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THERE breathes a language, known and felt
Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;
Wherever rage can rouse, or pity melt,

That language of the soul is felt and known.

From those meridian plains,
Where oft, of old, on some high tower,
The soft Peruvian pour'd his midnight strains,
And call'd his distant love with such sweet power,
That, when she heard the lonely lay,

Not worlds could keep her from his arms away;'
To the bleak climes of polar night,
Where, beneath a sunless sky,
The Lapland lover bids his rein-deer fly,
And sings along the lengthening waste of snow,
As blithe as if the blessed light

Of vernal Phoebus burn'd upon his brow,
Oh Music! thy celestial claim
Is still resistless, still the same;
And, faithful as the mighty sea

To the pale star that o'er its realm presides,
The spell-bound tides

Of human passion rise and fall for thee!

Greek Air.

List! 't is a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilyssus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn; And by her side, in music's charm dissolving, Some patriot youth, the glorious past revolving, Dreams of bright days that never can return! When Athens nursed her olive-bough,

With hands by tyrant power unchain'd,
And braided for the muses' brow

A wreath by tyrant touch unstain'd.
When heroes trod each classic field
Where coward feet now faintly falter;
When every arm was Freedom's shield,
And every heart was Freedom's altar!

Flourish of Trumpet.

Hark! 't is the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!Oh! many a mother folds her arms Round her boy-soldier when that call she hears; And, though her fond heart sink with fears, Is proud to feel his young pulse bound With valour's fever at the sound! See! from his native hills afar The rude Helvetian flies to war; Careless for what, for whom he fights, For slave or despot, wrongs or rights; A conqueror oft-a hero neverYet lavish of his life-blood still, As if 't were like his mountain rill, And gush'd for ever!

Oh Music! here, even here, Amid this thoughtless, wild career,

A certain Spaniard, one night late, met an Indian woman in the streets of Cozco, and would have taken her to his home, but she cried out, 'For God's sake, Sir, let me go; for that pipe, which you hear in yonder tower, calls me with great passion, and I cannot refuse the summons; for love constrains me to go, that I may be bis wife, and be my husband. -Garcilasso de la Vega, in Sir Paul Rycant's translation.

Thy soul-felt charm asserts its wondrous power. There is an air, which oft among the rocks

Of his own loved land, at evening hour,

Is heard, when shepherds homeward pipe their flocks; Oh! every note of it would thrill his mind

With tenderest thoughts-would bring around his
knees

The rosy children whom he left behind,
And fill each little angel eye

With speaking tears, that ask him why
He wander'd from his hut for scenes like these?
Vain, vain is then the trumpet's brazen roar;
Sweet notes of home-of love-are all he hears;
And the stern eyes, that look'd for blood before,
Now melting, mournful, lose themselves in tears!
Swiss Air- Ranz des Vaches.»>

But, wake the trumpet's blast again,

And rouse the ranks of warrior-men!
Oh War! when Truth thy arm employs,
And Freedom's spirit guides the labouring storm,
'T is then thy vengeance takes a hallow'd form,
And, like Heaven's lightning, sacredly destroys!
Nor, Music! through thy breathing sphere,
Lives there a sound more grateful to the ear
Of Him who made all harmony,
Than the bless'd sound of fetters breaking,
And the first hymn that man, awaking
From Slavery's slumber, breathes to Liberty!

Spanish Chorus.

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain,
Burst the bold, enthusiast strain,
Like morning's music on the air!

And seems, in every note, to swear
By Saragossa's ruin'd streets,

By brave Gerona's deathful story,
That, while one Spaniard's life-blood beats,
That blood shall stain the conqueror's glory!

Spanish Air- Ya Desperto."

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal,

If neither valour's force, nor wisdom's light
Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal
Which shuts so close the book of Europe's right—
What song shall then in sadness tell

Of broken pride, of prospects shaded,

Of buried hopes, remember'd well,

Of ardour quench'd, and honour faded?
What Muse shall mourn the breathless brave,
In sweetest dirge at Memory's shrine?
What harp shall sigh o'er Freedom's grave?
Oh Erin! thine!

LINES

On the Death of Mr P-r-v-l.

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard,

Unembitter'd and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot in that hour how the statesman had err'd,

And wept, for the husband, the father, and friend.

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Methought the P——e, in whisker'd state,
Before me at his breakfast sate:
On one side lay unread petitions,
On 't other, hints from five physicians-
Here tradesmen's bills, official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapours-
There plans of saddles, tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post.

When lo! the Papers, one and all,
As if at some magician's call,
Began to flutter of themselves

From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanced-oh jacobinic papers !—
As though they said, « Our sole design is
To suffocate his Royal Highness!»
The leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition:
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threaten'd worst of all the hevy.
Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the R-G-NT's well-dress'd head,
As if determined to be read!

Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly

And tradesmen's bills, we know, mount high; Nay even death-warrants thought they'd best Be lively too and join the rest.

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I need not remind you how cursedly bad
Our affairs were all looking when Father went mad;
A strait-waistcoat on him, and restrictions on me,—
A more limited monarchy could not well be.
I was call'd upon then, in that moment of puzzle,
To chuse my own minister-just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster
By bidding him chuse out his own dancing-master.

I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,
Was to do as old Royalty's self would have done.

So I sent word to say I would keep the whole batch in,

We 've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 't is granted, But then we 've got Java, an island much wanted, put the last lingering few who remain

To

Of the Walcheren warriors out of their pain.
Then, how WELLINGTON fights! and how squabbles his
brother!

For papists the one, and with papists the other;
One crushing NAPOLEON by taking a city,
While t' other lays waste a whole Catholic Committee!
Oh, deeds of renown! shall I boggle or flinch,
With such prospects before me?-by Jove not an inch.
No-let England's affairs go to wreck if they will,
We'll look after the affairs of the Continent still,

The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching-And, with nothing at home but starvation and riot,

For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce,
Would lose all their beauty if purified once;

And think-only think-if our Father should find,
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,

That improvement had spoil'd any favourite adviser—

Find Lisbon in bread, and keep Sicily quiet.

I am proud to declare I have no predilections,-
My heart is a sieve, where some scatter'd affections
Are just danced about for a moment or two,
And the finer they are, the more sure to run through:

That R-SE was grown honest, or W-STM-REL-ND wiser-Neither have I resentments, nor wish there should come

That R-D-R was, even by one twinkle, the brighter-
Or L-V-R-P-L's speeches but half a pound lighter-
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No!-far were such dreams of improvement from me,
And it pleased me to find at the house where, you know,
There's such good mutton-cutlets and strong curacoa,
That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy,
And my Y-RM-TH's red whiskers grew redder for joy!

2

You know, my dear FREDDY, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last Sessions, I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,

Might have soothed her with hope-but you know I did

not.

And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that, while he has been laid on the shelf,
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes, but the doctors and I
Are the last that can think the K-NG ever will die!
A new era 's arrived—though you'd hardly believe
And all things, of course, must be new to receive it.
New villas, new fêtes (which even WAITUMAN attends)
New saddles, new helmets, and-why not new friends?

ill

To mortal-except (now I think on 't) BEAU BR-MM-L,
Who threatened, last year, in a superfine passion,
To cut me, and bring the old K-NG into fashion.
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present.
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,
So royally free from all troublesome feelings,
So little encumber'd by faith in my dealings
(And, that I'm consistent, the world will allow,-
What I was at Newmarket, the same I am now)-
When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking).
I hope, like the vender of best Patent Blacking,
To meet with the generous and kind approbation
Of a candid, enlighten'd and liberal nation..

By the by, ere I close this magnificent letter
(No man except POLE could have writ you a better).
'T would please me if those, whom I've humbugg'd so
long

With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from

wrong,

Would a few of them join me-mind, only a fewit-To let too much light in on me never would do;

I repeat it new friends»-for I cannot describe
The delight I am in with this P-RC-V-L tribe.
Such capering-such vapouring!-such rigour-such
vigour !

North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a
figure,

That soon they will bring the whole world round our

cars,

And leave us no friends-but Old Nick and Algiers.
When I think of the glory they've beam'd on my chains,
"T is enough quite to turn my illustrious brains;
It's true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we furnish our Allies with breeches!

The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring,

turned out to be only an old sconce.

The letter-writer's favourite luncheon.

But even GREY's brightness shan't make me afraid,
While I've C-MO-N and ELD-N to fly to for shade;
Nor will HOLLAND's clear intellect do us much harm,
While there 's W-STM-REL-ND near him to weaken the
charm.

As for MOIRA's high spirit, if aught can subdue it,
Sure joining with H-RTF-RD and Y-RM-TH will do it!
Between R-D-R and WH-RT-N iet SHERIDAN sit,
And their fogs will soon quench even SURRIDAN'S Wit;
And against all the pure public feeling that glows
Even in WHITBREAD himself, we 've a host in G-KG
R-SE!

So, in short, if they wish to have places, they may,
And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Gast,
who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose
By the two-penny post, to tell GRENVILLE the news;
And now, dearest Fred (though I've no predilection',
Believe me yours always with truest affection.

P.S.-A copy of this is to P-RC-v-L going

Good Lord! how St Stephen's will ring with his crowing

got

ANACREONTIC.

TO A PLUMASSIER.

FINE and feathery artisan!
Best of Plumists, if you can
With your art so far presume,
Make for me a P--E's plume-
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a P--E to wear!

First, thou downiest of men!
Seek me out a fine pea-hen;
Such a hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no cocks at hand!
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on P--E's crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old cuckoo;
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates!
Pluck him well-be sure you do—
Who would n't be an old cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage bless'd,
Beaming on a r-y-l crest?

Bravo, Plumist!-now what bird
Shall we find for plume the third?
You must get a learned owl,
Blackest of black-letter fowl-
Bigot bird that hates the light,
Foe to all that's fair and bright!
Seize his quills (so form'd to pen
Books that shun the search of men-
Books that far from every eye,
In «swelter'd venom sleeping, lie!)
Stick them in, between the two,
Proud pea-hen and old cuckoo!

Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie whose hue

Once was brilliant buff and blue;
Sullied now-alas! how much!—
Only fit for Y-RM-TH's touch.
There-enough-thy task is done;
Present worthy G-GE's Son!
Now beneath, in letters neat,
Write I SERVE, and all 's complete.

EXTRACTS

FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

Wednesday.

THROUGH M-NCH-ST-R Square took a canter just now-
Met the old yellow chariot, and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 't was loyal and civil,
But
I such a look-oh, 't was black as the devil!
How unlucky!-incog. he was travelling about,
And I, like a noodle, must go find him out!
Mem.-When next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.

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Of better shaped Gods, but he sent them all back; Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead of noddles,

In short, they were all much too godlike for CRACK!

England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. I remember, says Tavernier, to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustachios were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension."

One of those antediluvian princes with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manechio compiled his history, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last king of the antediluvian dynasty.

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