SONG.*

SUNG BY ROGERO IN THE BURLESQUE PLAY OF
FROM THE ANTI-JACOBIN, 1798.

I.

WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U

-niversity of Gottingen

---niversity of Gottingen.

[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his
eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—

II.

Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda then was true!

At least I thought so at the U

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen.

[At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.

III.

Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew

Her neat post-wagon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;

Forlorn I languish'd at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

IV.

This faded form! this pallid hue!

This blood my veins is clotting in,

There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Mr. Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt, who was cognizant of the proceedings of the "Anti-Jacobin" writers, he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot.

My years are many-they were few
When first I entered at the U-
-niversity of Gottingen-

-niversity of Gottingen.

V.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
-tor, law professor at the U-
-niversity at Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

VI.

Sun, moon and thou, vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in;
Here doom'd to starve on water gru-
-el, never shall I see the U-

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen.

[During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws The curtain drops; the music still continuing

himself on the floor in an agony.

to play till it is wholly fallen.

THE AMATORY SONNETS OF ABEL SHUFFLE

BOTTOM.

I.

DELIA AT PLAY.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

SHE held a Cup and Ball of ivory white,
Less white the ivory than her snowy hand!
Enrapt, I watched her from my secret stand,
As now, intent, in innocent delight,
Her taper fingers twirled the giddy ball,
Now tost it, following still with EAGLE sight,
Now on the pointed end infixed its fall.

Marking her sport I mused, and musing sighed.

Methought the BALL she played with was my HEART;
(Alas! that sport like that should be her pride!)
And the keen point which steadfast still she eyed
Wherewith to pierce it, that was Cupid's dart;
Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn
Who on that dart IMPALES my BOSOM'S GEM?

II.

THE POET PROVES THE EXISTENCE OF A SOUL FROM HIS LOVE FOR

DELIA.

Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED.

Far from my Delia now by fate removed,
At home, abroad, I view her everywhere:
Her ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see,
My Goddess-Maid, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR.
For Love annihilates the world to me!
And when the weary SoL around his bed
Closes the SABLE CURTAINS of the night,
SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight
She shines confest. When every sound is dead,
The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE Comes then to roll
The surge of music o'er my wavy brain.
Far, far from her my Body drags its chain,
But sure with Delia I exist A SOUL!

III.

THE POET EXPRESSES HIS FEELINGS RESPECTING A PORTRAIT IN DELIA'S PARLOR.

I would I were that portly gentleman

With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane,
Who hangs in Delia's parlor! For whene'er
From book or needlework her looks arise,
On him converge the SUN-BEAMS of her eyes,
And he unblamed may gaze upon MY FAIR,
And oft MY FAIR his favored form surveys.
O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze;
I envy him! and jealous fear alarms,
Lest the STRONG glance of those divinest charms
WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days,
When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms.
I would I were that portly gentleman,
With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane!

THE LOVE ELEGIES OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

I.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE POET RELATES HOW HE OBTAINED DELIA'S POCKET-HANDKER

CHIEF.

'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare?

Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout!
Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair,
That left the tempting corner hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels,
After long travel to some distant shrine,
When at the relic of his saint he kneels,
For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with filching fingers I drew near,
Keen hopes shot tremulous through every vein;
And when the finished deed removed my fear,
Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What though the EIGHTH COMMANDMENT rose to mind,
It only served a moment's qualm to move;
For thefts like this it could not be designed-
THE eighth commandment was NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here, when she took the maccaroons from me,
She wiped her mouth to clear the crumbs so sweet!
Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips on thee!

Lips sweeter than the maccaroons she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Moccabaw,
That made my love so delicately sneeze,

Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw,

And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er,

SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane;

For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,
And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.

II.

THE POET EXPATIATES ON THE BEAUTY OF DELIA'S HAIR.

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains
The straightning curls of gold so beamy bright,
Not spotless merely from the touch remains,
But issues forth more pure, more milky white.

The rose pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads
Sometimes with honored fingers for my fair,
No added perfume on her tresses sheds,
But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair

With licensed fingers uncontrolled may rove!
And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR,
Who died to make pomatum for my love.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favored lays

Might curl those lovely locks with conscious pride, Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan shepherd's praise, I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine,

The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin angled for MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads
That from the silk-worm, self-interr'd, proceed;
Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads
His filmy net-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power, elate,
My captive heart has handcuff'd in a chain,
Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate,
THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair,
In flowing luster bathe their bright'ning wings;

And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care,
The ringlets rob for FAIRY FIDDLESTRINGS.