Since in this crowded dome thy skill divine
Did laurel-wreaths round Granta's sceptre twine!

CHORUS.

What countless forms, with frantic mien,
Have flitted o'er yon darken'd scene!
They come-they rage-they disappear-
The storm is woe-the pause is fear-

RECITATIVE.

But who is he that treads th' uncertain gloom,
That comes the last, nor shares the general doom?

AIR AND QUARTETT.

Vain now each mighty name,
Through ages long descended;
Each banner's storied fame,
Which conquest once attended.

RECITATIVE.

From height to height the Alpine Eagle flown,
Screams, as he finds no wild remain his own.

RECITATIVE.

With sullen march recede
The Russian's wasted train;
The high, indignant Swede.
Th' Oppressor braves in vain ;
In dim eclipse the Crescent's glories fade;
And the far Indian sees th' approaching shade :
Where, 'mid the clouds of war,

Where now the fortune of the Austrian Star?

The high-born Maid, in bridal garlands shown,
Leads up the last sad pomp, that speaks a world o'erthrown.

CHORUS.

The shout is heard on high

Britannia! hark-they fly-they fly

Hark-fallen is the foe, and thine the victory.On Alexandria's plains glad sounds arise;

Vimeira loud replies;

The Conquerors of the World are conquer'd now-
Rise, bind the laurels on thy brow ;

}

Britannia,

Britannia, rise!-'t is thine-'t is thine

To roll the thunders of the blazing Line, And bid the ruin wide the scatter'd foe pursue; And thine, to rush amain

Along th' embattled plain,

Pour o'er the opposing ranks, and sweep them from the view.

RECITATIVE AND AIR.

On Talavera's height,

And 'mid Barrosa's fight,

High beat each English heart with triumph warm ;
And England's Genius o'er the battle's storm

Rose proud, and show'd her Edward's laurell'd form,
While near was seen the sable Warrior Son,
Crown'd, as on Poictiers' day, with wreaths from Cressy won.

AIR.

O Gloster! pleas'd to thee while Granta bends,
And gives her sceptre to thy faithful hand,
Oh think, while round the baleful storm extends,
Why yet thy native land,

Why yet the lov'd, the beauteous Isle
In peace can rest, in virtue smile;

RECITATIVE.

'Mid States in flames and ruins hurl'd,
Why England yet survives the World?—

AIR.

From hardy sports, from manly schools,
From Truth's pure lore in Learning's bower,
From equal Law, alike that rules
The People's will, the Monarch's power;
From Piety, whose soul sincere

Fears God, and knows no other fear;
From Loyalty, whose high disdain
Turns from the fawning, faithless train;
From deeds, the historian's records show,
Valour's renown and Freedom's glow :

"T is hence that springs th' unconquer'd fire,
That bids to Glory's heights aspire.

{j{་རོ

AIR.

O Gloster! hence the sage's aim,
The scholar's toil, the statesman's fame,
The flaming sword, still ready found}
To guard the Paradise around-
Here in their last retreat are seen

The peaceful Arts, the Classic Muse;
And heavenly Wisdom here her light serene,
Her holy calm can still diffuse.

AIR AND CHORUS.

No common cause, no vulgar sway
Now, Gloster, claim thy

gen'rous zeal-
In England's bliss is Europe's stay,
And England's hope in Granta's weal.

AIR.

Thee have the marshall'd hosts of France
Seen on their firmest ranks advance;
Thine was the soldier's fearless glow,
And thine the skill that watch'd around;
Sham'd and repuls'd, the conscious foe

The laurel gave, though Fortune frown'd;
And England heard, with loud acclaim,
The promise of thy youthful fame;

DUET.

The modest Virtues on thy steps attend→→→
To thee the sons of grief and pain

For pity turn, nor turn

in yain ;

The hapless African has call'd thee Friend-
Oh, ever thou the gen'rous cause defend!

CHORUS.

་་

Pursue thy course!an honest fame is thine
And Granta still shall bless the days
Granta, that ever lov'd a Brunswick's name,
The honour'd day, that saw her thus consign

To thee the ensigns of her sway;

Thee, Guardian of her Laws, her Rights, her Fame, Son of her matron Lore, Prince of her Monarch's Line.

12

7

THE

ON

THE DEJEUNE CHAMPETRE.

[From the Morning Herald, June 29.],

Say, why should Dutchesses engross our tongues?

Rise, honest Muse, and sing of Mrs. Lungs!

N Tuesday last, the Dowager Lungs, the most eminent Ballad Singer within the bills of mortality, gave her annual rout, at her wooden villa, in Tothill Fields, to all the fashion, beauty, and genius of the vicinity.

When the chimes of Westminster were announcing the death of day, the company began to arrive in taxed carts, buggies, and caravans. On alighting from their carriages, the parties were severally served with an antediluvian offering of gin and gingerbread, which the hostess delivered herself, with her accustomed dignity and grace. The saloon of her cottage arnée was aptly decorated (like the interior of the Luxembourg Palace) with the progress of individual heroism: on the naval side were the graven adventures of Kyd the Pirate; and on the land side were those of the dauntless, and, we trust, inimitable Jerry Abershaw. The niches of the apartment were filled with bottles of rum, aniseed, and Deady's proof gin; and, "not to speak it profanely," many a pair of ruby lips smacked with ecstacy, as they condescended (a modish phrase) to taste their contents, in rapid succession, and quick time!

21

In the potatoe-garden, au derriere, a beautiful awning was erected 2 this was illuminated at each corner with parish lamps, and covered with two pair of dowlas sheets, to shield the" votaries of pleasure from the chilling dews of the evening. When the company were seated, Dr. Bosky, a local Pedagogue (who officiated as the arbiter pro tempore, as he was the only visitor who had gone through the vulgar drudgery of learning

learning to read), proposed to recite an Ode to his Tom Cat, which he had written in Sapphic measure, for the particular amusement of the Ladies. As the proposition passed nem. con. the rusty Author hemmed, stroked his cravat with symptoms of l'amour propre, and thus pompously began:

Who drives the mice away from Cheshire cheeses?
Who tells that rain will come whene'er he sneezes ?
Who claws the table's legs whene'er he pleases?

My Pussy!

Who, like a Lord, in Pleasure's rosy bower,
Will doze away full many an idle hour?
Who licks up all the cream, like men in power ?

My Pussy!

Who creeps, by night, along the Bridewell walls,
And perks, and purs, when Grimalkina squalls,
And fears no censure while, he caterwauls?

Who claims sweet modesty's unsullied meed?
When stern necessity impels the need,
Who scratches, decently, to hide the deed?

My Pussy!

My Pussy!

We lost the remaining stanzas of this matchless and delectable ode, because the covesse (hostess) threw a killing frown towards the ardent Bard, as significant that her delicacy had been invaded by the figurative tenour of the last verse; on which he prudently abandoned the recitation, and slunk, blushing, into the ranks of the beau monde !

Joe the Sandman now entertained the ladies with a comic imitation of the courtship of two cats in a gutter, in the manner of the celebrated Mr. Lath, the Comedian; after which Mr. O'Blarney vociferated the famous old Irish ballad of

"As my true-love and I went huffing together."

But