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Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair

My Delia bent deliciously to grieve,
I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair,

And drew the fatal scissors from my sleeve;
And would that at that instant o'er my thread

The shears of Atropos had opened then, And, when I reft the lock from Delia's head,

Had cut me sudden from the sons of men ! She heard the scissors that fair lock divide ;

And, whilst my heart with transport panted big, She cast a fury frown on me, and cried,

“You stupid Puppy,-you have spoiled my wig !”

EPISTLE TO ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. WELL, Heaven be thanked ! friend Allan, here I am, Once more to that dear dwelling-place returned Where I have passed the whole mid stage of life, Not idly, certes ; not unworthily, — So let me hope : where Time upon my head Hath laid his frore and monitory hand ; And when this poor frail earthly tabernacle Shall be dissolved,-it matters not how soon Or late, in God's good time,- where I would fain Be gathered to my children, earth to earth.

Needless it were to say how willingly I bade the huge metropolis farewell, Its din, and dust, and dirt, and smoke, and smut, Thames water, paviour's ground, and London sky; Weary of hurried days and restless nights, Watchmen, whose office is to murder sleep When sleep might else have weighed one's eyelids down, Rattle of carriages, and roll of carts, And tramp of iron hoofs ; and worse than all (Confusion being worse confounded then With coachmen's quarrels and with footmen's shouts) My next-door neighbours, in a street not yet Macadamized, (me miserable !) at home; For then had we from midnight until morn House-quakes, street-thunders, and door-batteries. O Government! in thy wisdom and thy want, Tax knockers;-in compassion to the sick, And those whose sober habits are not yet Inverted, topsy-turvying night and day, Tax them more heavily than thou hast charged Armorial bearings and bepowdered pates.

And thou, O Michael, ever to be praised,
Angelic among Taylors, for thy laws
Antisuliginous, extend those laws
Till every chimney its own smoke consume,
And give thenceforth thy dinners unlampooned.
Escaping from all this, the very whirl
Of mail-coach wheels bound outward from Lad-lane
Was peace and quietness. Three hundred miles
Of homeward way seemed to the body rest,
And to the mind repose.

Donnel did not hate
More perfectly that city. Not for all
Its social, all its intellectual joys,-
Which having touched, I may not condescend
To name aught else the Demon of the place
Might for his lure hold forth,—not even for these
Would I forego gardens and green-field walks,
And hedge-row trees, and stiles, and shady lanes,
And orchards, were such ordinary scenes
Alone to me accessible as those
Wherein I learnt in infancy to love
The sights and sounds of nature;—wholesome sights
Gladdening the eye that they refresh ; and sounds
Which, when from life and happiness they spring,
Bear with them to the yet unhardened heart
A sense that thrills its chords of sympathy;
Or, when proceeding from insensate things,
Give to tranquillity a voice wherewith
To woo the ear and win the soul attuned.-
Oh not for all that London might bestow
Would I renounce the genial influences
And thoughts and feelings to be found where'er
We breathe beneath the open sky, and see
Earth's liberal bosom. Judge then by thyself,
Allan, true child of Scotland, -thou who arti
So oft in spirit on thy native hills,
And yonder Solway shores,--a poet thou,
Judge by thyself how strongʻthe ties which, bind
A poet to his home; when, -making thus
Large recompense for all that haply else
Might seem perversely or unkindly done,-
Fortune hath set his happy habitacle.
Among the ancient hills, near mountain-streams
And lakes 'pellucid, in a land sublime
And lovely as those regions of Romance

1 This poet begins his second Satire thus:

“Sir, though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town, yet there's one state
In all ill things so excellently best
That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest."

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Where his young fancy in his day-dreams roamed,
Expatiating in forests wild and wide,
Loëgrian, or of dearest Faery-land.

Yet, Allan, of the cup of social joy No man drinks freelier, nor with heartier thirst, Nor keener relish, where I see around Faces which I have known and loved so long That, when he prints a dream upon my brain, Dan Morpheus takes them for his readiest types. And therefore in that loathed metropolis Time measured out to me some golden hours. They were not leaden-footed while the clay Beneath the patient touch of Chantrey's hand Grew to the semblance of my lineaments. Lit

up in memory's landscape, like green spots Of sunshine, are the mornings when in talk With him and thee, and Bedford (my true friend Of forty years), I saw the work proceed, Subject the while myself to no restraint, But pleasurably in frank discourse engaged : Pleased too, and with no unbecoming pride, To think this countenance, such as it is, So oft by rascally mislikeness wronged, Should faithfully, to those who in his works Have seen the inner man pourtrayed, be shown, And in enduring marble should partake Of our great sculptor's immortality.

I have been libelled, Allan, as thou knowest, Through all degrees of calumny; but they, Who fix one's name for public sale beneath

set of features slanderously unlike Are the worst libellers. Against the wrong Which they inflict Time hath no remedy. Injuries there are which Time redresseth best, Being more sure in judgment, though perhaps Slower in process even, than the court Where Justice, tortoise-footed and mole-eyed, Sleeps undisturbed, fanned by the lulling wings Of harpies at their prey. We soon live down Evil or good report, if undeserved. Let then the dogs of Faction bark and bay, Its bloodhounds, savaged by a cross of wolf, Its full-bred kennel from the Blatant-beast; And from my lady's gay veranda let Her pampered lap-dog with his fetid breath In bold bravado join, and snap and growl, With petulant consequentialness elate, There in his imbecility at once

Ridiculous and safe ; though all give cry,
Whiggery's sleek spaniels, and its lurchers lean,
Its poodles by unlucky training marred,
Mongrel and cur and bob-tail, let them yelp
Till weariness and hoarseness shall at length
Silence the noisy pack; meantime be sure
I will not stoop for stones to cast among them.
The foumarts and the skunks may be secure
In their own scent; and, for that viler swarm,
The vermin of the press, both those that skip,
And those that creep and crawl, I do not catch
And pin them for exposure on the page, –
Their filth is their defence.

But I appeal
Against the limner's and the graver's wrong;
Their evil works survive them. Bilderdijk
Whom I am privileged to call my friend,
Suffering by graphic libels in like wise,
Gave his wrath vent in verse. Would I could give
The life and spirit of his vigorous Dutch,
As his dear consort hath transfused my strains
Into her native speech, and made them known
On Rhine and Yssel, and rich Amstel's banks,
And wheresoe'er the voice of Vondel still
Is heard, and still Antonides and Hooft
Are living agencies, and Father Cats,
The household poet, teacheth in his songs
The love of all things lovely, all things pure :
Best poet, who delights the cheerful mind
Of childhood, stores with moral strength the heart
Of youth, with wisdom maketh mid-life rich,
And fills with quiet tears the eyes of age.

Hear then in English rhyme how Bilderdijk Describes his wicked portraits, one by one. A madman who from Bedlam hath broke loose:

An honest fellow of the numskull race ; And pappyer-headed still, a very goose

Staring with eyes aghast and vacant face ; A Frenchman who would mirthfully display

On some poor idiot his malicious wit;
And lastly one who, trained up in the way

Of worldly craft, hath not forsaken it,
But hath served Mammon with his whole intent,

A thing of Nature's worst materials made,
Low-minded, stupid, base, and insolent.

I, I, a poet, have been thus pourtrayed. Can ye believe that my true effigy

Among these vile varieties is found?

What thought, or line, or word, hath fallen from me

In all my numerous works whereon to ground The opprobrious notion? Safely I may smile

At these, acknowledging no likeness here. But worse is yet to come ; so, soft awhile !

For now in potter's earth must I appear,
And in such workmanship that, sooth to say,

Humanity disowns the imitation,
And the dolt image is not worth its clay.

Then comes there one who will to admiration
In plastic wax my perfect face present ;

And what of his performance comes at last ? Folly itself in every lineament !

Its consequential features overcast With the coxcombical and shallow laugh

Of one who would for condescension hide, Yet in his best behaviour can but half

Suppress, the scornfulness of empty pride."

“And who is Bilderdijk?" methinks thou sayest ; A ready question ; yet which, trust me, Allan, Would not be asked, had not the curse that came From Babel clipped the wings of Poetry. Napoleon asked him once with cold fixed look, “ Art thou then in the world of letters known?” I have deserved to be," the Hollander Replied, meeting that proud imperial look With calm and proper confidence, and eye As little wont to turn away abashed Before a 'mortal presence. He is one Who hath received upon his constant breast The sharpest arrows of adversity; Whom not the clamours of the multitude, Demanding in their madness and their might Iniquitous things, could shake in his firm mind ; Nor the strong hand of instant tyranny From the straight path of duty turn aside ; But who in public troubles, in the wreck Of his own fortunes, in proscription, exile, Want, obloquy, ingratitude, neglect, And what severer trials Providence Sometimes inflicteth, chastening whom it loves, In all, through all, and over all, hath borne An equal heart, as resolute toward The world as humbly and religiously Beneath his heavenly Father's rod resigned. Right-minded, happy-minded, righteous man, True lover of his country and his kind ; In knowledge and in inexhaustive stores Of native genius rich ; philosopher,

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