Did at once my vessel fill.

"Did they? Jesus,

How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racke Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs-
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth-and damns our souls
"Here's a stanza

On Braganza

Help!"-" a couplet?"-" No, a cup Of warm water-"

"What's the matter?" "Zounds! my liver's coming up: I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back
Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on-as I do now.
Laugh at all things,

Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,
Let's have laughing-

Who the devil cares for more ?

Some good wine! and who would lack 11, Even on board the Lisbon Packet?

Falmouth Roads, June 30th, 1809

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN

"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
To trace the birth and nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim:
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING REPLY:

"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,

love but thee, I love but one."

Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse

"OH! banish care "-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought-but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst bold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of any thing but love.

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'Twould suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled
As fond and faultless as her child;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain,
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.

But let this pass-I'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,—

[ hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's " May is in the sere,"

thou hear st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with he sablest of the times

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.

DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS.

WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent,)

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

"Then thus to form Apollo's crown.” A crown! why, twist it how you will, Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. When next you visit Delphi's town,

Inquire among your fellow-lodgers, They'll tell you Phœbus gave his crown, Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

"Let every other bring his own." When coals to Newcastle are carried, And owls sent to Athens as wonders, From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COM-
PANY WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT
IN HORSEMONGER-LANE JAIL, MAY 19, 1813.
Oн you, who in all names can tickle the town,
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,-
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post
Bag;

But now to my letter-to yours 'tis an answer-
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some
codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote,
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE.

WHAT say I?"-not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom,-so here goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, And Southey's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep; That "Felo de se," who, half drunk with his malmsey,

Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE.

[Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two nundred and lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented la Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigor and imagination, iz for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and conden sation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson. There are however, some of the stanzas of "The Devil's Drive" well word pro serving.]-Moore.

THE Devil return'd to hell by two,

And he staid at home till five;

When he dined on some homicides done in ragout,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew,
And bethought himself what next to do,
"And," quoth he, "I'll take a drive,

I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night.
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I'll see how my favorites thrive.

"And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer then"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

I should mount in a wagon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.

But these will be furnish'd again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,

And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.

"I have a state-coach at Carlton House, A chariot in Seymour Place;

But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends
By driving my favorite pace:

And they handle their reins with such a grace.
I have something for both at the end of their race.

"So now for the earth to take my chance."
Then up to the earth sprung he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp'd across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hover'd a moment upon his way

To look upon Leipsic plain;
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

And he gazed with delight from its growing height
That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well:

For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,

That it blushed like the waves of hell! Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he; "Methinks they have here little need of me!"

brisker,

But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;

And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey

-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the

Jersey,

Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted With majesty's presence as those she invited.

June, 1814.

Was the sound of a widow sighing: And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, Which horror froze in the blue eye clear Of a maid by her lover lying

As round her fell her long fair hair;

And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied afr
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,
With his hollow cheek, and eyes half shut.

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk-a man of some size-
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,
Because the Catholics would not rise,

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard-which set Satan himself a staring-
A certain chief justice say something like swearing.
And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, "I
must go,

For I find we have much better manners below.
If thus he harangues when he passes my border,
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."

December, 1813.

WINDSOR POETICS.

Les compoux ou the occasion of His Royal Highness the Prince Regent teing seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles 1. in the royal vault at Windsor.

FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies; Between them stands another sceptered thingIt moves, it reigns-in all but name, a king:

But thou forsooth must be a king
And don the purple vest,
As if that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that fated garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star-the string-the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away?

Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the great;
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?
Yes-one-the first-the last-the best-
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeath'd the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one.
April, 1814

TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB.

AND say'st thou that I have not felt,
Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me.
Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt

On one unbroken dream of thee?
But love like ours must never be,

And I will learn to prize thee less; As thou hast fled, so let me flee,

And change the heart thou mayest not bless

They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd,
Of late, another's charms to woo,
Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd
That thou wert banish'd from my view.
Clara! this struggle-to undo

What thou hast done too well, for me This mask before the babbling crewThis treachery-was truth to thee.

I have not wept while thou wert gone,
Nor worn one look of sullen wo;
But sought, in many, all that one
(Ah! need I name her?) could bestow.