First course

a Phoenix, at the head, Done in its own celestial ashes; At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing All the time its neck was wringing. Side dishes, thus - Minerva's owl, Or any such like learned fowl:

Doves, such as heav'n's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks, stew'd in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendour;
And nightingales, berhymed to death

Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards who're able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught

To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought

Where Bromham' rears its ancient steeple If Lansdowne will consent to share My humble feast, though rude the fare, Yet, season'd by that salt he brings From Attica's salinest springs, "Twill turn to dainties; while the cup Beneath his influence bright'ning up, Like that of Baucis, touch'd by Jove, Will sparkle fit for gods above!

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.2

WRITTEN MAY, 1832.

ALL, as he left it!-ev'n the pen,
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then

Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour,
A little hour, seems to have past,
Since Life and Inspiration's pow'r
Around that relic breath'd their last.

Ah, pow'rless now-like talisman,

Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls.

Yet though, alas! the gifts that shone
Around that pen's exploring track,
Be now, with its great master, gone,

Nor living hand can call them back;

1 A picturesque village in sight of my cottage, and from which it is separated but by a small verdant valley.

2 Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honour of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, &c. which their distinguished father had long been in the habit of using.

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf,

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832.

WHEN I would sing thy beauty's light,
Such various forms, and all so bright,
I've seen thee, from thy childhood, wear,
I know not which to call most fair,

Nor 'mong the countless charms that spring
For ever round thee, which to sing.

When I would paint thee, as thou art, Then all thou wert comes o'er my heart The graceful child, in beauty's dawn, Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, Or peeping out like a young moon Upon a world 'twill brighten soon. Then next, in girlhood's blushing hour, As from thy own lov'd Abbey-tow'r I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, With smiles that to the hoary frown Of centuries round thee lent a ray, Chasing even Age's gloom away; Or, in the world's resplendent throng,' As I have mark'd thee glide along, Among the crowds of fair and great A spirit, pure and separate, To which even Admiration's eye Was fearful to approach too nigh;A creature, circled by a spell

Within which nothing wrong could dwell;
And fresh and clear as from the source,
Holding through life her limpid course,
Like Arethusa through the sea,
Stealing in fountain purity.

And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

THEY tell us of an Indian tree,

Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,

Far better loves to bend its arms

Downwards again to that dear earth, From which the life, that fills and warms

1 Its grateful being, first had birth.

"Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be),
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

LOVE had a fever-ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heav'n knows,
The things he rav'd about while waking.

When the world stood in hope-when a spirit, that breath'd

The fresh air of the olden time, whisper'd about; And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheath'd, But waiting one conquering cry, to flash out!

When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,

FILICAJAS and PETRARCHS, seem'd bursting to! view,

And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you! Oh shame! that, in such a proud moment of life, Worth the hist'ry of ages, when, had you but hurl'd

One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through

the world

That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood—ev'n then,

You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;

stood men,

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN FOR LADY DACRE'S TRAGEDY OF INA.

LAST night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and - all that,
And wondering much what little knavish sprite
Had put it first in women's heads to write:
Sudden I saw - as in some witching dream -
A bright-blue glory round my book case beam,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright
As Puck the Fairy, when he pops his head,
Some sunny morning, from a violet bed.

Bless me!" I starting cried, "what imp are you?"

“A small he-devil, Ma'am-my name BAS BLEUA bookish sprite, much giv'n to routs and reading;

Tis I who teach your spinsters of good breeding,

The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,

The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps,

And, when the waltz has twirl'd her giddy

brain,

And has the sprite been here? No-jests apart-
Howe'er man rules in science and in art,
The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.
And, if our Muse have sketched with pencil true
The wife—the mother— firm, yet gentle too —
Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun,
Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one;

Who loves - yet dares even Love himself disown,
When Honour's broken shaft supports his throne,
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,
Dire as they are, of Critics and — Blue Devils.

THE DAY-DREAM.'

THEY both were hush'd, the voice, the chords,-
I heard but once that witching lay;
And few the notes, and few the words,
My spell-bound memory brought away;

Traces remember'd here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain ;-
Links of a sweetness lost in air,

That nothing now could join again.

Ev'n these, too, ere the morning, fled;

And, though the charm still linger'd on, That o'er each sense her song had shed,

The song itself was faded, gone ; —

Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours, On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers, Though what they were, we now forget.

In vain, with hints from other strains, I woo'd this truant air to comeAs birds are taught, on eastern plains, To lure their wilder kindred home.

1 In these stanzas I have done little more than relate a fact in verse; and the lady, whose singing gave rise to this curious instance of the power of memory in sleep, is Mrs. Robert Arkwright.