THE NIGHT OF THE

WHEN, long sequestered from his throne,

George took his seat again,

By right of worth, not blood alone, Entitled here to reign;

Then Loyalty, with all her lamps

New trimmed, a gallant show, Chasing the darkness and the damps, Set London in a glow.

'Twas hard to tell of streets or squares Which formed the chief display; These most resembling clustered stars, Those the long milky way.

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,

And rockets flew, self-driven,
To hang their momentary fires
Amid the vault of heaven.

So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves, on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.

Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession joined,
And all the banners been unfurled
That heralds e'er designed,

For no such sight had England's Queen
Forsaken her retreat,

Where George recovered made a scene, Sweet always, doubly sweet.

17TH MARCH, 1789.

Yet glad she came that night to prove,

A witness undescried,

How much the object of her love
Was loved by all beside.

Darkness the skies had mantled o'er
In aid of her design,-

Darkness, O Queen! ne'er called before
To veil a deed of thine.

On borrowed wheels away she flies,
Resolved to be unknown,
And gratify no curious eyes

That night, except her own.

Arrived, a night like noon she sees,
And hears the million hum;
As all by instinct, like the bees,
Had known their sovereign come.

Pleased she beheld aloft portrayed,
On many a splendid wall,

Emblems of health and heavenly aid,
And George the theme of all:

Unlike the enigmatic line,

So difficult to spell,

Which shook Belshazzar at his wine The night his city fell.

Soon, watery grew her eyes and dim, But with a joyful tear :

None else, except in prayer for him, George ever drew from her.

It was a scene in every part

Like those in fable feigned,
And seemed by some magician's art
Created and sustained.

But other magic there, she knew,
Had been exerted none,
To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.

That cordial thought her spirits cheered,
And through the cumbrous throng,
Not else unworthy to be feared,
Conveyed her calm along.

So, ancient poets say, serene

The sea-maid rides the waves, And fearless of the billowy scene Her peaceful bosom laves. With more than astronomic eyes She viewed the sparkling show; One Georgian star adorns the skies, She myriads found below.

Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once seen, suffice; Heaven grant us no such future sight, Such previous woe the price!

MUSE, hide his name of whom I sing, Lest his surviving house thou bring For his sake into scorn;

Nor speak the school from which he drew

The much or little that he knew,

Nor place where he was born.

That such a man once was, may seem Worthy of record (if the theme

Perchance may credit win), For proof to man what man may prove, If grace depart, and demons move

The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below;

Gentle he was, if gentle birth
Could make him such; and he had worth,

If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose

Possessed of every kind.

Methinks I see him powdered red, With bushy locks his well-dressed head Winged broad on either side,

The mossy rosebud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As luxury could provide.

Can such be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;

A tyrant entertained

With barbarous sports, whose fell delight Was to encourage mortal fight

'Twixt birds to battle trained.

One feathered champion he possessed, His darling far beyond the rest,

Which never knew disgrace, Nor e'er had fought but he made flow The life-blood of his fiercest foe,

The Cæsar of his race.

It chanced at last, when on a day
He pushed him to the desperate fray,
His courage drooped, he fled.
The master stormed, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,

He doomed his favourite dead.

He seized him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatched the spit,
And "Bring me cord!" he cried':
The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird
Alive and struggling tied.

BB 2

Anno 1791.

THE Bard, if e'er he feel at all,
Must sure be quickened by a call

Both on his heart and head,
To pay with tuneful thanks the care
And kindness of a lady fair

Who deigns to deck his bed.

A bed like this, in ancient time,
On Ida's barren top sublime,

(As Homer's Epic shows), Composed of sweetest vernal flowers, Without the aid of sun or showers, For Jove and Juno rose.

Less beautiful, however gay,
Is that which in the scorching day
Receives the weary swain,

Who, laying his long scythe aside,
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied,
Till roused to toil again.

August 14, 1790.

What labours of the loom I see!
Looms numberless have groaned for me!
Should every maiden come

To scramble for the patch that bears
The impress of the robe she wears,
The bell would toll for some.

And oh, what havoc would ensue !
This bright display of every hue

All in a moment fled !

As if a storm should strip the bowers
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flowers,—
Each pocketing a shred.

Thanks, then, to every gentle fair,
Who will not come to peck me bare
As bird of borrowed feather,
And thanks to one, above them all,
The gentle fair of Pertenhall,

Who put the whole together.