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النشر الإلكتروني

But stay your wild career, unbridled thoughts,
Or frenzy must unseat my reason's sway,-
Again give license to my lawless will!-
And yet I know not, if that demon rout
Be fancy stirred by passion's power, or true;—
Or life itself be but a shadowy dream,
The act and working of an evil will !—
Dread scope of fantasy and passion's power!
Oh God! take back the boon, the precious gift
Of will mysterious. Give me, give again,
The infliction dire, fell opiate of my griefs;
Sharp wound, but in the smart the panoply
And shield against temptations, that assail
My weak and yielding spirit!-Madness, come !
The balm to guilt, the safeguard from remorse,
Make me forget, and save me from myself!

A

A CHARACTER.

BIRD, who for his other sins
Had lived amongst the Jacobins ;

Tho' like a kitten amid rats,

Or callow tit in nest of bats,
He much abhorred all democrats ;
Yet nathless stood in ill report
Of wishing ill to Church and Court,
Tho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting,
And learnt to pipe God save the King;
Tho' each day did new feathers bring,
All swore he had a leathern wing;
Nor polished wing, nor feathered tail,
Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail;
And tho' his tongue devoid of gall-

He civilly assured them all :—
"A bird am I of Phoebus' breed,
And on the sunflower cling and feed;
My name, good Sirs, is Thomas Tit!"
The bats would hail him brother cit,
Or, at the furthest, cousin-german.
At length the matter to determine,
He publickly denounced the vermin;
He spared the mouse, he praised the owl;
But bats were neither flesh nor fowl.
Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul,
Came in full clatter from his throat,
Till his old nest-mates changed their note
To hireling, traitor, and turncoat,-
A base apostate who had sold

;=

His very teeth and claws for gold ;-
And then his feathers!-sharp the jest―
No doubt he feathered well his nest!
A Tit indeed! aye, tit for tat-
With place and title, brother Bat,
We soon shall see how well he'll play
Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jày!"

Alas, poor Bird! and ill-bestarred-
Or rather let us say, poor Bard!
And henceforth quit the allegoric
With metaphor and simile,
For simple facts and style historic :-
Alas, poor Bard! no gold had he.
Behind another's team he stept,

And plowed and sowed, while others reapt;
The work was his, but theirs the glory,
Sic vos non vobis, his whole story.
Besides, whate'er he wrote or said
Came from his heart as well as head;

And tho' he never left in lurch

His king, his country, or his church,
"Twas but to humour his own cynical
Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical ;
To his own conscience only hearty,
'Twas but by chance he served the party;
The self-same things had said and writ,
Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt;
Content his own applause to win,
Would never dash through thick and thin,
And he can make, so say the wise,
No claim who makes no sacrifice ;-
And bard still less-what claim had he,
Who swore it vexed his soul to see
So grand a cause, so proud a realm
With Goose and Goody at the helm;
Who long ago had fall'n asunder
But for their rivals' baser blunder,
The coward whine and Frenchified
Slaver and slang of the other side?—

Thus, his own whim his only bribe,
Our bard pursued his old A. B. C.
Contented if he could subscribe
In fullest sense his name "Earnoε;
('Tis Punic Greek, for he hath stood!')
Whate'er the men, the cause was good;
And therefore with a right good will,
Poor fool, he fights their battles still.
Tush! squeak'd the Bats;-a mere bravado
To whitewash that base renegado;
'Tis plain unless you're blind or mad,
His conscience for the bays he barters;-
And true it is-as true as sad-

These circlets of green baize he had—

-

But then, alas! they were his garters!

Ah! silly Bard, unfed, untended, His lamp but glimmered in its socket; He lived unhonored and unfriended With scarce a penny in his pocket ;Nay-tho' he hid it from the many— With scarce a pocket for his penny!

THE REPROOF AND REPLY.

"FIE

IE, Mr. Coleridge!—and can this be you?
Break two commandments? and in church-
time too!

Have you not heard, or have you heard in vain,
The birth and parentage-recording strain?
Confessions shrill, that out-shrill'd mack'rel drown-
Fresh from the drop, the youth not yet cut down.
Letter to sweet-heart-the last dying speech-
And didn't all this begin in Sabbath-breach?
You, that knew better! In broad open day,
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away?
What could possess you? Ah! sweet youth, I fear
The chap with horns and tail was at your ear!"
Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought

to the Poet's thought.

:

From fair
Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply :-
A bow, a pleading look, a downcast eye,~
And then:

"Fair dame! a visionary wight,
Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white,
His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home,
Long hath it been your poet's wont to roam,
And many a morn, on his becharmed sense

So rich a stream of music issued thence
He deemed himself, as it flowed warbling on,
Beside the vocal fount of Helicon !
But when, as if to settle the concern,

A nymph too he beheld, in many a turn,
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn,— [heard
Say, can you blame?-No! none that saw and
Could blame a bard, that he, thus inly stirred,
A muse beholding in each fervent trait,
Took Mary for Polly Hymnia!
Or haply as there stood beside the maid
One loftier form in sable stole arrayed,
If with regretful thought he hail'd in thee

-, his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene ! But most of you, soft warblings, I complain! "Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain Lured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout, And witched the air with dreams turned inside out.

Thus all conspired-each power of eye and ear,
And this gay month, th' enchantress of the year,
To cheat poor me (no conjurer, God wot!)
And's self accomplice in the plot.
Can then wonder if I went astray?

you

Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they ;—
All nature day-dreams in the month of May.
And if I plucked each flower that sweetest blows,—
Who walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose.
Thus, long accustom'd on the twy-forked hill,
To pluck both flower and floweret at
The garden's maze, like No-man's-land, I tread,
Nor common law, nor statute in my head;
For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling,
With autocratic hand at once repealing

my

will;

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