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CHORAL ODE.

[Date unknown.]
'OCTIS TOV TAEovog pepovc.

SOPHOCLES : Ellipus at Colonas.

A LAS! that thirst of wealth and power

Should pass the bounds by wisdom laid, • And shun contentment's mountain-bower, To chase a false and fleeting shade ! The torrid orb of summer shrouds Its head in darker, stormier clouds Than quenched its vernal glow; And streams, that meet the expanding sea, Resign the peace and purity That marked their infant flow.

Go seek what joys, serene and deep,
The paths of wealth and power supply !
The eyes no balmy slumbers steep :
The lips own no satiety,
Till, where unpitying Pluto dwells,
And where the turbid Styx impels
Its circling waves along,
The pale ghost treads the flowerless shore,
And hears the unblest sisters pour
Their loveless, lyreless song.

Man's happiest lot is not to be :
And, when we tread life's thorny steep,
Most blest are they, who, earliest free,
Descend to death's eternal sleep.
From wisdom far, and peace, and truth,
Imprudence leads the steps of youth,
Where ceaseless evils spring :
Toil, frantic passion, deadly strife,
Revenge, and murder's secret knife,
And envy's scorpion sting.

Age comes, unloved, unsocial age,
Exposed to fate's severest shock,

270

“OH, NOSE OF WAX! TRUE SYMBOL OF THE MIND.”

As to the ocean-tempest's rage
The bleak and billow-beaten rock.
There ills on ills commingling press,
Morose, unjoying helplessness,
And pain, and slow disease :
As, when the storm of winter raves,
The wild winds rush from all their caves,
To swell the northern seas,

“OH, NOSE OF WAX! TRUE SYMBOL OF THE

MIND.”

[Date unknown.]

H, nose of wax ! true symbol of the mind

Which fate and fortune mould in all mankind

(Even as the hand moulds thee) to foul or fairThee good John Bull for his device shall bear, While Sawney Scot the ductile mass shall mould, Bestowing paper and receiving gold. Thy image shrined in studious state severe, Shall grace the pile which Brougham and Campbell rear : Thy name to those scholastic bowers shall pass And rival Oxford's ancient nose of brass.

A GOODLYE BALLADE OF LITTLE JOHN: SHEWINGE HOW HE RAYSED A DYVELL, AND COULDE NOTTE

LAYE HYMME.
[Date unknown.]

FYTTE THE FIRST.

ITTLE John he sat in a lonely hall,

Mid spoils of the Church of old :

And he saw a shadowing on the wall,
That made his blood run cold.

He saw the dawn of a coming day,

Dim-glimmering through the gloom :
He saw the coronet pass away
From the ancient halls where it then held sway,

And the mitre it's place resume.
He saw, the while, through the holy pile

The incense vapour spread;
He saw the poor, at the Abbey door,

Receiving their daily bread.
He saw on the wall the shadows cast

Of sacred sisters three :
He blessed them not, as they fitted past :
But above them all he hated the last,

For that was Charitie.
Now down from its shelf a book he bore,

And characters he drew,
And a spell he muttered o'er and o'er,
Till hefore him cleft was the marble floor,

And a murky fiend came through.
“Now take thee a torch in thy red right hand,”

Little John to the fiend he saith : “And let it serve as a signal brand, To rouse the rabble, throughout the land,

Against the Catholic Faith.”
Straight through the porch, with brandished torch,

The fiend went joyously out:
And a posse of parsons, established by law,
Sprang up, when the lurid flame they saw,

To head the rabble rout.
And braw Scots Presbyters nimbly sped

In the train of the muckle black de'il;
And, as the wild infection spread,
The Protestant hydra's every head

Sent forth a yell of zeal.
And pell-mell went all forms of dissent,

Each beating its scriptural drum ;
Wesleyans and Whitfieldites followed as friends,
And whatever in onion Iarian ends,

Et omne quod erit in hum.

And in bonfires burned ten thousand Guys,
With caricatures of the pious and wise,

'Mid shouts of goblin glee,
And such a clamour rent the skies,
That all buried lunatics seemed to rise,

And hold a Jubilee.

FYTTE THE SECOND.

The devil gave the rabble scope

And they left him not in the lurch : But they went beyond the summoner's hope; For they quickly got tired of bawling “No Pope !"

And bellowed, “No State Church !"

“Ho!" quoth Little John, “this must not be:

The devil leads all amiss :
He works for himself, and not for me:
And straightway back I'll bid him flee

To the bottomless abyss.”

Again he took down his book from the wall,

And pondered words of might : He muttered a speech, and he scribbled a scrawl : But the only answer to his call Was a glimpse, at the uttermost end of the hall,

Of the devil taking a sight.

And louder and louder grew the clang

As the rabble raged without :
The door was beaten with many a bang;
And the vaulted roof re-echoing rang

To the tumult and the shout.

The fiendish shade, on the wall portrayed,

Threw somersaults fast and free,
And flourished his tail like a brandished flail,
As busy as if it were blowing a gale,

And his task were on the sea.

And cp be toss's bs baze dichiak,

As visosed scribes rose;
And risti ani le be weat so work,
Till full over I , o Osori, and York,

He stood a nenaciaz pose.
The rabbe na was tested ande,

As the Larisade rests in its steep;
And al tirooga the ample pie

Reine sense dreal and deep.
Then a tholies Toise cried: - Little John,

A little spe!l wido
When there is rischief to be done,
To raise me up and set me on;
For I, of my own free smil, am won

To carry such spiritings through.
“But when I am riding the tempest's wing,

And towers and spires have blazed,
'Tis no small conjuror's art to sing,
Or say, a spell to check the swing

Of the demons he has raised."

FAREWELL TO MEIRION.

No date.)
M EIRIOX, farewell! thy sylvan shades,

Thy mossy rocks and bright cascades,

Thy tangled glens and dingles wild,
Might well detain the Muses' child.
But can the son of science find,
In thy fair realm, one kindred mind,
One soul sublime, by feeling taught,
To wake the genuine pulse of thought,
One heart by nature formed to prove
True friendship and unvarying love?
No-Bacchus reels through all thy fields,
Her brand fanatic frenzy wields,
And ignorance with falsehood dwells,

And folly shakes her jingling bells.
VOL. III.

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