ROBERT TREAT PAINE

FROM

THE RULING PASSION

Life is a print-shop, where the eye may trace
A different outline mark'd in every face:
From chiefs who laurels reap in fields of blood,
Down to the hind who tills those fields for food;
From the lorn nymph in cloister'd abbey pent,
Whose friars teach to love and to repent,
To the young captive in the HARAM's bower,
Blest for a night, and empress of an hour;
From ink's retailers perch'd in garret high,
Cobweb'd around with many a mouldy lie,
Down to the pauper's brat who, luckless wight,
Deep in the cellar first receiv'd the light;
All, all impell'd, as various passions move,
To write, to starve, to conquer, or to love!
All join to shift life's versicolor'd scenes,
Priests, poets, fiddlers, courtesans, and queens.
And be it pride or dress or wealth or fame,
The acting principle is ne'er the same;
Each takes a different rout, o'er hill or vale,
The tangled forest or the greensward dale.

But they who chiefly crowd the field are those
Who live by fashion-CONSTABLES and BEAUS.
The first, I ween, are men of high report,
The LAW's staff-officers, and known at court.
The last, sweet elves, whose rival graces vie
To wield the snuff-box or enact a sigh,
To Fashion's gossamer their lives devote,
The frize, the cane, the cravat, and the coat;
In taste unpolish'd, yet in ton precise,
They sleep at theatres and wake at dice,
While, like the pilgrim's scrip or soldier's pack,
They carry all their fortune on their back.

From FOPS we turn to PEDANTS-deep and dull,
Grave without sense, o'erflowing yet not full.
See the lank BOOK-WORM, pil'd with lumbering lore,
Wrinkled in Latin and in Greek fourscore,

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With toil incessant thumbs the ancient page,
Now blots a hero, now turns down a sage.
O'er learning's field with leaden eye he strays,
Mid busts of fame and monuments of praise;
With Gothic foot he treads on flowers of taste,
Yet stoops to pick the pebbles from the waste.
Profound in trifles, he can tell how short
Were Æsop's legs, how large was TULLY's wart;
And scal'd by GUNTER, marks with joy absurd
The cut of HOMER'S cloak and EUCLID'S beard.
Thus through the weary watch of sleepless night
This learned ploughman plods in piteous plight;
Till the dim taper takes French leave to doze,
And the fat folio tumbles on his toes.

1797.

RICHARD HENRY WILDE

STANZAS

My life is like the summer rose

That opens to the morning sky,

But ere the shades of evening close

Is scattered on the ground-to die.

Yet on the rose's humble bed

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50

1797.

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All trace will vanish from the sand.
Yet, as if grieving to efface

All vestige of the human race,

On that lone shore loud moans the sea

But none, alas, shall mourn for me!

About 1815.

JOHN NEAL

FROM

THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA

A NIGHT-ATTACK BY CAVALRY

Observed ye the cloud on that mountain's dim green
So heavily hanging, as if it had been

The tent of the Thunderer, the chariot of one
Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun?

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'T is descending to earth, and some horsemen are now
In a line of dark mist coming down from its brow.
'T is a helmeted band; from the hills they descend
Like the monarchs of storm when the forest trees bend.
No scimitars swing as they gallop along,
No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong,
No trumpet is filled and no bugle is blown,

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No banners abroad on the wind are thrown,

No shoutings are heard and no cheerings are given,

No waving of red-flowing plumage to heaven,
No flashing of blades and no loosening of reins,

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No neighing of steeds and no tossing of manes,
No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing,
Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing;
But they speed like coursers whose hoofs are shod
With a silent shoe from the loosened sod. . . . .

Dark and chill is the sky, and the clouds gather round;
There's nought to be seen, yet there comes a low sound
As if something were near that would pass unobserved.
O, if 't is that band, may their right-arms be nerved!
Hark, a challenge is given! a rash charger neighs—
And a trumpet is blown-and lo, there 's a blaze-
And a clashing of sabres is heard, and a shout

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