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Indignant of his deeds, the muse who sings
Not so the patriot chief, who dared withstand
And many a lass grown old,
My heavy heart grows cold. .
I see these iils less plain,
2. TOWN AND COUNTRY.
CCCC. MRS GREVILLE.
Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,
Which, like the needle true,
But turning trembles too.
CCCCII. FREDERIC LOCKER.
1. THE WORLD.
A viler than the present ?
It almost is--as pleasant !
And some are gay, and therefore
The fun they do not care for.
Good people--how they wrangle!
The characters they mangle!
And go to church on Sunday- ,
And níore of Mrs Grundy.
2. A SKULL. A human skull! I bought it passing cheap;
It might be dearer to its first employer;
Some mute momento of the Old Destroyer.
Here lips were wooed perchance in transport tender ; Some may have chucked what was a dimpled chis,
And never had my doubt about its gender!
Did she live yesterday or ages back ?
What colour were the eyes when bright and waking ? And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,
Poor little head! that long has done with aching. It
may have held (to shoot some random shots)
Thy brains, Eliza Fry, or Baron Byron's, The wit of Nelly Gwynne or Doctor Watts,
Two quoted bards ! two philanthropic sirens !
CCCCIII. JOHN ASKHAM.
We lay up for ourselves life-long regrets,
And careless woes,
And welcome in
The fiends of sin.
And mock our care ;
Were empty air.
To trip our feet;
And smell its sweet.
With fading look ;
Death shuts the book!
her garments to enrich her bed :
the wanton locks in curious traces, Whilst twisting with her joints each hair long lingers, As loath to be enchained but with her fingers. Then on her head a dressing like a crown; Her breasts all bare, her kirtle slipping down, And all things off (which rightly ever be Called the foul-fair marks of our misery) Except her last which enviously doth seize her, Lest any eye partake with it in pleasure, Prepares for sweetest rest, while sylvans greet her, And longingly the down bed swells to meet her.
The Blind Boy.
Which I must ne'er enjoy ?
O tell your poor blind boy!
You say the sun shines bright:
Or make it day or night?
My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play,
With me 'twere always day.
You mourn my hapless woe ;
A loss I ne'er can know.
My cheer of mind destroy ;
Although a poor blind boy.
Sonnets to the Nightingale. “A rose by any other name would smell as swe'ri
A nightingale, by any other name, ,
Notes that no charm but love fulfill’d could tamcn
A keynote typing how thy tunes prevail ; Sweet Bulbul-once, Aëdon--Philomel
Till all the echoes all thy strains prolong:
song They call thee sad,—but sadness such as thine
To Sorrow's self were exquisite relief :
Warbled by thee—the very joy of grief.
And, on night's solitude, their changes puis', My own past griefs in Mens'ry'e glass appear,
And my lost lov'd ones live-to die once more, Once more my utter anguish to renew,
My desolation, and my blank dismay,