We know there is a certain brute,
Whose braying keeps the Lion mute,
And therefore critics strain their throats
To utter those discordant notes,
Which, when the lordly creature hears,
He flags his tail and hangs his ears;
But sure that jest would hardly pass,
If the brave beast cou'd see the Ass.
As Teucer's arrows swept the field,
Launch'd from beneath the sev'n-fold shield:
So, from their hiding-holes, Reviewers
Volley their magazine of skewers;
And Genius finds, where'er they fall,
The point, tho' blunt, was dipt in gall.
Shine in at my Window for the first Time this Year.
CALM the western sun declines,
Red his evening glory shines,
Long by wintry clouds conceal'd,
Now he glows, he burns reveal'd!
Now he darts a stronger ray,
And smiles upon the lengthen'd day!
It comes, it comes, the welcome beam!
See the ruddy radiance stream;
See the long-lost splendour fall
Playful on the dusky wall!
Hail, lovely stranger, to my cell!
Here with studious Silence dwell;
Disperse the cold, ungenial dews,
And wake to song the torpid Muse!
Touch'd by thee with living fire,
Joyous sounds the feather'd choir;
By thee the glitt'ring insect throng
Fill the air with murm'ring song;
From clime to clime the tribes of spring
Follow thee with gaudy wing;
The birds, the flowers, thy light obey,
All that gem the car of May;
Unblest by thee, with drooping head
They sink within their earthy bed.
Let others fly the golden noon,
To stray beneath the pallid moon,
And in languid strains relate
Hapless loves, and hostile fate,
While the cold and glimm'ring ray
Sadly glides, the ghost of day,
And the boding owlets scream,
Flitting thro' the doubtful gleam;
Be mine to hail the source of light,
When the west attracts his sight;
Let him my chearful song employ,
God of music, life, and joy!
And when sportive Youth expires,
Feeling cools, and Fancy tires,
Often may his evening glow
Gild again my locks of snow;
Oft at noon, with tott'ring feet,
May I court his vital heat;
Amid his radiance bask at will,
And smiling bid him welcome still.
In the Gardens of the Palace at Fulham is a dark recess: at the end of this stands a chair which once belonged to Bishop Bonner. A certain Bishop of London, more than 200 years after the death of the afore-said Bonner, just as the clock of the Gothic chapel had struck six, undertook to cut with his own hand a narrow walk through this thicket, which is since called the MONK'S WALK. He had no sooner began to clear the way, than, lo! suddenly up started from the chair the ghost of Bishop Bonner, who in a tone of just and bitter indignation uttered the following verses.
REFORMER, hold! ah, spare my shade,
Respect the hallow'd dead;
Vain prayer! I see the op'ning glade,
See utter darkness fled.
Just so your innovating hand
Let in the moral light;
So, chas'd from this bewilder'd land,
Fled intellectual night.
Where now that holy gloom which hid
Fair Truth from vulgar ken?
Where now that Wisdom which forbid
To think that monks were men?
The tangled mazes of the schools,
Which spread so thick before,
Which knaves entwin'd to puzzle fools,
Shall catch mankind no more.
These charming intricacies, where?
These venerable lies,
These legends once the Church's care,
These sweet perplexities?
Oh, fatal age, when sons combin'd
Of credit to exhaust us;
Ah, fatal age, which gave mankind
A Luther and a Faustus!
Had only Jack and Martin liv'd,
Our power had slowly fled;
Our influence longer had surviv'd,
Had laymen never read.
For knowledge flew like magic spell,
By typographic art;
Oh, shame! a Peasant now can tell,
If Priests the truth impart.
Ye councils, pilgrimages, creeds,
Synods, decrees, and rules,
The warrants of unholy deeds,
Indulgencies, and bulls!
Where are ye now? and where, alas!
The pardons we dispense,
And penances, the sponge of sins,
And Peter's holy pence?
Where now the beads which used to swell
Lean Virtue's spare amount?
Here only Faith and Goodness fill
A Heretic's account,
But soft, what gracious form appears?
Is this a convent's life?
Atrocious sight! by all my fears,
A Prelate with a Wife!
Ah, sainted Mary, not for this
Our pious labours join'd,
The witcheries of domestic bliss
Had shook e'en Gardiner's mind.
Hence all the sinful human ties
Which mar the cloister's plan,
Hence all the weak fond charities
Which make man feel for man.
But tortur'd Memory vainly speaks
The projects we design'd,
While this apostate Bishop seeks
The freedom of mankind.
Oh! born in ev'ry thing to shake
The systems plann'd by me,
So heterodox that he would make
Both soul and body free.
Nor clime nor colour stays his hand,
With Charity deprav'd,
He would, from Thames to Gambia's strand,
Have all be free and sav'd.
And who shall change his wayward heart,
His wilful spirit turn?
For those his labours can't convert,
His weakness will not burn.
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