Now, borne to Belgium’s plain on bolder wings,
Where England’s warriors fix’d the fate of Kings: 
At once the Patriot and the Poet glows,
And full the mingling inspiration flows:—­
Resume the lyre:  not thine in myrtle bowers
To trifle light with Life’s uncounted hours—­
To crown thy toils, propitious Fame from far
Entwines her noblest wreath, illumes her loftiest star!

WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF

GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.

Mute Memory stands at Valour’s awful shrine,
 In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead;
A world’s regret, brave ABERCROMBIE’s thine,
 For nature sorrow’d as thy spirit fled!

For, not the tear that matchless courage claims,
 To honest zeal, and soft compassion due,
Alone is thine—­o’er thy adored remains
Each virtue weeps, for all once lived in you.

Yes, on thy deeds exulting I could dwell,
 To speak the merits of thy honour’d name;
But, ah! what need my humble muse to tell,
 When Rapture’s self has echoed forth thy fame?

Yet, still thy name its energies shall deal,
 When wild storms gather round thy country’s sun;
Her glowing youth shall grasp the gleamy steel,
 Rank’d round the glorious wreaths which thou hast
       won!

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM
OF
I——­ H——­ P——­, ESQ.

Dear P——­, while Painters, Poets, Sages,
Inscribe this volume’s votive pages
With partial friendship:  why invite
The tribute of a luckless wight
Unknown—­by wisdom or by wit
Indulged with no certificate?

Perchance, as in a diadem
Glittering with many a radiant gem,
Some mean metallic foil is placed
Judicious, by the hand of taste;
You seek, amidst the sons of fame,
To set an undistinguish’d name? 
If so—­that name is freely lent,
A pebble to your gems—­T.  GENT.

RETALIATION.

Love, Cupid, Gallantry, whate’er
We call that elf, seen every where,
Half frolicsome, half ennuyeuse,
Had chanced a country walk to choose;
When sudden, sweet and bright as May,
Young Beauty tripp’d across his way.—­

“Upon my word,” exclaims the boy,
“A lucky hit! this pretty toy
To pass an hour, with vapours haunted,
Is quite the thing I wish’d and wanted;
I do not so far condescend
As serious mischief to intend,
But just to show my powers of pleasing
In flattery, badinage, and teasing;
But should she, for young girls, poor things! 
Are tender as yon insect’s wings—­
Should she mistake me, and grow fond,
Why, I’ll grow serious—­and abscond.”