THERE is a radiance in the sky, A flush of gold, and purple dye. Night lingers in the west, the sun Floats on the sea.-The day's begun. The wave slow swelling to the shore Gleams on the green like silver ore; The grove, the cloud, the mountain's brow, Are burning in the crimson glow; Yet all is silence,-till the gale Shakes its rich pinions from the vale.
It is a lovely hour,-though heaven
Had ne'er to man his partner given,
That thing of beauty, fatal, fair,
Bright, fickle-child of flame and air;
Yet such an hour, such skies above,
Such earth below, had taught him Love.
But there are sounds along the gale;→
Not murmurs of the grot or vale-
Yet wild, yet sweet, as ever stole
To soothe the twilight wanderer's soul.
It comes from yonder jasmine bower,
From yonder mosque's enamell'd tower,
From yonder harem's roof of gold,
From yonder castle's haughty hold:
Oh strain of witchery! whoe'er
That heard thee, felt not joy was near?
My soul shall in the grave be dim,
Ere it forgets that bridal hymn.
'Twas such a morn, 'twas such a tone
That woke me ;-visions! are you gone?
The flutes breathe nigh,-the portals now
Pour out the train, white veil'd, like snow
Upon its mountain summit spread,
In splendour beyond man's rude tread;
And o'er their pomp, emerging far
The bride, like morning's virgin star.
And soon along the eve may swim
The chorus of the bridal hymn;
Again the bright procession move
To take the last, sweet veil from Love.
Then speed thee on, thou glorious sun !
Swift rise, swift set,be bright and done.
TO THE EDITOR OF THE EUROPEAN MAGAZINE.
HEREWITH I send you an original Poem, by LORD BYRON, taken from the silver-mounting of a goblet made out of a human skull, found at Newstead.*
START not! nor dream my spirit fled;
In me behold the only skull
From which (unlike a living head)
Whatever flows is never dull.
I lived-I loved-I quaff'd, like thee:
I died, let earth my bones resign;
Fill up o! thou canst not injure me,-
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy breed;
And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of gods, than reptiles feed.
Where'er my wit perchance hath shone
In aid of others, let me shine ;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?
Quaff whilst thou canst, another race
(When thou and thine, like me, are sped,)
May rescue thee from death's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life's little day,
Our heads should sad effect produce ;-
Redeem'd, from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is thine to be of use.
*On digging near the Abbey, for the purpose of making a cold-bath, several human skulls were found, two or three of them in a very perfect state; one of these his lordship formed the horrid idea of having fitted up as a goblet, which was filled with ale, and handed about to his guests after their cheese!
BY DR JOHN WOLCOT, (Olim PETER PINDAR, Esq.)
RETURNING with the blush of shame For England's darken'd sun of fame, How sadly will this tale in history sound? "Forced like poor prisoners to submit, Sublime ambassadors and suite—
Penn'd like poor cattle that are driven to pound!
Forced at Tunkoo to pass a night,
Without one candle's glimmering light;
Squeez'd in a dreary dungeon cheek by jowl;
Without a chair, without a bed
To rest the weary, sleepy head;
Resembling prisoners in the old Black Hole!
Watch'd as they wander'd through the land,
(Quang Tagin, leader of the band,)
Just like a pack of hounds, towards Pekin;
Yin-Tagin, a sharp overseer,
Deputed to bring up the rear,
Marching in quality of whipper-in."
An empty purse-a string of stones-
What gifts from the great throne of thrones!
Fie, Kia King! how shabbily this looks!
Our Prince, in loftiness of soul,
Will bid them in the kennel roll,
Or fling them to his chimney-sweeps or cooks!
Had our ambassadors, indeed,
Vouchsafed on floors to knock the head, (A crouch they scorn'd, the nose sublimely bearing,) Courtiers had said-" Our ample ship
Has made a pretty trading trip,
And for a paltry sprat obtain'd a herring."
Pall-Mall will howl, poor Windsor mourn,
Dreaming of presents in return,
Loading th' Alceste as deep as she could swim;
So cramm'd with treasures of the East,
From stem to stern with bag and chest,
The straddling tars could scarcely wag a limb.
Thou never didst vouchsafe, perhaps,
To cast thine eye sublime on maps;
And therefore, fancying thyself all-mighty,
Hast treated us with pompous scorn-
Beneath thy notice, beggars born,
No better than the folks of Otaheite !
Know, should old England's genius frown,
Her thunder soon would shake thy crown,
Reduce thee from an eagle to a wren,
Thine high imperial pride to gall,
Force thee to leap the Chinese wall,
To feed on horse with Tartar tribes again.
Insulted by a Chinese crew,
Thou knowest what one ship dared do,
Which, blazing, seem'd to emulate Algiers;
Which, for Old England's glory fired,
Blew, with a patriot rage inspired,
Walls, guns, and lanterns, all about their ears.
Reflect, what Britons can perform;
Of France, who faced the hostile storm, (France that on realms had fix'd her tiger pats): Then chain'd, his ruthless rage to mock,
Napoleon to a barren rock
By all deserted but his neighbour rats.
'Tis now full time to close th' Epistle; Thy pride may bid the Bard go whistle, Though thank'd by monarchs for his flattering lays: Kings are ambitious of my song;
But mark, thou successor of Kien Long,
First mend thy manners, ere thou gain'st my praise.
(Singing without.)
OH! what will become of me?
Oh! what will I do?
Nobody coming to marry me,-
Nobody coming to woo!
Now, ladies! is our poet's usage fair,
To baulk us thus, and laugh at our despair?
To let the world in me an arrant flirt see,
Who pops the question as she bobs a curtsey.
Could he not catch in his satiric net
Our kindred animal, a male coquet?
Are they so scarce? Pray, ladies, look around.
Scarce? Bless 'em, no-I'm sure they here abound.
Oh! ye tremendous host of lady-killers!
Ye oglers, whisperers, waltzers, and quadrillers!
Who, doubtless, think our sighs and sad mishaps,
So many feathers in your coxcomb caps,
You think I am blind perhaps that may be true—
But I've my quizzing-glass as well as you.
There enters one, would any heart entice;
Dear youth who make your conquest at half-price.
Fluttering the benches through each neighbouring box,
Then, lolling, trim his hyacinthian locks.
Wo'nt you, sir, take Miss Beckey off the shelf?
Oh no! You're wedded to your own sweet self.
And you, ye fair, how perilous your cases,
Who meet their fierce assault of lobby graces.
Yet hear these sounds each ray of hope bedimming-
"A d-n'd good house-but very few fine women!"
Nay, some like pictures, shifted for a light,
Are seen through half the town in one short night,
O'er their fond victims glance, and disappear,
Rob some poor poet of his listeners here,
Then at the opera, crowding the last cranny,
Obscure Mozart, and rival Don Giovanni.
Soon they may scorn us for a novel fury,
And Talma's pic-nics desolate old Drury.
Speed ye, sweet souls!-my tongue I now must guard,
To beg a word for Player, and for Bard.
We live, you say, in a degenerate age;
We toil, you cry, for a degenerate stage.—
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