But Flattery’s frauds impartial Time disowns,
Funereal pomp, and adulative tones;
Slow where she moves through monumental aisles,
With stern contempt insulted Reason smiles,
While Falsehood, shrined above th’ emblazon’d palls,
Shames sanctity from consecrated walls: 
She seeks, with pensive step and saintly eyes,
Some lonely grave, where rude the grass-tufts rise;
Nor sculptured angels tell, nor chisell’d lines,
There slumbers CHATTERTON—­here WHITE reclines! 
But nobler triumphs WHITE’S probation claims
Than ever blazon’d Wit’s recorded names;
For Virtue’s sons, to bliss immortal born,
Tower to their native heaven, and view with scorn
The vain distinction of the trophied sod,
’Tis theirs to gain distinction with their God!

THE STATE SECRET.

AN IMPROMPTU.

“Murder will out:”—­and so will truth sometimes;
For once I’ll prove it in a dozen lines.—­

At one of those parties where Julia’s sweet face
Added interest to beauty, and archness to grace,
Where many fine folks met; and one very great,
Proud and stupid, an embryo minister sate;
Like a damper he came to put good humour out,
And it chanced that, as Julia’s pet-bird flew about. 
It presumptuously ’lit on this mighty man’s head;
When her lore-laughing sister, sweet Eleanor, said,
“Naughty bird!  I must cage you for being so rude,
On Lord------head, oh! how dare you intrude?”
“Let it rest,” replied Julia, with an exquisite grace,
“Don’t frighten it off—­for it likes a soft place!”

THE MORNING CALL.

TO THE HONOURABLE LADY--------.

Written and left on her Table during her absence—­Bathing.

I dare not look at those dear eyes,
  The sun was never half so bright,
There surely more of rapture lies
  Than ever bless’d a mortal’s sight.

In thy sweet face I see impress’d
  Ten thousand thousand charms divine,
The sunbeams of thy guileless breast
  Like Heaven’s eternal mercies shine!

Angel of love! life’s endless joy,
  Our hope at morn, our evening prayer;
The bliss above would have alloy,
  Unless dear--------- thou wert there!

Oh!  Woman—­what a charm hast thou
  Our rebel nature thus to tame: 
We ever must adore and bow. 
  While virtue guards thy holy fane!

Werthing.

SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF TOUSSAINT L’OUVERTURE.

His weary warfare done, his woes forgot,
  Freedom! thy son, oppress’d so long, is free: 
He seeks the realms where tyranny is not,
  And those shall hail him who have died for thee! 
Immortal TELL! receive a soul like thine,
  Who scorn’d obedience to usurp’d command: 
Who rose a giant from a sphere indign,