Since man to man is so unjust,
I cannot tell what man to trust;
My liquor's good, 'tis no man's sorrow,
Pay to-day, I'll trust to-morrow.
Dr. Leltsom's manner of signing his prescriptions ("I. Lettsom") occasioned the following jeu d'esprit, attributed to Lord Erskine, with which the Doctor is said to have been highly delighted:
Whenever patients comes to I,
I physics, bleeds, and sweats 'em ;
If, after that, they choose to die,
What's that to me !-I Letts 'em.
The failure of two Irish bankers, named Gone and Going, produced the following from one of the wits of the Irish bar:
Going and Gone are now both one,
For Gone is going, and Going's gone.
THE COMFORTS OF THE SEASONS.
In Summer's cool shade, how delightful to sit !
In Winter, how social, when few friends are met!
In Autumn ripe fruits may our palates regale;
In Spring we delight in the blossom'd sweet vale.
Each season has pleasure and blessings in store!
Be contented and happy, and ask for no more :
To know the best season to laugh and to sing,
Is Summer, is Winter, is Autumn, is Spring.
CAUTION TO A FRIEND ON THE POINT OF
MARRIAGE.
As a termagant wife
May embitter your life,
Take this counsel before the knot's tyed;
Would you shun care and strife,
Choose your bride like your knife,
Let the temper of both be well try'd.
A SUMMER'S EVENING DESCRIBED.
I look'd on the ocean, I look'd on the sky,
And all seem'd contentment and gladness;
I look'd on the sea-fowl as it passed oy,
And it bore not a feature of sadness;
I looked on the sun, and he fled with a sigh,
But gave a bright hope for to-morrow;
He glanced on the scene with a lingering eye,
Like a smile from the visage of sorrow.
O, beautiful then was the tremulous star,
That rose like a watch on the ocean;
And sweet was the music that came from afar,
On the heavenly wings of devotion:
For nature around in her loveliness smiled,
And the sun had just ceased from its duty;
He sunk to his rest, like an innocent child,
Asleep on the bosom of beauty.
But the scene is now past, yet its splendour remains,
To hallow the hour that array'd it;
To dwell in the heart, and while memory reigns, To bless the pure spirit that made it :
And oh! when I venture on life's downwards slope,
May I meet it with joyful emotion,
Beholding the heavenly vision of hope,
Like a star on eternity's ocean.
Written at Stratford upon Avon, the Birth-place of Shakespeare.
If like the spirit which thy fancy led,
From the dear mansions of the lonely dead,
Thou, Shakspeare, dost at eve re-visit earth,
And joy to view thy lowly place of birth;
See how the room in which that fancy stray'd
Is now with names of note and verse array'd;
See wit and learning, worth and beauty, strive,
To court thy smiles, and keep thy fame alive :
See lords and princes, bending at thy shrine,
Hail thee the bard, immortal and divine.
Shakspeare! no venal muse am I,
Each scribe begins a scrawl,
And well I ween they would not lie,
To say no muse at all.
Who cannot write on Shakspeare's fame ? '
To every lisping babe 'tis known;
Can any verse enrich his name,
eye of Genius glistens to admire
How memory hails the sound of Shakspeare's lyre.
One tear I'll shed, to form a chrystal shrine
Of all that's grand, immortal, and divine.
Let Princes o'er their subjects, kingdoms, rule, 'Tis Shakspeare's province to command the soul.
Go visit all that power and art create,
See gorgeous palaces and halls of state :
See where the cannons of Napoleon stray'd,
When vanquish'd nations trembled and obey'd;
And say, if all the power of regal show
Can warm the bosom with so pure a glow
As this poor hut, where to the world was given
Shakspeare-to shine on earth, a light from heaven.
From Avon's mazy wand'rings wild,
And green wood bowers so fair to see,
Oh, Shakspeare! Nature's darling child,
'Tis sweet at eve to muse on thee.
Rich was the spot which gave thee birth,
And rich thy lap on mother earth;
And richer still's the bloom
That virtue sheds immortal o'er thy tomb;
For what is genius but a name,
A fleeting sound, 'tis empty fame!
Virtue alone shall stand the shock,
When earth's whole basis shall be shook.
SHAKSPERIAN STANZAS Continued.
Great father of thy country's fame!
This marble not alone resounds thy name;
Re-echoed, thrill'd thro' ev'ry clime and tongue,
By princes honour'd and by poets sung,
Thy works shall still survive (thy noblest urn,)
While these remains to shapeless ruin turn.
Of all our writers in this lettered age,
There's none like thee, thou wit and sage.
All whims and follies could thy genius hit,
So vast thy art, so wond'rous was thy wit;
By man and poet thou canst be divine,
And draw a matchless mind from Pity's mine.
With sacred awe I gaze these walls around,
And tread with rev'rence o'er this hallow'd ground.
Within this mean abode, this humble shed,
Where patient labour daily toils for bread
And penury her gloom around it throws,
The mighty majesty of Shakspeare rose.
There sprung the glowing thought, the potent
mind,
Which charm'd, instructed, and amaz'd mankind;
O'er the dark world burst forth a radiant light,
A comet streaming through the depth of night,
Gave to a race unknown a matchless name,
And made his country glorious in his fame.
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