SONNET

_St. Crispin to Mr. Gifford_ (1819)

All unadvised, and in an evil hour, Lured by aspiring thoughts, my son, you daft The lowly labours of the Gentle Craft For learned toils, which blood and spirits sour.

All things, dear pledge, are not in all men's power; The wiser sort of shrub affects the ground; And sweet content of mind is oftener found In cobbler's parlour, than in critic's bower.

The sorest work is what doth cross the grain; And better to this hour you had been plying The obsequious awl with well-waxed finger flying, Than ceaseless thus to till a thankless vein; Still teazing Muses, which are still denying; Making a stretching-leather of your brain.

THE G.o.dLIKE

(1820)

In one great man we view with odds A parallel to all the G.o.ds.

Great Jove, that shook heaven with his brow, Could never match his princely bow.

In him a Bacchus we behold: Like Bacchus, too, he ne'er grows old.

Like Phoebus next, a flaming lover; And then he's Mercury--all over.

A Vulcan, for domestic strife, He lamely lives without his wife.

And sure--unless our wits be dull-- Minerva-like, when moon was full, He issued from paternal skull.

THE THREE GRAVES

(1820)

Close by the ever-burning brimstone beds Where Bedloe, Oates and Judas, hide their heads, I saw great Satan like a s.e.xton stand With his intolerable spade in hand, Digging three graves. Of coffin shape they were, For those who, coffinless, must enter there With unblest rites. The shrouds were of that cloth Which Clotho weaveth in her blackest wrath: The dismal tinct oppress'd the eye, that dwelt Upon it long, like darkness to be felt.

The pillows to these baleful beds were toads, Large, living, livid, melancholy loads, Whose softness shock'd. Worms of all monstrous size Crawl'd round; and one, upcoil'd, which never dies.

A doleful bell, inculcating despair, Was always ringing in the heavy air.

And all about the detestable pit Strange headless ghosts, and quarter'd forms, did flit; Rivers of blood, from living traitors spilt, By treachery stung from poverty to guilt.

I ask'd the fiend, for whom these rites were meant?

"These graves," quoth he, "when life's brief oil is spent, When the dark night comes, and they're sinking bedwards, --I mean for Castles, Oliver, and Edwards."

SONNET TO MATHEW WOOD, ESQ.

_Alderman and M.P._

(1820)

Hold on thy course uncheck'd, heroic WOOD!

Regardless what the player's son may prate, Saint Stephens' fool, the Zany of Debate-- Who nothing generous ever understood.

London's twice Praetor! scorn the fool-born jest-- The stage's sc.u.m, and refuse of the players-- Stale topics against Magistrates and Mayors-- City and Country both thy worth attest.

Bid him leave off his shallow Eton wit, More fit to sooth the superficial ear Of drunken PITT, and that pickpocket Peer, When at their sottish orgies they did sit, Hatching mad counsels from inflated vein, Till England, and the nations, reeled with pain.

ON A PROJECTED JOURNEY

(1820)

To gratify his people's wish See G[eorg]e at length prepare-- He's setting out for Hanover-- We've often wished him there.

SONG FOR THE C[ORONATIO]N

_Tune, "Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch"_

(1820)

_Roi's_ wife of Brunswick Oels!

_Roi's_ wife of Brunswick Oels!

Wot you how she came to him, While he supinely dreamt of no ills?

Vow! but she is a canty Queen, And well can she scare each royal orgie.-- To us she ever must be dear, Though she's for ever cut by Georgie.-- _Roi's_ wife, etc. _Da capo._

THE UNBELOVED

(1820)

Not a woman, child, or man in All this isle, that loves thee, C[anni]ng.

Fools, whom gentle manners sway, May incline to C[astlerea]gh, Princes, who old ladies love, Of the Doctor may approve, Chancery lads do not abhor Their chatty, childish Chancellor.

In Liverpool some virtues strike, And little Van's beneath dislike.

Tho, if I were to be dead for't, I could never love thee, H[eadfor]t: (Every man must have his way) Other grey adulterers may.

But thou unamiable object,-- Dear to neither prince, nor subject;-- Veriest, meanest scab, for pelf Fastning on the skin of Guelph, Thou, thou must, surely, _loathe thyself._

ON THE ARRIVAL IN ENGLAND OF LORD BYRON'S REMAINS

(1824)

Manners, they say, by climate alter not: Who goes a drunkard will return a sot.

So lordly Juan, d.a.m.n'd to lasting fame, Went out a pickle, and came back the same.

LINES