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"Difficile est proprie communia dicere."-HOR. “Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more Cakes and Ale ?-Yes, by Saint Anne; and Ginger shall be hot i the mouth, too!”-SHAKSPEARE, Twelfth Night, or, What You Will.
And representative of all the race,
Last, -yours has lately been a common case,-
With all the Lakers, in and out of place ?
nest of tuneful persons, to my eye Like “four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye;
II. “Which pye being open'd, they began to sing."
(This old song and new simile hold good), “À dainty dish to set before the King,"
Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;
But like a hawk encumber'd with his hood,
At being disappointed in your wish
And be the only Blackbird in the dish; And then you overstrain yourself, or so,
And tumble downward, like the flying fish, Gasping on deck, because you soar too high, Boh, And fall, for lack of moisture, quite a-dry, Bob!
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), Has given a sample from the vasty version
Of his new system to perplex the sages; 'Tis poetry--at least by his assertion,
And may appear so when the dog-star rages
From better company, have kept your own
Of one another's minds, at last have grown To deem as a most logical conclusion,
That poesy has wreaths for you alone :
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice,
Since gold alone should not have been its price. You have your salary; was't for that you wrought ?
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise.
Perhaps some virtuous blushes ;-let them go-
I envy neither fruit nor boughs,
Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow :
Contend not with you on the winged steed,
The fame you envy, and the skill you need;
In giving to his brethren their full meel Of merit; and complaint of present days Is not the certain path to future praise.
(Who does not often claim the bright reversion) Has generally, no great crop to spare it, he
Being only injured by his own assertion;
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion,
If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appeala to the Avenger, Time,
And makes the word “Miltonic" mean sublime," He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once more
Or be alive again-again all hoar
And heartless daughters—worn-and pale--and poor ;
Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,
Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore,
With just enough of talent, and no more,
Nor foes-all nations-condescend to smile,-
From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, That turns and turns to give the world a notion Of endless torments and perpetual motion.
And botching, patching, leaving still behind
States to be curb’d, and thoughts to be confined; Conspiracy or Congress to be made
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind
Emasculated to the marrow, It
Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit,
To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit,
For I will never feel them ?-Italy!
Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds,
Have voices-tongues to cry aloud for me.
In honest simple verse, this song to you.
'Tis that I still retain my “buff and blue;' My politics as yet are all to educate :
Apostacy's so fashionable, too,