A plenty horn of jewels. And here I (Who wish to give the devil her due) declare Against that ugly piece of calumny, Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly. LXXXIV. Still "Bellanaine!" they shouted, while we glide 'Slant to a light Ionic portico, The city's delicacy, and the pride Of our Imperial Basilic; a row Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show All down the steps; and, as we enter❜d, lo! LXXXV. 'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl. LXXXVI. Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor Of moth's down, to make soft the royal beds, The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads; Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other; Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting breeds, Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother. LXXXVII. A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back, Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels, And close into her face, with rhyming clack, Began a Prothalamion;—she reels, She falls, she faints! while laughter peals 66 Over her woman's weakness. 'Where !" cried I, "Where is his Majesty?" No person feels Inclined to answer; wherefore instantly I plunged into the crowd to find him or to die. LXXXVIII. Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran So far so well, For we have proved the Mago never fell The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis immense ! * * * (No more was written.) * MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ODE TO APOLLO. I. Feb. 1815. In thy western halls of gold When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires. II. Here Homer with his nervous arms Strikes the twanging harp of war, And even the western splendour warms, While the trumpets sound afar : But, what creates the most intense surprise, His soul looks out through renovated eyes. III. Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre: The soul delighted on each accent dwells,Enraptured dwells,—not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre. IV. 'Tis awful silence then again; Expectant stand the spheres; Nor move, till ends the lofty strain, Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace. V. Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand, And quickly forward spring The Passions- -a terrific band And each vibrates the string That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's lips pour forth the inspiring words. VI. A silver trumpet Spenser blows, And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity. |