V.

And Warwickshire of Somerville can boast,
The Poet of the Chase, she cannot spare
(Though Avon's Bard is in himself a host)
Her claim to names enroll'd in annals fair

Of fame, since days of Shakspeare somewhat rare. 'Tis said, the county has become effete *

With bringing forth Creation's richest heir : Yet Warton offered up, as was most meet, Incense of praise to Dugdale in a sonnet sweet.

VI.

They were congenial spirits, and they drunk
Deep from the fount of antiquarian lore;
Their works monastic piles in ruin sunk
To grandeur architectural restore,
And renovate their Norman fame of yore.
In Warton's verse fair dames and barons bold,
And Gothic pageants, pass the mind before :
Vast local treasures Dugdale's tomes unfold
That might have been for aye buried in records old.

VII.

The spirit of the Nimrod-Bard survives

Not in heroic verse, but toast or song: The sport, now heighten'd into racing, gives

Strength to the weak, and glory to the strong.

* There is a caustic saying of Dr. Parr's on record, that " Warwickshire produced Shakspeare, and became effete."

Re-echoing woods the joyous cry prolong

Of "forward!" swift as breeze o'er waving corn,

Hounds sweep unequall'd in their pace along

Large fields from Radbourne Gorse *, and Boxall's + horn

Can make the heart rejoice on dull November's morn.

VIII.

Where is the sage oracular that dwelt

Whilome at Hatton, cloud-compelling Parr?
Who, boldly speaking what he strongly felt,
With Tories waged interminable war.
Though paled by Porson's light, he was a star
Of magnitude, and gloried in a name

Through realms of knowledge celebrated far;
And many, by the splendour of his fame
Attracted, to the great high-priest of learning came.

IX.

His feasts were sumptuous on his natal day;
His viands excellent, and old his wine :
On the smooth sideboard shone in bright array
His plate, magnificent for a Divine;
Fair as the yet unmelted flagons shine

* A famous covert in Warwickshire.

+ Who knows not Bill Boxall, the celebrated huntsman to the Warwickshire hounds?

In banquet-rooms of high-born thanes: he loved
To welcome in his guests, and make them dine.
Then went the grace-cup round; the cloth removed,
Toasts follow'd,-some too strong for gentler spirits
proved.

X.

Rich as the colours of the rainbow shone

His eloquent discourse, whate'er the theme; Whether he spoke of mighty statesmen gone, Their names like bubbles, buoyant on Time's stream—Glittering, though evanescent as a dream;

Or as his guests with old Falernian warm'd,

Flash'd with the goblet round wit's frequent beam : Sunny old man! his imagery charm'd

Ripe scholars, wise self-love his satire oft alarm'd.

XI.

Kenilworth Castle! history relates

Its pristine grandeur, and tradition tells
A tale of more than even romance creates,
Though fancy aids the work with magic spells,
Of pomp, that splendours of the East excels.
What deities salute the Virgin Queen * ?

Each sea-god who in coral cavern dwells!

Triton and Proteus strange, in vesture green

Diana with her nymphs-the gods of Greece are seen!

* See Laneham's Letter describing the magnificent pageants presented before Queen Elizabeth at Kenilworth Castle in 1575; also Gascoigne's Princely Pleasures.

Q

XII.

And Glory, with her glittering wings extended,
Mantles at sunset these time-hallowed towers:
Here features beautiful with stern are blended;
Evergreen ivy arches rough imbowers,

And crumbling walls are crown'd with gay wild flowers

As if in mockery of their former state;

Luxuriantly green through frequent showers Thickens the couch-grass near the castle-gate, Where gaudy vassals stood their lord's approach to wait.

XIII,

And are the ensigns of thy grandeur gone,
("Thus unlamented pass the proud away!")
Proud Leicester-thou aspirant to the throne,
Homaging with thy chivalrous array
The Gloriana of our Spenser's lay?

Thou art immortalised, but not thy lot

To have the guerdon of Fame's purest ray

By genius pour'd around thy name by Scott;

The portrait is too true to life-'twere best to be forgot!

NOTES TO "WARWICKSHIRE."

I would have ventured a few stanzas in praise of Warwick Castle, that rivals "the proud keep of Windsor, rising in the majesty of proportion, and girt with the double belt of its kindred and coeval towers," were I not aware that no description of mine could do it adequate justice. I have selected a stanza or two from an unpublished Poem, "Lines on Warwick Castle," that has been much admired. author is, I believe, a physician of eminence at Edinburgh.

"Discern ye not the mighty master's power
In yon devoted saint's uplifted eye ?*
That clouds the brow and bids already lower

O'er the first Charles † the shades of sorrow nigh?
That now on furrowed front of Rembrandt gleams;
Now breathes the rose of life and beauty there,

In the soft eye of Henrietta ‡ dreams,

And fills with fire the glance of Gondomar ? §

"Here, to Salvator's solemn pencil true,

Huge oaks swing rudely in the mountain blast;
Here grave Poussin on gloomy canvas threw

The lights that steal from clouds of tempest past.
And see from Canaletti's glassy wave,

Like eastern mosques, patrician Venice rise !
Or marble moles that rippling waters lave,

Where Claude's warm sunsets tinge Italian skies.

The