Pleas'd she beheld aloft pourtray'd

On many a splendid wall,

Emblems of health, and heav'nly aid, And George the theme of all.

Unlike the ænigmatic line,

So difficult to spell,

Which shook Belshazzar at his wine,

The night his city fell.

Soon, wat❜ry grew her eyes

and dim,

But with a joyful tear,

None else, except in pray'r for him,
George ever drew from her.

It was a scene in every part

Like those in fable feign'd,

And seem'd by some magician's art

Created and sustain'd.

But other magic there, she knew,

Had been exerted none,

To raise such wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.

That cordial thought her spirits cheer'd,

And through the cumb'rous throng,

Not else unworthy to be fear'd,

Convey'd her calm along.

So, ancient poets say, serene

The sea-maid rides the waves,

And fearless of the billowy scene
Her peaceful bosom laves.

With more than astronomic eyes

She view'd the sparkling show;

One Georgian star adorns the skies,
She myriads found below.

Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once seen, suffice,

Heav'n grant us no such future sight,
Such previous woe the price!

THE

COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.

[MAY, 1789.]

MUSE-Hide his name of whom I sing,
Lest his surviving House thou bring

For his sake into scorn,

Nor speak the School from which he drew

The much or little that he knew,

Nor Place where he was born.

That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme

Perchance may credit win)

For proof to man, what Man may prove,

If grace depart, and demons move

The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, Man he must be stil'd)
Wanted no good below,

Gentle he was, if gentle birth

Could make him such, and he had worth,

If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest

He shone superior at the feast,

And qualities of mind

Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose

Possess'd of ev'ry kind.

Methinks I see him powder'd red,

With bushy locks his well-dress'd head

Wing'd broad on either side,

The mossy rose-bud not so sweet;

His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As lux'ry could provide.

Can such be cruel? Such can be

Cruel as hell, and so was he;

A tyrant entertain'd

With barb'rous sports, whose fell delight

Was to encourage mortal fight

"Twixt birds to battle train'd.

One feather'd champion he possess'd,
His darling far beyond the rest,

Which never knew disgrace,

Nor e'er had fought, but he made flow The life-blood of his fiercest foe,

The Cæsar of his race.

It chanced, at last, when, on a day,
He push'd him to the desp'rate fray,

His courage droop'd, he fled.