoarse Fitz-The cry is up, and Scribblers are my games,
GERALD bawl Speed, Pegasus !-ye strains of great and lis creaking couplets in a tavern-hall,
small, Ind I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews Ode, Epic, Elegy, have at you all! hould dub me scribbler, and denounce my I too can scrawl, and once upon a time
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhymePrepare for rhyme -I'll publish, right or a schoolboy - freak, unworthy praise or wrong:
blame: Pools are my theme, let Satire be my song. I printed - older children do the same.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book's a book, altho’there's nothing in't. Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose- Not that a title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, This Lamb must own, since his patrician Torn from thy parent-bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from The pen! foredoom'd to aid the mental
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write, of brains that labour, big with verse or Tho' now the name is veil'd from public prose,
sight. Though nymphs forsake, and critics may Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own The lover's solace, and the author's pride:
review: What wits, what poets dost thou daily raise! Not seek great JEFFREY'S - yet, like him, How frequent is thy use, how small thy
Self-constituted judge of poesy.
A man must serve his time to every trade, But thon, at least, mine own especial pen! Save censure-critics all are ready made. Once laid aside, but now assumed again, Take hackney'd jokes from MILLER, got by Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be
With just enough of learning to misquote, Tho' spurn’d by others, yet beloved by me: A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault; Then let us soar to-day; no common theme, A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet, Inspires—our path, though full of thorns, His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill scem a lucky hit; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for
Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest, When Vice triumphant holds her sove- And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.
reign sway, And men, through life her willing slaves,
And shall we own such judgment? noWhen Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Unfolds her motley store to suit the time; Seek roses in December, ice in June; When knaves and fools combined o'er all Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman, or an epitaph; When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail, or any other thing that's false, before E’en then the boldest start from public You trust in critics who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, By Jeffrey's heart, or LAMB's Bæotian More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
head. And shrink from ridicule, though not from
as law; Still there are follies e'en for me to chase, While these are censors, 'twould be sin to And yield at least amusement in the race:
spare; Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame-While such are critics,why should I forbear?