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Schevaah 27 kN. 1943
Perhaps you think you've made a Sonnet ;
This is the way, mistaken elf!
"Oh! Charles !-who said you were a dunce?
And really I was so enchanted,
With all you said, and all you chaunted,,
That home I hurried in delight,
SONNET TO MR. BELLAMY.
"Oh! I am weary of thy minstrelsy ;
Thou claw'st the chords with such a clumsy gripe
Evermore drawling a dull sleepy air,
What have I done, that thou wouldst have me share
To read the Post or Courier, day lay day,
"Bravo! the Sonnet of Sonnets! oh never
"I vow and declare that it's almost as elever
"Bravo-Golightly's the poet to please;"
"Libel and felony!"
"Zounds! Mr. Bellamy!"
"How can I sit with this base charlatan?"
Golightly. "Lord! I'm afraid that his sisters he'll tell o' me!"
Mr. Golightly shall smart for it soon!"
O'Connor. "Nate Mr. Bellamy, don't be so passionate!"
"How I'll cut and assassinate !
ARTICLES IN PREPARATION.
Two bits of Prose from F. Golightly;
Golightly. "Two very neat and clever Articles!"
Courtenay. "Reflections upon Human Troubles; '
Biography of Mr. Wastle;'
And Stanzas on Caernarvon Castle;'
A Country Sabbath,' neatly penn'd
By Bellamy, our departed friend;
Lastly some Greek and Roman stories.-
Beautiful bundle of verse and prose!
"And blest with this ale!"
"While the Club's in such good humour, I'm very sorry to shock it;
But I've receiv'd an insult, which I really can't possibly pocket:
How can the merry Etonian fail,
Mr. Gerard, you've got a smile on your face, as much as to tell
And, here's the river Simois, and here's Xanthus,' says he,
And here's 'Achilles and his Myrmidons." I think it's very harsh To clap Achilles and all his soldiers into a great boiling marsh; And though I tell him to be quiet, as loud as I can bawl,
It seems that he thinks me a blockhead, (Hear! hear!) for he don't
mind me at all.
Therefore, as I don't like to be in this manner defied,
Swinburne. "Larga quidem, Drance, semper tibi copia fandi—”
Oakley. "If you talk any more lingo, you'll be fin'd and that won't be so handy."
Swinburne." I scorn to talk English where Latin won't be heard, And if I mayn't answer him classically, I won't answer a single word."
Courtenay. "Guilty, guilty, the case is clear."
Musgrave. "The Swinburne coach is upset, I fear."
Courtenay. "To give the Judges no defence
Argues or guilt, or insolence;
Be it the first, or be it the last,
Dread is the doom that must now be past."
"Guilty, guilty, the case is clear."
"Mr. Courtenay, and Gentlemen, I think you're decidedly wrong here,
I differ from you in most matters, and 1 differ from you in this;
"Oh! Lord! did you ever?
The culprit was caught, the indictment drawn !
Peregrine's mock'd, and the charge withdrawn! "
"Chairman and King,
I meant no such thing;
Whence is this shouting and tumult drawn?"
"You've gone in your track Too far to go back, Peregrine's mock'd, and the
"I don't wish or intend to transgress any proper rules,
(Exit in the sullens-Members testify congratulation.) Courtenay, "It's very late!”
"Let's have another cup!"
Montgomery." And sing a song,”
"By way of Summing Up?""
"Late is the Evening! hush'd is the song,
The Members shouted carmen hoc,
THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER.
FAREWELL to the Hero, whose chivalrous name Bade the land of his fathers rise highest in fame; Farewell, Macedonia, to all that was dear; Farewell to thy glory's unbroken career. The Triumphs of Empire have fled with a breath, And the Day-star of Conquest is faded in death. With the soul that once gave thee command over all, With the arm that upheld thee, proud Land, thou must fall; For the Spirit that warmed thee for ever hath flown, And left thee to weep o'er his sepulchre's stone.
Time was that the lightning, which erst used to play From yon eyeball that glares with a powerless ray, Would have flash'd through the din, and the tumult of fight, As the meteor gleams 'mid the darkness of night. Time was, that yon arm would have dealt out the blow With the thunderbolt's force on the helm of the foe; And Fancy might think, as the blood-reeking crest Of the King and the Warrior shone high o'er the rest, That the God of the battle was goading his car Through the ranks of the vanquish'd, the tide of the war. Time was, but those glories have long passed away, Like the breeze of the North o'er the sea-ruffled spray; Like the rose-bud of Summer they died in their bloom, And Memory pauses to weep o'er their doom.
Oh! Fiend of Ambition, look down on the shame
Now, joy to ye, Thebans, whose heart's blood bedew'd The desolate soil, where thine altars had stood! Thou, Genius of Persia! look down from thy throne, The battle is won, and the proud are o'erthrown; And the Spirit of Valour, the bosom of Fire, That grasp'd at the world in its headlong desire, Unworthy the fame of the Deified Brave, Has sunk like the dastard luxurious slave.