I called my father thrice, but no one came; How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air, And boomed, and bounced, and struggled to be free; never; They roll and foam, and roll and foam forever. But here was peace, that peace which home cau yield; The grasshopper, the partridge in the field, I raved at war and all its horrid cost, Richard Alfred Milliken. Milliken (1767-1815) was a native of the county of Cork, Ireland. He seems to have been the originator of a humorous vein of verse, afterward cultivated with success by Mahony and other Irish poets. There are several versions of the following comical extravaganza. THE GROVES OF BLARNEY. The groves of Blarney, they look so charming, Down by the purling of sweet silent brooks; Being banked with posies that spontaneous grow there, Planted in order in the rocky nooks. "Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation, Like Alexander, or like Helen fair; There's no commander in all the nation For emulation can with her compare. Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder Could ever plunder her place of strength; But Oliver Cromwell, he did her pommel, And made a breach in her battlement. There's gravel-walks there for speculation As to walk alone in those shady bowers, 'Tis there her courtier he may transport her Into some fort, or all underground. For 'tis there's a cave where no daylight enters, Tis there's the kitchen hangs many a flitch in, All blood-relations to my Lord Donoughmore. There's statues gracing this noble place in,- There is a stone there that whoever kisses, Which my poor genius could not entwine: John Hookham Frere. Frere (1769-1846) was a native of Norfolk. He entered the diplomatic service of England, and was minister to Spain in 1808. At one time he contributed to the Etonian, with Moultrie and Praed. He is commended by Scott and Byron. In 1817 Mr. Murray published a small poetical volume, under the eccentric title of "Prospectus and Specimen of an Intended National Work by William and Robert Whistlecraft, of Stowmarket, in Suffolk, Harness and Collar Makers: intended to comprise the most interesting particulars relating to King Arthur and his Round Table." For many years Mr. Frere resided in Malta, in the enjoyment of a handsome pension for diplomatic services; and in Malta he died, on the 7th of January, 1846, aged seventy-seven. In 1871 his works in prose and verse, and a memoir by his nephews, were published in two volumes. THE PROEM. I've often wished that I could write a book, I never should regret the pains it took; I'd sling a cot up for my favorite Muse; Poets consume excisable commodities: They raise the nation's spirit when victorious; They drive an export trade in whims and oddities, Making our commerce and revenue glorious. As an industrious and painstaking body 'tis That poets should be reckoned meritorious; And therefore I submissively propose To erect one board for verse, and one for prose. Princes protecting sciences and art I've often seen, in copper-plate and print; I never saw them elsewhere, for my part, (I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint)— Each board to have twelve members, with a seat To bring them in per ann. five hundred neat. From princes I descend to the nobility: In former times all persons of high stations, Lords, baronets, and persons of gentility, Paid twenty guineas for the dedications. This practice was attended with utility: The patrons lived to future generations, The poets lived by their industrious earning,— So men alive and dead could live by learning. Then twenty guineas was a little fortune; Now we must starve unless the times should mend: Our poets nowadays are deemed importune Most fashionable authors make a short one To show their independence, I suppose; And that may do for gentlemen like those. Lastly, the common people I beseech: Dear people, if you think my verses clever, Preserve with care your noble parts of speech, And take it as a maxim to endeavor To talk as your good mothers used to teach, And then these lines of mine may last forever; And don't confound the language of the nation With long-tailed words in osity and ation. I think that poets-whether Whig or ToryWhether they go to meeting or to churchShould study to promote their country's glory With patriotic, diligent research, That children yet unborn may learn the story, With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch. It stands to reason-this was Homer's plan; And we must do-like him-the best we can. Madoc, and Marmion, and many more, Are out in print, and most of them are sold; Perhaps together they may make a score. Richard the First has had his story told; But there were lords and princes long before That had behaved themselves like warriors bold: Among the rest there was the great King Arthur— What hero's fame was ever carried farther? King Arthur, and the Knights of his Round Table, To paint their famous actions by my words. It grieves me much that names that were respected In former ages-persons of such mark, And countrymen of ours-should lie neglected, Just like old portraits lumbering in the dark. An error such as this should be corrected; And if my Muse can strike a single spark, Why, then (as poets say), I'll string my lyre; And then I'll light a great poetic fire: I'll air them all, and rub down the Round Table, And wash the canvas clean, and scour the frames, And put a coat of varnish on the fable, And try to puzzle out the dates and names; Then (as I said before) I'll heave my cable, And take a pilot, and drop down the Thames : -These first eleven stanzas make a Proem, And now I must sit down and write my poem. WHISTLECRAFT AND MURRAY. I've a proposal here from Mr. Murray. Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think. On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock; And I'd be sure to keep away from drink, And always go to bed by twelve o'clock. We'll travel down there in the morning stages; Our verses shall go down to distant ages. And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls, And you shall have a better shawl to wear: These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes; By Monday next I'll compass a new pair. Come now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals, And take away the things you hung to air; Set out the tea-things, and bid Phœbe bring The kettle up. Arms and the Monks I sing. John Tobin. Tobin (1770-1804) was a native of Salisbury, England, and was educated for the law. "He passed many years," says Mrs. Inchbald, "in the anxious labor of writing plays, which were rejected by the managers; and no sooner had they accepted 'The Honey-moon' than he died, and he never enjoyed the recompense of seeing it performed." He attempted to unite literary composition with a faithful attention to legal studies. He overworked himself, and fell a victim to a pulmonary complaint. In the hope of relieving it, he had embarked for the West Indies. "The Honey-moon" is a romantic drama, chiefly in blank verse, and still keeps honest possession of the stage. It shows the true poetical faculty. The plot resembles that of "The Taming of the Shrew." The Duke of Aranza conducts his bride to a cottage in the country, pretending that he is a peasant, and that he has obtained her hand by deception. The proud Juliana, after a struggle, submits; and the duke, having accomplished his object, asserts his true rank, and places her in his palace. "This truth to manifest: a gentle wife Is still the sterling comfort of man's life; To those who-wisely keep their honey-moon." THE DUKE ARANZA TO JULIANA. Duke. I'll have no glittering gewgaws stuck about you, To stretch the gaping eyes of idiot wonder, Nor cumbrous silk, that, with its rustling sound, Duke. No, love, the white. Thus modestly attired, A half-blown rose stuck in thy braided hair,With no more diamonds than those eyes are made of, No deeper rubies than compose thy lips, Nor pearls more precious than inhabit them,With the pure red and white which that same hand Which blends the rainbow mingles in thy cheeks,— This well-proportioned form (think not I flatter) In graceful motion to harmonious sounds, And thy free tresses dancing in the wind,— Thon't fix as much observance as chaste dames Can meet without a blush. George Canning. Canning (1770-1827), a native of London, was educated at Eton and Oxford. He entered Parliament in 1793, and became distinguished as a statesman and orator, In 1797, with some associates, he started a paper, styled The Anti-Jacobin, the object of which was to attack the writers of the day whose sympathies were with the French Revolution. Gifford was the editor. The contributions of Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin. In a satire entitled "New Morality" occur the following often-quoted lines: "Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe: But of all plagnes, good Heaven, thy wrath can send, Save, save, oh, save me from the candid friend!" The poetry of The Anti-Jacobin, collected and published in a separate form, reached a sixth edition. One of the writers was John Hookham Frere, who showed an elegant and scholarly wit in various poetical productions. Southey had written the following Inscription for the Apartment in Chepstow Castle, where Henry Marten, the regicide, was imprisoned thirty years: INSCRIPTION. "For thirty years secluded from mankind He never saw the sun's delightful beams, INSCRIPTION FOR THE DOOR OF THE CELL IN NEWGATE, WHERE MRS. BROWNRIGG, THE 'PRENTICE-CIDE, WAS CONFINED "For one long term, or e'er her trial came, Till at the last, in slow-drawn cart, she went The little Spartans; such as erst chastised Our Milton, when at college. For this act Did Brownrigg swing. Harsh laws! But time shall come When France shall reign, and laws be all repealed!" THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE-GRINDER. A PARODY ON SOUTHEY'S LINES, ENTITLED "THE WIDOW." FRIEND OF HUMANITY. Needy knife-grinder, whither are you going? Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order; Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't, So have your breeches! Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope And, since this world was not the world for thee, SONG BY ROGERO. SCENE FROM "THE ROVERS." This was levelled at Schiller's "Robbers," and Goethe's "Stella." It is introduced by a soliloquy, supposed to be spoken by Rogero, a student who has been immured eleven years in "a subterraneous vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh." Whene'er with haggard eyes I view I think of those companions true -niversity of Gottingen-- [Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, [At the repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.] Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, -niversity of Gottingen-- |