THE CHARITY BALL.

WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and father,

If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather, And the saint patronizes her 'charity ball!

What matters--a heart which, though faulty, was feeling,

ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.
JANUARY 22, 1821.

THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing-except thirty-three.

MARTIAL, LIB. I., EPIG. I.
'Hic est, quem legis, ille, quem requiris,
Tota notus in orbe Martialis,' &c.

HE unto whom thou art so partial,
Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,
Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving ;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it-
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.

BOWLES AND CAMPBELL.
To the tune of 'Why, how now, saucy jade?
WHY, how now, saucy Tom?
If you thus must ramble,
I will publish some

Remarks on Mister Campbell.

ANSWER.

WHY, how now, Billy Bowles?
Sure the priest is maudlin! [souls!
(To the public) How can you, d--n your
Listen to his twaddling?

EPIGRAMS.

OH Castlereagh! thou art a patriot now; Cato died for his country, so didst thou: He perish'd rather than see Rome enslaved, Be driven to excesses which once could appal-Thou cutt'st thy throat that Britain may be That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing, As the saint keeps her charity back for the ball!

saved!

So Castlereagh has cut his throat !-The worst
Of this is, that his own was not the first.

So He has cut his throat at last!-He! Who?
The man who cut his country's long ago.

EPITAPH.

POSTERITY will ne'er survey

A nobler grave than this:
Here lie the bones of Castlereagh :
Stop, traveller

JOHN KEATS.
WHO kill'd John Keats?
'I,' says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
'Twas one of my feats."
Who shot the arrow?

'The poet-priest Milman
(So ready to kill man),
'Or Southey, or Barrow.'

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,

If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves
yield their prey?

Each brute hath its nature; a king's is to reign-
To reign! in that word see, ye ages, com-
prised

The cause of the curses all annals contain,
From Cæsar the dreaded to George the de-
spised!

claim

Wear, Fingal, thy trapping! O'Connell, pro-
[country convince
His accomplishments! His!!! and thy
Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,
And that 'Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young
prince !'

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall

The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs ?
Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with
hymns?

Ay ! Build him a dwelling !' let each give his
mite!
[arisen!
Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite-
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and
prison !

Spread-spread, for Vitellius, the royal repast,
Till the gluttonous despot be stuffd to the
gorge!

[last
And the roar of his drunkards proclaim him at
The fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd
'George !'

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they
groan !

Till they groan like thy people, through ages
[throne,

of woe!

If she did-let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd,

Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring[flush'd, See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full Still warming its folds in the breast of a king!

low

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how
[till
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny,
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still!
My voice, though but humble, was raised for
thy right,

This hand, though but feeble, would arm in thy
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free,
fight,
[still for thee!

And this heart, though outworn, had a throb

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not
my land,
[thy sons,

I have known noble hearts and great souls in
And I wept with the world, o'er the patriot band
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as

And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves! Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of today[slaves Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay. Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore, Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled; [core There was something so warm and sublime in the Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead.

sore,

Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's
Like their blood which has flow'd and which Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
yet has to flow.
My contempt for a nation so servile, though
[upon power,
Which though trod like the worm will not turn
'Tis the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore!
September, 1821.

But let not his name be thine idol alone-
On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears!
Thine own Castlereagh let him still be thine
own!
[jeers!

A wretch never named but with curses and STANZAS WRITTEN ON THE ROAD

Till now, when the isle which should blush for
his birth,
[soil,
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her
Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from
her earth,
[smile.
And for murder repays him with shouts and a

BETWEEN FLORENCE AND PISA. OH, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory; And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? [sprinkled. but as a dead flower with May-dew beThen away with all such from the head that is hoary! [glory! What care I for the wreaths that can only give

Without one single ray of her genius, without
The fancy, the manhood, the fire of her race-Tis
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in
doubt

If she ever gave birth to a being so base.

THE subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird for a Selection

Hebrew Melodies.