Thy country! blast it, if it once disdains,
To prop thy virtues, or reward thy pains!
If there I prosper, here was only born,
That claims my duty! this deserves my scorn!
O muse! 'tis mean to stoop to helpless moan!
Try, if no clime is gentler, than thy own!
Offer, on distant shores, a faithful hand,
In vain, not useless, in thy mother land!
When fortune frowns, and care's black harvest springs,
A change of place, a change of prospect brings!
Far off, thy reason's force, uncurb'd, may reign;
But even the prophets preach'd at home in vain.

Love is by Fancy led about,
From hope to fear, from joy to doubt;
Whom we now an angel call,
Divinely grac'd in ev'ry feature,
Straight 's a deform'd, a perjur'd creature.
Love and hate are fancy all.

'Tis but as Fancy shall present
Objects of grief or of content,
That the lover 's bless'd or dies,
Visions of mighty pain or pleasure,
Imagin'd want, imagin'd treasure,
All in pow'rful Fancy lies.

A LEGEND OF THE LOWER HUDSON .

The days were at their longest,
The heat was at its strongest,

People wondered why Harley
Sang — Wae's me for Prince Charlie. —
— It is childish — , they said, — to mourn
For a person not yet born. —

'T was upon a Southern desert, and beneath a burning sky,
That a pilgrim to the gold-clime sunk, o'erwearied, down to die!
He was young, and fair, and slender, but he bore a gallant heart,—
Through the march so long and toilsome he had bravely held his part.
His companions round him gathered, with kind word and pitying look,
As in fever-thirst he panted, like “the hart for the water-brook”;
While their last cool drops outpouring on his brow and parched lips,
Sorrowed they to mark his glances growing dim with death's eclipse.

It is curious that Handel
Should always have used a candle.
Men of his stamp
Generally use a lamp.

Arouse! Hunters! Arouse!
Brightly breaks the morn,
Freshly blows the morning breeze,
And cheerily winds the horn.
The deer his covert leaving,
Lingers in the vale,
And over the lofty mountain-top
The crimson glories sail.

Awake! Hunters! Awake!
Nature from her sleep
In summer's arms comes forth
To bid the glad pulse leap.
The sorrowing night has vanished,
Her dreary watching done,
Her tear-drops hung on trembling leaves
Are glittering in the sun.

To horse! Hunters! To horse!
Bounds each noble steed

I.

Why, cruel Creature! why so bent
To vex a tender heart?
To gold and title you relent,
Love throws in vain his dart.

II.

Let glitt'ring fools in courts be great,
For pay let armies move,
Beauty should have no other bait
But gentle vows and love.

III.

If on those endless charms you lay
The value that 's their due,
Kings are themselves too poor to pay,
A thousand worlds to few.

IV.

But if a passion without vice,
Without disguise or art,
Ah, Mira! if true love 's your price,

" The moustache of Adolf Hitler
Could hardly be littler,"
Was the thought that kept recurring
To Field-Marshal Goering.

The meaning of the poet Gay
Was always as clear as day,
While that of the poet Blake
Was often practically opaque.

Ladies, 'twill give but very little pain t'ye,
When such a tiny thing, as I, complain t'ye.
Were I grown big , and bold enough, to charm ye,
I'd do't — but, for the world , I wou'dn't harm ye.

Alas! — we've lost our stage ; — whereon to strut,
Was the unlicenc'd claim of L ILLIPUT .
Yet, here , where never patent monarch reign'd!
We see our ground, by strange usurpers , gain'd!
On our own soil condemn'd to over laying ,
By these dramatic rats , in mouse-hole playing ;
Ah! do us right — Since like with like engages,