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And make their grand saloons a general | And though I hope not hence unscathed to go,

mart

For all the mutilated blocks of art:
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell,
I leave topography to classic GELL;
And quite content, no more shall interpose
To stun mankind with poesy or prose.

Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear:

This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to

own

Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown:

My voice was heard again, though not so
loud;

My page, though nameless, never disavow'd;
And now at once I tear the veil away:
Cheer on the pack! the quarry stands at bay,
Unscared by all the din of MELBOURNE-house,
By LAMB's resentment, or by HOLLAND'S

spouse,

By JEFFREY'S harmless pistol, HALLAM's rage,
EDINA'S brawny sons and brimstone page.
Our men in buckram shall have blows

enough,

Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall

From lips that now may seem imbued with gall,

Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath my eyes:

But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth,

I've learned to think and sternly speak the
truth;

Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree,
And break him on the wheel he meant for me;
To spurn the rod a scribbler bids me kiss,
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or
hiss:

Nay, more, though all my rival rhymesters
frown,

I too can hunt a poetaster down ;
And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once
To Scotch marauder, and to Southern dunce.
Thus much I've dared to do; how far my lay
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let
others say;

This let the world, which knows not how
to spare,

And feel they too are "penetrable stuff:" Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare.

THE CURSE OF MINERVA.

-Pallas te hac vulnere, Pallas
Immolat, et pænam scelerato ex sanguine sumit.

SLOW sinks, more lovely ere his race

be run, Along Morea's hills the setting sun: Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, But one unclouded blaze of living light! O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,

Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it
glows:

On old Egina's rock, and Idra's isle,
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile;
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast the mountain-shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis!
Their azure arches through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing
glance,

And tenderest tints, along their summits
driven,

Mark his gay course and own the hues of
heaven;

Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When, Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last:

How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray,
That closed their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet-not yet-Sol pauses on the hill-
The precious hour of parting lingers still:
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful
dyes;

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phœbus never frown'd
before;

But ere he sunk below Citharon's head.

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The cup of woe was quaff'd—the spirit fled; | Not such as erst, by her divine command, The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly- Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic Who lived and died as none can live or die!

But, lo! from high Hymettus to the plain, The queen of night asserts her silent reign; No murky vapour, herald of the storm, Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form: With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play,

There the white column greets her grateful

hand;

Gone were the terrors of her awful brow,
Her idle Ægis bore no Gorgon now;
Her helm was deep indented, and her lance
Seem'd weak and shaftless, e'en to mortal
glance;
which still she deign'd
to clasp,
Shrunk from her touch and wither'd in her
grasp:

The olive-branch,

And,ah! though still the brightest of the sky,
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye;

And bright around, with quivering beams | Round the rent casque her owlet circled

ray,
beset,

slow, And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe.

Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret:
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, “Mortal! ('twas thus she spake) that blush
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque,
of shame
The gleaming turret of the gay Kiosk, Proclaims thee Briton-once a noble name-
And, dun and sombre mid the holy calm, First of the mighty, foremost of the free,
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm,
Now honour'd less by all-and least by me:
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye-- Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found:-
And dull were his that pass'd them heed-Seekst thou the cause? O mortal, look

less by.

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around!
Lo! here, despite of war and wasting fire,
I saw successive tyrannies expire;
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and
Goth,

Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both!
Survey this vacant violated fane;
Recount the relics torn that yet remain;
These Cecrops placed this Pericles adorn'd –
That Hadrian rear'd when drooping science
mourn'd:

What more I owe let gratitude attest-
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest.
That all may learn from whence the plun-
derer came,

|
Th' insulted wall sustains his hated name.
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads:
Below, his name-above, behold his deeds!
Be ever hail'd with equal honour here
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer.
Arms gave the first his right—the last had

none,

But basely stole what less barbarians won!
So when the lion quits his fell repast,
Next prowls the wolf-the filthy jackal last:
Flesh, limbs, and blood, the former make
their own;

The last base brute securely gnaws the bone.
Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are

crost

See here what Elgin won, and what he lost!
Another name with his pollutes my shrine,
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine!
Some retribution still might Pallas claim,
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame."

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply.f To soothe the vengeance kindling in her

eye :

"Daughter of Jove! inBritain's injured name, | Europe's worst dauber and poorBritain's best, A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim! With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, Frown not on England-England owns him And own himself an infant of fourscore: Be all the bruisers call'd from all St. Giles, That art and nature may compare their

not

Athene, no! the plunderer was a Scot! Ask'st thou the difference? From fair Phyle's towers

Survey Baotia— Caledonia's ours;
And well I know within that bastard-land
Hath wisdom's goddess never held command:
A barren soil, where nature's germs,confined,
To stern sterility can stint the mind;
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard
earth,

Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth.
Each genial influence nurtured to resist,
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist:
Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy
plain

Dilutes with drivel every drizzling brain, Till burst at length each watery head o'erflows,

Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows:
Ten thousand schemes of petulance and pride
Despatch her scheming children far and wide;
Some east, some west, some-every where
but north,

In quest of lawless gain they issue forth;
And thus, accursed be the day and year,
She sent a Pict to play the felon here.
Yet, Caledonia claims some native worth,
As dull Bœotia gave a Pindar birth-
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave,
Bound to no clime, and victors o'er the grave,
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land,
And shine like children of a happier strand:
As once of yore, in some obnoxious place,
Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched

race!"

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styles;

While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, And marvel at his lordship's stone-shop there. Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep,

To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep: While many a languid maid, with longing sigh,

On giant-statues casts the curious eye; The room with transient glance appears to skim,

Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb;

Mourns o'er the difference of now and then; Exclaims, "these Greeks indeed were proper men;"

Draws slight comparisons of these with those,

And envies Laïs all her Attic beaux:
When shall a modern maid have swains
like these?
Alas! Sir Harry is no Hercules!
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew,
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view,
In silent indignation, mix'd with grief.
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief.
Loathed throughout life-scarce pardon'd
in the dust,

May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust!
Link'd with the fool who fired th' Ephesian
dome,
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb;
Erostratus and Elgin e'er shall shine
In many a branding page and burning line!
Alike condemn'd for aye to stand accursed-
Perchance the second viler than the first:
So let him stand through ages yet unbora,
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of scorn!
Though not for him alone revenge shall
wait,

But fits thy country for her coming fate:
Hers were the deeds that taught her law-

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So may ye perish! Pallas, when she gave Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. = Look on your Spain, she clasps the hand she hates,

But coldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates.

Then in the senate of your sinking state, Show me the man whose counsels may have weight.

Vain is each voice whose tones could once command;

E'en factions cease to charm a factious land; Bear witness bright Barrossa, thou canst tell While jarring sects convulse a sister-isle, Whose were the sons that bravely fought | And light with maddening hands the mutual pile.

and fell.

" 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in vain,

While Lusitania, kind and dear ally,
Can spare a few to fight and sometimes fly.
Oh glorious field! by famine fiercely won;
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done!
But when did Pallas teach that one retreat The Furies seize her abdicated reign;
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat? | Wide o'er the realm they wave their kind-
Look last at home-ye love not to look there,
On the grim smile of comfortless despair; And wring her vitals with their fiery hands.
Your city saddens, loud though revel howls, But one convulsive struggle still remains,
Here famine faints, and yonder rapine | And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her

prowls:

See all alike of more or less bereft -
No misers tremble when there's nothing left.
"Blest paper credit" who shall dare to sing?
It clogs like lead corruption's weary wing:
Yet Pallas pluck'd each Premier by the ear,
Who gods and men alike disdain'd to hear;
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state,
On Pallas calls, but calls, alas! too late;
Then raves for ***; to that Mentor bends,
Though he and Pallas never yet were
friends:

Him senates hear whom never yet they
heard,

Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd:
So once of yore each reasonable frog
Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign log;
Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod,
As Egypt chose an onion for a god.

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ling brands,

chains.

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O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona
smiles;

The brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum,
That bid the foe defiance ere they come;
The hero, bounding at his country's call,
The glorious death that decorates his fall,
Swell the young heart with visionary
charms,

And bid it antedate the joys of arms.
But know, a lesson you may yet be taught―
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought:
Not in the conflict havoc seeks delight,
His day of mercy is the day of fight;
But when the field is fought, the battle won,
Though drench'd with gore, his woes are
but begun.

His deeper deeds ye yet know but by name,—
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd
dame,

The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, Ill suit with souls at home untaught to yield.

Say with what eye, along the distant down,
Would flying burghers mark the blazing
town?

How view the column of ascending flames
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled
Thames?

Nay, frown not, Albion! for the torch was
thine

That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine:
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast,
Go, ask thy bosom, who deserves them
most?

The law of heaven and earth is life for life;
And she who raised in vain regrets the
strife.

London, 1812.

THE AGE OF BRONZE;

OR,

CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS.

"Impar Congressus Achilli."

THE "good old times"—all times, when He "wept for worlds to conquer!" he old, are good—

Are gone; the present might be, if they would;

Great things have been, and are, and great-
er still

Want little of mere mortals but their will:
A wider space, a greener field is given
To those who play their "tricks before high
Heaven."

I know not if the angels weep, but men
Have wept enough-for what?-to weep
again.

All is exploded-be it good or bąd.
Reader! remember when thou wert a lad,
Then Pitt was all; or, if not all, so much,
His very rival almost deem'd him such.
We, we have seen the intellectual race
Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face-
Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea
Of eloquence between, which flow'd all free,
As the deep billows of the Ægean roar
Betwixt the Hellenic and thePhrygian shore.
But where are they-the rivals?—a few feet
Of sullen earth divide each winding-sheet.
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave
Which hushes all! a calm, unstormy wave
Which oversweeps the world. The theme
is old

Of "dust to dust;" but half its tale untold.
Time tempers not its terrors-still the worm
Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves
its form-

Varied above, but still alike below;
The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow.
Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea,
O'er which from empire she lured Anthony;
Though Alexander's urn a show be grown
On shores he wept to conquer, though

unknown

How vain, how worse than vain at length
appear
The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear!
He wept for worlds to conquer-half the
carth
Knows not his name, or but his death and
birth
And desolation; while his native Greece
Hath all of desolation, save its peace.

who ne'er

Conceived the globe he panted not to spare!
With even the busy Northern Isle unknown,
Which holds his urn, and never knew his
throne.

But where is he, the modern, mightier far.
Who, born no king, made monarchs drav
his car;
The new Sesostris, whose unharness'd kings.
Free'd from the bit, believe themselves
with wings,

And spurn the dust o'er which they crawić
of late,
Chain'd to the chariot of the chieftain's
state?

Yes! where is he, the Champion and the
Child

Of all that's great or little, wise or wild!
Whose game was empires and whose stakes
were thrones ?
Whose table, earth_whose dice were human
bones?

Behold the grand result in yon lone isle.
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile.
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage;
Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations;
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,
O'er curtail'd dishes and o'er stinted wines;
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things-
Is this the man who scourged or feasted
kings?

Behold the scales in which his fortune
hangs,
A surgeon's statement and an earl's ha-
rangues!

A bust delay'd, a book refused, can shake
The sleep of him who kept the world awake.
Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great,
Now slave of all could teaze or irritate-
The paltry jailor and the prying spy,
The staring stranger with his note-book
nigh?

Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been
great;

How low, how little was this middle state,
Between a prison and a palace, where

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