UPON A SWEDISH COTTAGE,

_Written on the Road_,

WITHIN A FEW MILES OF STOCKHOLM.

Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks, Much sought, but only whilst untasted prais'd, Content and Innocence, with rosy cheeks, Enjoy the simple shed their hands have rais'd.

On a gray rock it stands, whose fretted base The distant cat'ract's murm'ring waters lave, Whilst o'er its mossy roof, with varying grace, The slender branches of the white birch wave.

Around the forest-fir is heard to sigh, On which the pensive ear delights to dwell, Whilst, as the gazing trav'ller pa.s.ses by, The gray goat, starting, sounds his tinkling bell.

Oh! in my native land, ere life's decline, May such a spot, so wild, so sweet, be mine!

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. B----

Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love, By meditation led, to wander here, A suff'ring husband may thy pity move, Who weeps the loss of all his soul holds dear!

Cold as this mourning marble is that heart, Which Virtue warm'd with pure and gen'rous heat, Which to each checquer'd scene could joy impart, Nor ceas'd to love until it ceas'd to beat.

Yet, gentle spirit! o'er thine early grave Shall Consolation, like a seraph, prove, When Sickness clos'd thy faultless life, she gave Another angel to the realms above!

STATE TRICKS

_Or a Peep into the Cabinet of the Premier Consul_,

AT ST. CLOUD,

ON THE NIGHT OF THE 26th OCT. 1803.

--"they show an outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dang'rous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all."

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, Act V. Scene 4.

FIRST CONSUL.

My dear Talleyrand! I am sorry to send For you out of your bed; but you know you're my friend: No secret I hide from your generous breast; This invasion is always _invading my rest_: My soldiers, poor devils! are ready to start, But to stay where I am is the wish of my heart; And yet I have sworn at their head to appear: I am puzzl'd to act 'twixt my threats and my fear; If I go, I am lost!--say, what shall I do?

TALLEYRAND.

Why I think I've a snug little project in view: I have felt for you long, and have ransack'd my brain To relieve you from so much embarra.s.sing pain.

To-morrow our princ.i.p.al tools shall repair To this spot, to implore you to stay where you are: Little Jancourt, you know, has a tear at command, The rest shall have muslin-wrapp'd onions in hand; An expedient which you, my good Consul, must try, For a drop never yet wag observ'd in your eye!

And therefore I think 'twould be better for you The largest to pluck from the beds of St Cloud.

When these fellows appear, they shall fall at your feet, Portalis shall pen a few words to repeat; He shall state 'tis the nation's imperial will That you do not your _dangerous promise_ fulfil; But snug in this closet put all into motion, Nor hazard your life with these sons of the ocean.

_You_ shall say, "I have sworn by my glory to go;" } _They_ shall all of them blubber out "No, no, no, no!} It must not, thou world's second saviour! be so. } If you go, mighty Chieftain! and should not escape, All Gallia, the world, will be cover'd with c.r.a.pe[A]!

Oh! stay where you are; on our knees we implore!"

Then, apparently chok'd, they shall utter no more.

When thrice sixty seconds have nearly expir'd (Now mind, my dear Consul, and do as desir'd), You must mimic some hero you've seen at the play, Of the tragical cast, when his soul melts away (And, without any compliment 'twixt you and I, You re'lly have talents and pow'rs very high, To make the most striking tragedian alive).

But now to the point. You must tenderly strive To raise these sweet prostrates; then, heaving a sigh, And wiping the drops that shall stand in each eye, Like one sorely cross'd, you shall, weeping, exclaim, "Oh! why do you tear me from conquest and fame?

But still, if the nation commands me, 'tis fit"

(Your breast thumping hard) "that its Chief should submit."

Then you see, if the army of England should sail, And the schemes of this cursed armada should fail, In the _Moniteur's_ faithful official page, I can humbug the people, and soften their rage; I will tell them, that, had but the nation permitted Her Chief to have gone, we had ne'er been outwitted; That merely the terrible glance of his eye Would have made all those shop-keeping islanders fly; This will quiet our friends, and, to hara.s.s our foes, A second invasion I'll slyly propose, In which, in the van, Buonaparte shall pour His vengeance divine on that mercantile sh.o.r.e.

Not that I, my dear Premier! conceive 'twould be right To renew with these cursed tough fellows the fight; But our people 'twill please, until some new occasion Shall call from this project the eye of the nation.

FIRST CONSUL.

It will do, it will do, my dear Tally! thy brain Has my terrors remov'd, and "a man I'm again."

I will rise with the dawn, for this scene to prepare; Denon, with his crayons, so swift shall be there; The Parisians the subject with rapture will trace In my Nosegay[B]; I'll hang it up full in their face.

I embrace thee, my dear little Tal! with delight; _Ca ira! Ca ira_! Thy hand, and good night.

[The First Consul is said to have enjoyed half an hour's uninterrupted repose that night. What followed, the next day, all Europe knows, and all Europe laughs at.]

[Footnote A: Black c.r.a.pe and the bolt of Heaven are the favourite rhetorical figures of Napoleon the First.]

[Footnote B: "Nosegay"--The anti-chamber of the Hall of the Arts in the Louvre, in which there are many fine paintings, is called, by the Parisians, Buonaparte's Nosegay.]

LINES

TO MISS CHINNERY, OF GILLWELL-HOUSE,

_Upon her appearing in a Dress_

WITH MAY-FLOWERS AND LEAVES TASTEFULLY DISPLAYED.

Tell me what taught thee to display A choice so sweet, and yet so rare, To prize the modest buds of May Beyond the diamond's prouder glare?

Say, was the grateful pref'rence paid To Nature, since, with skill divine, So many fairy charms she made, To grace her fav'rite Caroline?

Or was it Taste that bade thee try How soon the richest gem must yield, In beauty and attractive die, To this wild blossom of the field?

Whate'er the cause, in Nature's glow Well does the choice thyself pourtray; Thine innocence the blossoms show, Thy youth the green leaves well display.

SONG.