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I will tell the Prince and People

What I think of Church and Steeple,

And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,
And my little patent plan to prop them up.'

Away then, cheek by jowl,

Little Man and little Soul

Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,
And the world all declare

That this priggish little pair

Never yet in all their lives looked so little, little, little,
Never yet in all their lives looked so little!

REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

-suosque tibi commendat Troja PENATES

Hos cape fatorum comites.-Virgil.

As recruits in these times are not easily got,

1813

And the Marshal must have them-pray, why should we not,
As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him,

Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him?

There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear,

Any men we could half so conveniently spare,

And, though they've been helping the French for years past,
We may thus make them useful to England at last.

Castlereagh in our sieges might save some disgraces,
Being used to the taking and keeping of places;
And Volunteer Canning, still ready for joining,
Might show off his talent for sly undermining.
Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride,
Old H-df-t at horn-works again might be tried,
And the Chief Justice make a bold charge at his side!
While Vansittart could victual the troops upon tick,
And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.

Nay, I do not see why the great Regent himself

Should, in times such as these, stay at home on the shelf ;—
Though through narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass,
Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse?
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-good luck to the shipment!

The character given to the Spanish sofdier, in Sir John Murray's memo rable despatch.

IMPROMPTU.

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

1810.

BETWEEN Adam and me the great difference is,
Though a Paradise each has been forced to resign,
That he never wore breeches till turned out of his,
While, for want of my breeches, I'm banished 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!

[graphic]

!

ODES OF ANACREON.

ODE I.

I SAW the smiling bard of pleasure,
The minstrel of the Teian measure;
'Twas in a vision of the night,

He beamed upon my wondering sight.
I heard his voice, and warmly pressed
The dear enthusiast to my breast.
His tresses wore a silvery dye,
But beauty sparkled in his eye;
Sparkled in his eyes of fire,
Through the mist of soft desire.
His lip exhaled, whene'er he sighed,
The fragrance of the racy tide;
And, as with weak and reeling feet,
He came my cordial kiss to meet,
An infant of the Cyprian band
Guided him on with tender hand.
Quick from his glowing brows he drew
His braid, of many a wanton hue;

I took the braid of wanton twine,

It breathed of him, and blushed with wine!

I hung it o'er my thoughtless brow,

And ah! I feel its magic now!

I feel that e'en his garland's touch

Can make the bosom love too much!

ODE II.

GIVE me the harp of epic song,

Which Homer's finger thrilled along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing.
Proclaim the laws of festal rite,
I'm monarch of the board to-night;
And all around shall brim as high,
And quaff the tide as deep as I!

And when the cluster's mellowing dews
Their warm enchanting balm infuse,
Our feet shall catch the elastic bound,
And reel us through the dance's round.
O Bacchus! we shall sing to thee,
In wild but sweet ebriety!

And flash around such sparks of thought.
As Bacchus could alone have taught!
Then give the harp of epic song
Which Homer's finger thrilled along;
But tear away the sanguine string,
For war is not the theme I sing!

ODE III.

LISTEN to the Muse's lyre,

Master of the pencil's fire!

Sketched in painting's bold display,
Many a city first portray;

Many a city, revelling free,
Warm with loose festivity.
Picture then a rosy train,

Bacchants straying o'er the plain;
Piping as they roam along
Roundelay or shepherd-song.
Paint me next, if painting may
Such a theme as this portray,
All the happy heaven of love
These elect of Cupid prove.

ODE IV.

VULCAN! hear your glorious task;
I do not from your labours ask
In gorgeous panoply to shine,
For war was ne'er a sport of mine
No-let me have a silver bowl,
Where I may cradle all my soul:
But let not o'er its simple frame
Your mimic constellations flame;
Nor grave upon the swelling side
Orion scowling o'er the tide.

I care not for the glittering Wain,
Nor yet the weeping sister train.
But oh! let vines luxuriant roll

Their blushing tendrils round the bowl,
While many a rose-lipped bacchant maid
Is culling clusters in their shade.
Let sylvan gods, in antic shapes,
Wildly press the gushing grapes;

And flights of loves, in wanton ringlets,
Flit around on golden winglets;
While Venus to her mystic bower
Beckons the rosy vintage-Power.

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ODE V.

GRAVE me a cup with brilliant grace,
Deep as the rich and holy vase
Which on the shrine of Spring reposes,
When shepherds hail that hour of roses.
Grave it with themes of chaste design,
Formed for a heavenly bowl like mine.
Display not there the barbarous rites
In which religious zeal delights;
Nor any tale of tragic fate
Which history trembles to relate!
No-cull thy fancies from above,
Themes of heaven and themes of love.
Let Bacchus, Jove's ambrosial boy,
Distil the grape in drops of joy,
And while he smiles at every tear,
Let warm-eyed Venus, dancing near,
With spirits of the genial bed,
The dewy herbage deftly tread.
Let Love be there, without his arms,
In timid nakedness of charms;
And all the Graces, linked with Love,
Blushing through the shadowy grove;
While rosy boys disporting round
In circlets trip the velvet ground;
But ah! if there Apollo toys,
I tremble for my rosy boys!

ODE VI.

As late I sought the spangled bowers,
To cull a wreath of matin flowers,
Where many an early rose was weeping,
I found the urchin Cupid sleeping.
I caught the boy; a goblet's tide
Was richly mantling by my side;
I caught nim by his downy wing,
And whelmed him in the racy spring.
Oh! then I drank: the poisoned bowl,
And Love now nestles in my soul!
Yes, yes, my soul is Cupid's nest,
I feel him fluttering in my breast.

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