And though oft, of an evening, perhaps, he might prove,
Like our brave Spanish allies, unable to move,"
Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded,
Which is that he could not with ease be surrounded!
In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment!
At present no more but-goou luck to the shipment!

HORACE, ODE 1. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

Udi profanum vulgus et arces.
Favete linguis: carniina non prius
Audita, Musarum sacerdos,

Virginibus puerisque canto.

Regum timendorum in proprios greges,
Reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.

HATE thee, O Mob! as my lady hates delf,

1818.

To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,

Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,

And, like G-dw-n, write books for young masters and misses.

Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry,

Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap,

Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,

Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.

HORAT. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII.

A FRAGMENT.

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus:
Displicent nexæ philyra coronæ,
Mitte sectari Rosa quo locorum
Sera more'ur.

TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT
HON. GRGE R-SE.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries,
Fricassées, vol-au vents, puffs and gim-crackeries-
Six by the Horse-Guards!-old Gregory is late-
But come-lay the table cloth-zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places old R-e is delaying !2

The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable despatch.

The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be admired. The translator has added a long, erudite, and flowery note upon Roses, of which I can merely give a specimen at

present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosarium Politium of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hope of finding some Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the text-but in vain : he then tells us that Cicero accused Verres of reposing upon a cushion 'Melitensi rosá furtum,’

IMPROMPTU.

UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

BETWEEN Adam and me the great difference is,
Though a Paradise each has been forced to resign,

1810.

That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his.
While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine.

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled,
While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they graved on his seal was a child,
With a thunderbolt placed in its innocent hand.

O Wellington! long as such Ministers wield

Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;
For while they're in the Council and you in the Field,
We've the babies in them, and the thunder in you!

which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned Clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph on Fair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal hope, that, if 'Rosa munda' mean 'a Rose with clean hands,' it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon

the Rosa aurea,' which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmo sphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the 'old Rose,' he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the poet, consenuisse Rosas.' The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses that is quite edifying.

SACRED SONGS.

1816.

THOU ART, O GOD!

AIR-Unknown.1

The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter.—Psalm liv. 16, 17.

THOU art, O God! the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where'er we turn thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine.

When day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into heaven;
Those hues, that make the sun's de-
cline

So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine.

When night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose
plume

Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes;-
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are thine.
When youthful spring around us
breathes,

Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.
AIR-Stevenson.

THIS world is all a fleeting show

For man's illusion given;
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow,-

There's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on glory's plume,
As fading hues of even;

And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,

Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb,-
There's nothing bright but Heaven!

Poor wanderers of a stormy day,

From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way.There's nothing calm but Heaven!

I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, confess thou'rt smooth and fair.'

FALL'N IS THY THRONE. AIR-Martini,

WHO IS THE MAID!? AIR-Beethoven.

THE BIRD LET LOOSE.
AIR-Beethoven.

THE bird, let loose in Eastern skies,1
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam.
But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God, from every care,
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud-no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs ;-
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom in her wings!

O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

AIR--Haydn.

'He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.'-Psalm cxlvii. 3.

O THOU who dry'st the mourner's

tear!

How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee.
The friends, who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes are flown:
And he, who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded
part,

Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And e'en the hope that threw
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too!
Oh! who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy wing of love
Come, brightly wafting through the
gloom

Our peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows
bright

With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

AIR-Avison.

WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb
In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it,
"Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,

And but sleeps, till the sunshine of heaven has unchain'd it,
To water that Eden, where first was its source !

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb

In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes,

The carrier pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every ob

stacle between her and the place to which she is destined.