« PreviousContinue »
While o'er his head the flag tri-coloured floats,
Long since the battle storm its rage has spent:
Each other; may such contests never cease.
Warriors in courts their rival warriors greet,
"Nothing but thunder"* pleased us once; that past, Astræa may reign o'er the world at last.
Yet will the Northern light with aspect red
Poland is crush'd: for Italy what hope?
None from the crown'd at Milan, or the Pope!
Unless the moral power that in our day
Mouth-honour'd is, may those who hate it sway! Actions with theory but ill accord,
When dazzles in Imperial hands the sword:
And fêtes Circæan, it must be confest,
Will soon relax the virtues of the best.
FIRST EPISTLE TO A FRIEND IN TOWN.
P. 9, 1. 1.
Cethegus shines alike with talents rare,
Or in St. Giles's, or in Grosvenor-square.
It is the boast of a very sporting character, that he is equally at home at the Beggar's Opera in St. Giles's, and at Carlton Palace.
P. 10, 1. 1.
So strange is taste, that some do not disdain
To breathe the wholesome air of Maiden-lane.
The celebrated Professor Porson passed several "noctes Attica" at the Cider-cellar in Maiden-lane, where, as Moore says of the famous Tom Crib, he shone the vepeλnyepéra Zeús of surrounding gods.
P. 10, 1. 13.
Nor Ude's best fare.
Ude, a distinguished French cook, who has published a work on the famous art of cookery. It certainly is "caviare to the general."
P. 10, 1. 24.
Compared with his, e'en Egan's sports are tame.
Whoever wishes to be acquainted with a pious prank of the celebrated Earl of Wharton, may peruse No. 22 of the Examiner, written
by Dean Swift, who there relates a truly edifying anecdote of his Lordship. Mr. Egan, in his "Life in London," has given a most attractive picture of the pleasures, which those who are initiated in the mysteries of fashion may enjoy in the metropolis.
su per le dita
Tutte di Londra le taverne e i bagni,
E i cavalli più rapidi, e di galli
Più bellicosi, e di più chiara stirpe,
E i più tremendi pugili.-PINdemonte.
When there are so many employments for a man of spirit, who would be idle? we leave it to Frenchmen
Sauter, danser, faire l'amour,
Here let me rest in this sweet solitude,
Where knaves and parasites shall ne'er intrude!
No bacchanals are here, to give pretence
For wild excess, or ruinous expense:
In yon delightful wood I love to hear,
Though strange may seem the notes, a welcome cheer.
Theirs is at least no counterfeited glee.
Is not this better than among the crowd
To fret, and gaze, and cringe before the proud ?-MS.