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And when the musquet's steady aim
Is levell'd at the pet of fame,

The Muse shall check the impious crime,
And shield thee with a ream of rhyme ;-
But if 'tis doom'd, and fall thou must,
Since bards, like other men, are dust,
Upon the tomb where thou shalt sleep,
Phoebus and Mars alike shall weep;
And he that lov'd, but could not save,
Shall write "Hic jacet" o'er thy grave.

What wight is that, whose distant nose
Gives token loud of deep repose?
What! honest Harry on the ground!
I'faith thy sleep is wond'rous sound,
For one who looks, upon his waking,

To sleep" the sleep that knows not breaking.”
But rest thee, rest! thou merriest soul
That ever lov'd the circling bowl;
I look upon his empty cup,

And sudden tears uncall'd spring up;
Perchance, in this abode of pother,
Kind Harry may not drain another.
But still our Comrades at the Bell
Of Harry's prowess long shall tell;
And dignify with well-earn'd praise
The revelry of other days.
And then the merry tale will run
On many a wager lost and won,
On many a jest, and many a song,
And many a peal of laughter long,
That from our jovial circle broke
At Harry's toast or Harry's joke.
Again, at Fancy's touch restor❜d,
Our old sirloin shall grace the board ;
Again at Fancy's touch shall flow
The tap we drain'd an age ago.
And thou, the soul of fun, the life
Of noisy mirth and playful strife,
May'st sleep in honour's worm-worn bed
The dreamless slumber of the dead.
But oft shall one sad heart at least
Think on the smile, that never ceas'd
Its catching influence, till the earth
Clos'd o'er the lips that gave it birth.

I'll pour upon thy tranquil rest
The hallow'd bowl of Meux's best;
And recollect, with smile and sigh,
Thy "beer with E, and bier with I."*

Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see +
Two glorious Suns of Chancery?
The pride of Law appears the first,
And next, the pride of Moulsey Hurst.
Faithless and feelless, from the bar
Tim Quill is come to practise war:
Without a rival in the ring,

Brown Harry" peels" for Church and King.
Thus ever to your country's fights
Together go, ye kindred knights!
Congenial arts ye aye pursued;
Daylight" ye studied to exclude;
And both of old were known to Crib,
And both were very apt to fib.
Together go; no foe shall stand
The vengeance of our country's brand,
When on his ranks together spring
Cross-buttocks-and Cross-questioning.

Sir Jacob arming! what despair
Has snatch'd him from his elbow-chair?
And hurried from his good old wine
The bachelor of fifty-nine?

What mighty cause has torn him thus
Unwilling from " suburban rus,"

Bade him desert his one-horse chaise,
His old companions and " old ways;"
Give up his Baccalaurean tattle,
And quit the bottle-for the battle?
Has he forgot, in martial ardour,
His wig, his teapot, and his larder?
Has he forgot ungrateful Sub.-
Champagne, backgammon, and the club ?
Has he forgot his native earth,
His sofa, and his decent hearth? ́
Has he forgot his homely fare,

And her, the maid with yellow hair,

* Suum cuique :

"So that day I still hail with a smile and a sigh, For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I.

-CANNING.

"Edw. Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see three suns!

Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun."-SHAKSPEARE.

F

That dress'd the meat, and spread the board,
Laid fuel on the fire, and pour'd
In stream as sparkling as her eye,
From its green gaol the Burgundy?
That Hebe, in thy native town,
Looks from her lattic'd window down,
And, when the newsman paces by,
Runs, with a sharp and fearful cry,
And cheek all pale, and eye all wet,
To seek thy name in the Gazette.
What fate has bid her master roam
An exile from his cheerful home?
What! has his landlord turn'd him out?
Is he gone mad with love-or gout?
Has Death impos'd his finger bony
Upon his mistress-or his crony?
Have sober matrons ceas'd to praise
The lover of their youthful days?
Are belles less eager to command,
With wink and smile, his ready hand?
Fears he the sudden dissolution
Of club-house-or of constitution?
Has the last pipe of hock miscarried?
Has-I forget, last week he-married.

Thou too thy brilliant helm must don,
Etona's wild and wayward son,
Mad merry Charles.-While, beardless yet,
Thou look'st upon thy plume of jet,
Or smilest, as the clouds of night
Are drifted back by morning's light,
Thy boyish look, thy careless eyes,
Might wake the envy of the wise.

Six months have past, since thou didst rove
Unwilling through Etona's grove,
Trembling at many an ancient face
That met thee in that holy place;
To speak the plain and honest truth,
Thou wast no scholar in thy youth.

But now go forth-broke loose from school,
Kill and destroy by classic rule,

Or die in fight, to live in story,

As valiant Hector did before ye,

On! on! take forts and storm positions,

Break Frenchmen's heads-instead of Priscian's,

And seek in death and conflagration

A gradus to thy reputation.

Yet, when the war is loud and high,
Thine old mistakes will round thee fly;
And still, in spite of all thy care,
False quantities will haunt thee there;
For thou wilt make, amidst the throng,
Or Zwn short, or ×λɛ05 long.

Methinks I know that figure bold, And stalwart limbs of giant mould! "Tis he-I know his ruddy face,

My tried staunch friend, Sir Matthew Chase.
His snore is loud, his slumber deep,
Yet dreams are with him in his sleep,
And Fancy's visions oft recall
The merry Hunt and jovial Hall—
And oft replace before his sight
The bustle of to-morrow's fight.
In swift succession o'er his brain,
Come fields of corn, and fields of slain;
And as the varying image burns,
Blood and blood-horses smoke by turns;
The five-barr'd gate and muddy ditch,
Smolensko and "the spotted bitch,'
Parisian puppies-English dogs-
"Begar" and " damme,"-beef and frogs,
In strange unmeaning medley fly
Before poor Nimrod's wandering eye.
He speaks! what murmuring stifled sounds
Burst from his throat: " Why, madam! zounds!
"Who scar'd me with that Gorgon face?
"I thought I saw my Lady Chase!"

And thou too, Clavering-Humour's son!
Made up
of wisdom and of fun!
Medley of all that's dark and clear,

Of all that's foolish, all that's dear,
Tell me what brings thee here to die,
Thou prince of eccentricity?
Poor Arthur! in his childhood's day
He cared so little for his play,
And wore so grave and prim a look,
And cried so, when he miss'd his book,
That aunts were eager to presage
The glories of his riper age,
And fond mamma in him foresaw
The bulwark of the British law,

And Science from her lofty throne
Look'd down and mark'd him for her own.
Ah! why did flattery come at school
To tinge him with a shade of fool!
Alas! what clever plans were crost!
Alas! how wise a judge was lost!
Without a friend to check or guide,
He hurried into fashion's tide,
He aped each folly of the throng,
Was all by turns, and nothing long;
Through varying tastes and modes he flew,
Dress-boxing-racing-dice-Virtu,
Now looking blue in sentimentals,
Now looking red in regimentals,
Now impudent, and now demure,
Now blockhead-and now connoisseur,
Now smoking at " the Jolly Tar,"
Now talking Greek with Doctor Parr,
A friend by turns to saints and sinners,
Attending lectures, plays, and dinners,
The Commons' House, and Common Halls,
Chapels of Ease-and Tattersall's;
Skilful in fencing, and in fist,
Blood-critic-jockey-methodist ;
Causeless alike in joy or sorrow,
Tory to-day, and whig to-morrow,
All habits and all shapes he wore,

And lov'd, and laugh'd, and pray'd, and swore :
And now some instantaneous freak,
Some peevish whim, or jealous pique
Has made the battle's iron show'r
The hobby of the present hour,
And bade him seek, in steel and lead,
An opium for a rambling head.
A cannon ball will prove a pill
To lull what nothing else can still;
And I, that prophecy his doom,
Will give him all I can--a tomb,
And-o'er a pint of half and half,
Compose poor Arthur's epitaph:-
"Here, join'd in death, th' observer sees
"Plato and Alcibiades ;-

"A mixture of the grave and funny,
"A famous dish of Salmagundi.”

Allan M'Gregor! from afar
I see him 'midst the ranks of war,

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