Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? But down let him stoop from his havock on high! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan: Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd, Clamanald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array Seer. -Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? Laud. Alluding to the perilous escape of Charles from the west of Scot Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; Lochiel. -Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale : While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. LESSON CLXXVII. The Poet and the Alchymist.-NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE. AUTHORS of modern date are wealthy fellows;— 'Tis but to ship his locks they follow Now the golden-haired Apollo. Invoking Plutus to puff up the bellows The rhymes and novels which cajole us, Not from the Heliconian rill, But from the waters of Pactolus. Before this golden age of writers, A Grub-street Garreteer existed, Of odes and poems to be twisted For patrons who have heavy purses.- All ticketed from A to Izzard; Like a ropemaker's were his ways; For still one line upon another He spun, and like his hempen brother, Kept going backwards all his days. Hard by his attick lived a Chymist, And though unflattered by the dimmest To find the art of changing metals, Our starving Poet took occasion Or laudatory dedication, But with an offer to impart, For twenty pounds, the secret art, The money paid, our bard was hurried Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his And carefully put to the shutter, With grave and solemn look, the poet Who still, though bless'd, new blessings crave, LESSON CLXXVIII. Extract from a dialogue between a Satirick Poet and his Friend. 'Tis all a libel, Paxton, Sir, will say :- How should I fret to mangle every line, F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash; P. How! not condemn the sharper, but the dice ! Ye tradesmen, vile, in army, court, or hall! Ye reverend atheists!-F. Scandal! name them,—who? P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do. Who starved a sister,-who forswore a debt I never named; the town's inquiring yet. The poisoning dame-F. You mean-P. I don't-F. You do. The bribing statesman-F. Hold! too high you go. F. A dean, Sir? no; his fortune is not made, P. If not the tradesman who set up to-day, Down, down, proud Satire! though a realm be spoiled, Or, if a court, or country's made a job, Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe. To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums; May pinch even there-why lay it on a king. F. Stop! Stop!-P. Must Satire, then, nor rise, nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all. F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow. P. Strike?--Why the man was hanged ten years ago. Who now that obsolete example fears? Even Peter trembles only for his ears. F. What, always Peter? Peter thinks you mad :— You make men desperate, if they once are bad.— But why so few commended?-P. Not so fierce You find the virtue, and I'll find the verse. But random praise the task can ne'er be done; Each mother asks it for her booby son, Each widow asks it for the best of men, For him she weeps, for him she weds again. Praise cannot stoop, like Satire, to the ground; The number may be hanged, but not be crowned. No power the Muse's friendship can command, No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand. -What are you thinking?-F. Faith, the thought's no sin, I think your friends are out, and would be in. P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out, The way they take is strangely round about. F. They, too, may be corrupted, you'll allow? P. I only call those knaves who are so now. Is that too little ?-Come, then, I'll complySpirit of Arnal! aid me while I lie. Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave, And Lyttleton, a dark, designing knave. St. John has ever been a mighty foolBut, let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull, Has never made a friend in private life, And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife. |