"Thy duty to thy father done,

Go forth-and be thy country's son."
Heav'ns! how his bosom burn'd to dare
The grim delight of manhood's war,
And brandish in no mimic field
His beaming lance and osier shield:
How his young bosom long'd to claim
In war's wild tumult manhood's name,
And write it, 'midst the battle's foam,
In the best blood of trembling Rome!

Such was the hope, the barbarous joy, That nerv'd to arms the German boy; A flame as ardent, more refin'd, Shall brightly glow in Julio's mind; But yet I'd rather see thee smile Grimly on war's embattled file, I'd rather see thee wield in strife The German butcher's reckless knife, Thinking thy claims to manhood grow From each pale corse that bleeds below;— I'd rather view thee thus, than see, A modern blockhead rise in thee.

Is it a study for a Peer

To breathe soft vows in lady's ear,
To choose a coat—or leap a gate,
To win an heiress-or a plate?

Far nobler studies shall be thine-
So Friendship and the Muse divine:
It shall be your's, in danger's hour,
To guide the helm of British power,
And 'midst thy country's laurell'd crown
To mix a garland all thine own.

Julio, from this auspicious day, New honours gild thine onward way; In thee Posterity shall view

A heart to faith and feeling true,

And Fame her choicest wreaths shall blend, For Virtue's, and the poor man's friend.

TO JULIA,

PREPARING FOR HER FIRST SEASON IN TOWN.

JULIA, while London's fancied bliss
Bids you despise a life like this,

While and its joys you leave,
For hopes, that flatter to deceive,
You will not scornfully refuse,

(Though dull the theme, and weak the Muse)

To look upon my line, and hear
What Friendship sends to Beauty's ear.

Four miles from Town, a neat abode
O'erlooks a rose-bush, and a road;
A paling, clean'd with constant care,
Surrounds ten yards of neat parterre,
Where dusty ivy strives to crawl
Five inches up the whiten'd wall.
The open window, thickly set
With myrtle, and with mignionette,
Behind whose cultivated row

A brace of globes peeps out for show,
The avenue the burnish'd plate,
That decks the would-be rustic gate,
Denote the fane where Fashion dwells,
"Lyce's Academy for Belles."

"Twas here, in earlier, happier days,
Retired from Pleasure's weary maze,
You found, unknown to care or pain,
The peace you will not find again.
Here Friendships, far too fond to last,
A bright, but fleeting, radiance cast,
On every sport that Mirth devised,
And every scene that Childhood prized,
And every bliss, that bids you yet
Recall those moments with regret.

Those friends have mingled in the strife
That fills the busy scene of life,
And Pride and Folly-Cares and Fears,
Look dark upon their future years :
But by their wrecks may Julia learn,
Whither her fragile bark to turn;
And, o'er the troubled sea of fate,
Avoid the rocks they found too late.

You know Camilla-o'er the plain She guides the fiery hunter's rein; First in the chase she sounds the horn, Trampling to earth the farmer's corn, That hardly deign'd to bend its head, Beneath her namesake's lighter tread. With Bob the Squire, her polish'd lover, She wields the gun, or beats the cover; And then her steed!-why! every clown Tells how she rubs Smolensko down, And combs the mane, and cleans the hoof, While wondering hostlers stand aloof.

At night, before the Christmas fire She plays backgammon with the Squire ; Shares in his laugh, and in his liquor, Mimics her father and the Vicar; Swears at the grooms-without a blush Dips in her ale the captured brush, Until- -her father duly tired— The parson's wig as duly fired The dogs all still the Squire asleep, And dreaming of his usual leap,She leaves the dregs of white and red, And lounges languidly to bed; And still in nightly visions born, She gallops o'er the rustic's corn;

Still wields the lash still shakes the box, Dreaming of" sixes" and the fox.

And this is bliss-the story runs, Camilla never wept-save once; Yes! once indeed Camilla cried

'Twas when her dear Blue-stockings died.

Pretty Cardelia thinks she's ill
She seeks her med'cine at Quadrille ;
With hope, and fear, and envy sick,
She gazes on the dubious trick,
As if Eternity were laid

Upon a diamond, or a spade.
And I have seen a transient pique
Wake, o'er that soft and girlish cheek,
A chilly and a feverish hue,

Blighting the soil where Beauty grew,
And bidding Hate and Malice rove
In eyes, that ought to beam with love.

Turn we to Fannia-she was fair,
As the soft fleeting forms of air,
Shap'd by the fancy,-fitting theme
For youthful bard's enamour'd dream.
The neck, on whose transparent glow
The auburn ringlets sweetly flow,
The eye that swims in liquid fire,
The brow that frowns in playful ire ;-
All these, when Fannia's early youth
Look'd lovely in it's native truth,
Diffus'd a bright, unconscious grace,
Almost divine, o'er form and face.

Her lip has lost it's fragrant dew,
Her cheek has lost it's rosy hue,
Her eye the glad enlivening rays,
That glittered there in happier days,
Her heart the ignorance of woe
Which Fashion's votaries may not know.

The city's smoke the noxious air,-
The constant crowd,-the torch's glare-
The morning sleep,-the noonday call,
The late repast-the midnight ball,
Bid Faith and Beauty die, and taint
Her heart with fraud, her face with paint.

And what the boon, the prize enjoy'd,
For fame defac'd, and peace destroy'd?
Why ask we this? With conscious grace
She criticises silk and lace;

Queen of the modes, she reigns alike
O'er sarcenet, bobbin, net, vandyke,
O'er rouge and ribbons, combs and curls,
Perfumes and patches, pins and pearls ;
Feelings and faintings, songs and sighs,
Small-talk and scandal, love and lies.

Circled by beaux behold her sit,
While Dandies tremble at her wit;
The Captain hates-" a woman's gab;"
"A devil!" cries the shy Cantab;
The young Etonian strives to fly
The glance of her sarcastic eye,

For well he knows she looks him o'er,

To stamp him "buck," or dub him "bore."

Not these the thoughts that could perplex The fancies of our fickle sex,

When England's favourite, good Queen Bess,
Was Queen alike o'er war and dress.

Then Ladies gay play'd chesse-and ballads,
And learnt to dress their hair, and salads;
Sweets-and sweet looks were studied then,
And both were pleasing to the men;
For cookery was allied to taste,

And girls were taught to blush,—and baste.
Dishes were bright and so were eyes,
And lords made love, and ladies, pies.

Then Valour won the wavering field,
By dint of hauberk, and of shield;
And Beauty won the wavering heart,
By dint of pickle, and of tart.
The minuet was the favourite dance,
Girls lov'd the needle-boys the lance;
And Cupid took his constant post
At dinner, by the boil'd and roast,
Or secretly was wont to lurk,
In tournament, or needle-work.
Oh! 'twas a reign of all delights,
Of hot Sir-loins, and hot Sir knights
Feasting and fighting, hand in hand,
Fattened, and glorified the land;
And noble chiefs had noble cheer,
And knights grew strong upon strong beer;
Honour and oxen both were nourish'd,
And Chivalry—and Pudding flourish'd.

I'd rather see that magic face,
That look of love, that form of grace,
Circled by whalebone, and by ruffs,
Intent on puddings, and on puffs;
I'd rather view thee thus, than see
"A Fashionable" rise in thee.
If Life is dark, 'tis not for you,
(If partial Friendship's voice is true)