English

PART II.

The sun sank down behind the sea,
The evening-star shone soon,
And o'er the eastern hill-top trees
Up rose the round red moon.

There sat a youthful Fisherman,
Upon a rock saThe,
The salt tears trickled down his face,
And fell into the sea.

Ere morning dawn he took his seat
To throw the baited hook:
But listless o'er the rock he leant

PART I.

Lord E USTACE lay on his dying bed,
His death was nigh at hand;
And he had sent for his brother dear,
From his home in a distant land.

" Brother, between us now, for years,
Have world-wide oceans rolled;
Yet my heart tells me thine is true;
And what can a dying brother do,
But turn to the boyhood's love he knew
So strong and pure of old?

" Motherless has my Mary been;

Thou faithful vassal to my wayward will.
Thou patient midwife to my labouring skill!
My pen and ink's choice cell! my paper's pillow!
Thou steady friend, e'en were thy master mellow!
My seat! — I visit not the proud St. Stephen;
St. Stephen knows not me — so we are even.
A seat, obtained not by a threat or bribe;
But tree, uninfluenced by an influenced tribe:
Thou'rt my inheritance — I boast no other;
My throne, unique! for thou hast not a brother.

Surrounded by my friends, secure from foes,

DEAR M ADAM ,
I your mercy crave
For my poor namesake John , your slave,
Behold him abject at your feet;
Now is your triumph most complete:
A helpless victim see he lies,
Half slain by your all-conquering eyes!
Those eyes which like the mid-day sun,
None can with safety look upon.

To you (oh! take it in good part)
He gave the maid-hood of his heart,
Untouched by any former love;
Sure some compassion this might move;
His heart, which ne'er before was sway'd,

Oft have shepherds enamoured, in pastoral lays,
Sweetly sung of the grove, grot, or fountain,
No scene that is rural, but loudly it's praise
They have echoed from mountain to mountain.
Some delighted have been with a meadow or vale,
But with these my taste never could tally;
The meadow is pleasant, enchanting the dale,
But a hill I prefer to a valley.

For prospect extended, and landscape most rare,

While artful dames and gay coquettes
Catch fops and fools in cobweb nets;
While giddy girls wed hoary swains,
And barter happiness for gains;
While misers, anxious to be great,
With fortunes take the wives they hate;
Your wiser plan has proved 'tis right
The heart should with the hand unite;
And those who would their joys improve,
Must build their hopes on mutual love.
Whoe'er attend to Reason's voice;
Will thus with prudence make their choice;
On this hinge hangs the chance in life,

AM ILK-WHITE Swan, in Aesop's time,
Had got the knack of making rhyme;
All other birds he did excel;
Wrote verses, — yes, — and wrote them well:
Praised was his genius, and his parts —
All wondered how he reached the arts:
Except some Geese, in neighbouring brook;
Yet even they admired his look,
And grudged each feather in his wing;
But, envious, hiss'd whene'er he'd sing!
His sonnets they denounced as satire ,
His lyric pleasantries, ill-nature!

One day these Geese most pertly squall'd,

A UGUSTUS , frowning, gave command,
And O VID left his native land;
From J ULIA , as an exile sent,
He long with barbarous Goths was pent.

So Fortune frown'd on me, and I was driven
From friends, from home, from Jane , and happy Devon!
And Jane sore grieved when from me torn away; —
I loved her sorrow, tho' I wish'd her — G AY !

A Lamb and a Lion — a Fox and an Ass,
Resemble Mankind, as it were in a glass;
Males are harmless as lambs 'till they're fourteen years old,
And 'till they are forty, as lions are bold;
As foxes they're cunning 'till three-score and ten,
Then, silly as asses, no longer are men.

A Dove and a Sparrow — a Parrot and Crow,
The life of a Woman most aptly will show;
Girls innocent doves are 'till fourteen years old,
And chirrup like sparrows, till forty are told;

Dame Doleful, as old stories say,
Foresaw th' events of every day,
And tho' to Satan no relation,
Dealt largely in prognostication:
Whatever accident befel,
She plainly could the cause foretell;
A hundred reasons she could show,
And finish with — " I told you so! "

One day her son (a waggish youth)
Put on the serious face of truth,
And feigning sorrow, to her ran —
He thus his wond'rous tale began:
" Oh mother! — mother! — What d'ye think?
" Letting old Dobbin out to drink,