Brisk sprightly warmth, a nymph divine, In thy bright sky another planet † shone, And left their checquer'd chances to the eye: And while he strove to mend the loaded crew, Dash'd with malignant gall the liveliest hue. His fabling fancy too, fantastic arm'd Stout Chivalry's enthusiast, grizzly chief! Erst wont to urge the plough, with porter warm'd, Or deal with falchion dread deep gash to bleeding beef. See his Launcelot Greaves, a most admirable comic performance. The following lines allude to incidents in the romance, which the reader will not regret to be referred to. How alter'd soon; in steel 'ycased, His gallant 'squire the luncheon'd bag assaulted; O'er some unlucky oak's o'erhanging branches vaulted. The maniac marine their well-earn'd honours saw, Right envious of the murd'rous field; And buckling helm around his sturdy jaw, Couch'd his clastic pole, and rung his brazen shield. Another Quixote * join'd the madding row, He soft commands the saintly bosom glow; courts, And midst his strugglings dire, thou Goddess, spy, O'erflowing sanctity illume his eye! Again resum'd the hobbling rhime, The Spiritual Quixote. And breath'd, with loose poetic pride, Grey-tressed Age shook hands with rose-cheek'd And antic Humour, on the smoaky hearth, The dormant feelings too 'gan weave Their choicest web in Goldsmith's simple tale; What time he sought with nat'ral hand to save The Vicar mild from Wakefield's silent vale; The pensive Pleasures on the hist'ry hung, And smil'd betimes, and wept, as Auburn's minstre sung. O! form'd in ev'ry dress to charm, * Alluding to Anstey's Bath Guide, which, though in the form of an epistolary poem, may be reckoned a romance, as a small plot runs through the whole. Nature's own hand shall deck thy humble tomb, But thou art fled; despis'd, and scorn'd, No more thou deign'st t' inspire the Bard, The pedant bookworm's mouldy crust forget, And o'er my favour'd bosom reign ; ABBEY EFFUSIONS. ON SEEING MASON'S MONUMENT. WHILE mid this solemn dome's sequester'd shade, With softer awe I mark, and gentler tread, Yet, once more, oh! ye Bards, on Mona's steep, Who nightly your mysterious meetings keep, And wailing o'er the corse of warrior brave, Moan to the murmur of the troublous wave; Once more, with your wild warmth and native fire, Smite the deep sorrows of the sounding lyre; While, in the yelling tempest heard afar, Caractacus impels his scythed car; |