State Secret. An Impromptu
The Morning Call
Sonnet
On the Rupture of the Thames' Tunnel
Anacreontic. "The Wisest Men are Fools in Wine."
Lines, written in Hornsey Wood
To Mary
Black Eyes and Blue
Epigram. Auri Sacra Fames
Sonnet. To Faith
On a Spirited Portrait, by E. Landaeer, Esq.
Sonnet. To Hope
Lines, written on the Sixth of September
Sonnet. To Charity
Hymn
Reflections of a Poet on going to a great Dinner
Sunday
A Night-Storm
On the Death of Nelson
The Blue-eyed Maid
Taking Orders. A Tale, founded on fact
The Gipsy's Home. A Glee
Sonnet. The Beggar
To ———
Song. "The Recal of the Hero."
To Eliza. Written in her Album
Elegy on the Death of A. Goldsmid, Esq.
Sonnet. On the Death of Mrs. Charlotte Smith
Mister Punch. A Hasty Sketch
Content
Epitaph. On Matilda
To ———. An Impromptu
The Steam-Boat
Sonnet To Lydia, on her Birth-day
To Sarah, while Singing
To Thaddeus
Youth and Age
Sent for the Album of the Rev. G——- C——-
Written under an elegant Drawing of a Dead Canary Bird
Lines suggested by the Death of the Princess Charlotte
The Presumptuous Fly
The Heroes of Waterloo
The Night-blowing Cereus
1827; or, the Poet's Last Poem
To the Reviewers

POEMS.

Tis sweet in boyhood's visionary mood,
When glowing Fancy, innocently gay,
Flings forth, like motes, her bright aërial brood,
To dance and shine in Hope's prolific ray;
'Tis sweet, unweeting how the flight of years
May darkling roll in trials and in tears,
To dress the future in what garb we list,
And shape the thousand joys that never may exist.
But he, sad wight! of all that feverish train,
Fool'd by those phantoms of the wizard brain,
Most wildly dotes, whom young ambition stings
To trust his weight upon poetic wings;
He, downward looking in his airy ride,
Beholds Elysium bloom on every side;
Unearthly bliss each thrilling nerve attunes,
And thus the dreamer with himself communes.
Yes! Earth shall witness, 'ere my star be set,
That partial nature mark'd me for her pet;
That Phoebus doom'd me, kind indulgent sire!
To mount his car, and set the world on fire.
Fame's steep ascent by easy flights to win,
With a neat pocket volume I'll begin;
And dirge, and sonnet, ode, and epigram,
Shall show mankind how versatile I am.
The buskin'd Muse shall next my pen descry:
The boxes from their inmost rows shall sigh;
The pit shall weep, the galleries deplore
Such moving woes as ne'er were heard before:
Enough—I'll leave them in their soft hysterics,
Mount, in a brighter blaze, and dazzle with Homerics.

Then, while my name runs ringing through Reviews,
And maids, wives, widows, smitten with my Muse,
Assail me with Platonic billet-doux.
From this suburban attic I'll dismount,
With Coutts or Barclays open an account;
Ranged in my mirror, cards, with burnish'd ends,
Shall show the whole nobility my friends;
That happy host with whom I choose to dine,
Shall make set-parties, give his-choicest wine;
And age and infancy shall gape to see
The lucky bard, and whisper "That is he!"

Poor youth! he print—and wakes, to sleep no more—
The world goes on, indifferent, as before;
And the first notice of his metric skill
Comes in the likeness of—his printer's bill;
To pen soft notes no fair enthusiast stirs,
Except his laundress—and who values her's?
None but herself: for though the bard may burn
Her note, she still expects one in return.
The luckless maiden, all unblest shall sigh;
His pocket tome hath drawn his pockets dry.
His tragedy expires in peals of laughter;
And that soul-thrilling wish—to live hereafter—
Gives way to one as hopeless quite, I fear,
And far more needful—how to live while here.
Where are ye now, divine illusions all;
Cheques, dinners, wines, admirers great and small!
Changed to two followers, terrible to see,
Who dog his walks, and whisper "That is he!"

Rhymesters attend! nor scorn & friendly hint,
Restrain your cacoëths fierce to print.
But hark, my printer's devil's at the door,
My leisure cannot yield one moment more:
Nor matters it, advice can ne'er restrain
Madman or poet from his bent:—'tis vain
To strive to point out colours to the blind,
Or set men seeking what they will not find.

MATURE REFLECTIONS.

O Love! divinest dream of youth,
  Thy day of ecstacy is o'er,
My bosom, touch'd by time and truth,
  Thrills at thy dear deceits no more.

Nor thou, Ambition! e'er again,
  With splendour dazzling to betray,
And aspirations fierce and vain,
  Shall tempt my steps—away! away!

Alas! by stern Experience cleft,
  When life's romance is turn'd to sport;
If man hath consolation left
  On this side death—'tis good old port.

And thou, Advice! who glum and chill,
  Do'st the third bottle still gainsay;
Smile, and partake it, if you will,
  But if you wont—away! away!

THE GRAVE OF DIBDIN.

Lives there who, with unhallow'd hand, would tear,
One leaf from that immortal wreath which shades
The Hero's living brow, or decks his urn?
Breathes there who does not triumph in the thought
That "Nelson's language is his mother tongue,"
And that St. Vincent's country is his own?
Oh! these bright guerdons of renown are won
By means most palpable to sense and sight;
By days of peril and by nights of toil;
By Valour's long probation, closed at last
In Victory's arms—consummated and seal'd
In deathless Glory and immortal Fame.

Musing I stand upon his lowly grave,
Who, though he fought no battle—though he pour'd
No hostile thunders on his country's foes,
Achieved for Britain triumphs, less array'd
"In pomp and circumstance," nor visible
To vulgar gaze—the triumphs of the Mind.
He nursed the elements of courage—he
Supplied the aliment that feeds and guides
The daring spirit to its high emprise—
A nation's moral energies, by him
Directed, found a nobler end and aim.
He gave that high discriminating tone
That marks the Brave from mercenary tools—
Features that separate a British Crew
From hireling bravoes, and from pirate hordes.
And yet no marble marks the spot where lies
The dust of DIBDIN;—no inscription speaks
A Nation's gratitude—a Bard's desert.

The youthful Sailor on his midnight watch,
Fixing his gaze upon the tranquil moon,
Felt his heart soften as the thoughts of home
Rush'd on his faithful memory;—then it was
In language meet, and in appropriate strains—
Strains which thy lyre had taught him—he pour'd forth
The feelings of his soul, and all was calm.

Thy Spirit still presides in that carouse,
When to "the Far away" the toast is given,
And "absent Wives and Sweethearts" claim their right,
With Woman's constancy thy songs are rife;
And this pure creed still teaches Man t' endure
Privations, danger, and each form of death.

When not a breath responded to the call,