Here was born a great thief, nay of thieves he was chief,
As in this blest island e'er shone;
He robb'd every creature of every known feature, And then claim'd them all as his own.
Genius to thy tomb shall bend,
Till vast eternity shall end.
The world, since William Shakspeare's birth,
Knows true genius and true worth.
Ah, Shakspeare! when we read the votive scrawls With which well-meaning folks deface these walls; And, while in vain we seek some lucky hit,
Amidst those lines whose nonsense nonsense smothers,
We find, unlike the Falstaff, in his wit,
Thou art not here the cause of wit in others. When Shakspeare speaks, what elocution flows! Soft as the fleeces of descending snows
The copious accents fall with easy art,
Melting they fall, and sink into the heart.
Here, gentle Shakspeare, Nature's sweetest child, First warbled rth his native woodnotes wild;
Beneath this humble roof he first drew breath,
Inclosed within this place he lies in death.
A pleasing fancy still attaches to the place,
A sacred awe, a reverential grace;
A pleasing consciousness, a fond desire.
One almost listens to the poets lyre,
With searching eye looks round in hope to find
Some sacred relic of the poet's mind.
Vainly it strives the vision to prolong,
Mute is the eye, and silent Shakspeare's tongue.
A barren list of names supply this place,
The sad memorial of their own disgrace,
That only strike the stranger's eye to note
What fools have lived and greater fools have wrote.
These sad relics by these walls supplied,
Deserted by the muse when her sweet Shakspeare died.
THE STATE OF MEN COMPARED.
Like leaves on trees the race of man is found,
Now green in youth, now with'ring on the ground;
Another race the coming spring supplies,
They fall successive, and successive rise :
So generations in their course decay;
So flourish these, when those are passed away.
Written on the Marriage of a Captain William Graves, to a lađy of the name of Graves.
The Graves, 'tis said will yeild the dead,
When the last trumpet shakes the skies ;
But, if God please, from Graves like these,
A dozen living folks may rise!
There is a land, of every land the pride,
Belov'd of Heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brightest suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, value, truth,
Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth :
Time wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air ;
In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole ;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest;
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride;
While in his soften'd looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend :
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie e;
Around her knees domestic beauties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambols at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man?—a patriot ?-look around;
O thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy HOME!
Translated from the Metastasio.
The sailor vows, that to the treach'rous main,
He ne'er will trust with easy faith again;
But, when he views the billows calmly glide,
Forgets his vow, and once more tempts the tide.
The warrior too-his martial ardour o'er,
Resolves to wield his much lov'd arms no more;
But, should he chance a trumpet's sound to hear,
Flies to the field, and grasps his laurell'd spear.
On perceiving the name of each Lady in the party began with B.
How strange it is Dame Fortune should decree
That all our fav'rites should begin with B.
How shall we solve this parodox of ours ?-
The Bee flies always to the sweetest flowers.
On being locked in Kensington Gardens, the gates of which are shut at nine o'clock.
From Paradise Adam and Eve were shut out
As a punishment due to their sin,
But here after nine, should you loiter about,
For your punishment you'll be shut in!
Five thousand geese this day are doom'd to die,
What dreadful havoc 'mongst society.
DR. ALDRICH'S REASONS FOR DRINKING.
Good wine, a friend, or being dry,
Or lest you should be by and by,
Or any other reason why.
"Don't you think there'd be much more of bloodshed than now,
If the women, like us, their own battles were waging?"
Quoth cynical Dick: said his friend, "I allow That there might, for they're sure to be always engaging."
Dear cousin, I write this in haste,
To beg you will get for Mamma
A pot of best jessamine paste,
And a pair of shoe buckles for Pa'
At Exeter Change ;-then just pop
Into Aldersgate-street, for the prints;
And when you are there, you can stop
For a skein of white worsted at Flint's.
Papa wants a new razor-strop,
And mamma wants a chinchilli muff, Little Boby's in want of a top,
And my aunt wants sixpen'orth of snuff. Just call, in St. Martin's-le-Grand,
For some goggles for Mary, who squints, Bring a pound of bees-wax from the Strand,
And the skein of white worsted from Flint's.
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