"Oh thou fair land, where from their starry home. Cherub and seraph oft delight to roam, Thou city of the thousand towers, Ye moated gates, ye breezy squares; Ye marts where wealthy burghers meet; Ye dark green lanes which know the trip Of woman's conscious feet; Ye grassy meads where, when the day is done, Ye purple moors on which the setting sun Ye wintry deserts where the larches grow; Many a fathom shall ye sleep Beneath the grey and endless deep, THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE. AN ELECTION BALLAD. (1827.) As I sate down to breakfast in state, Came a rap that almost beat the door in. And Betty ceased spreading the toast, A letter and free-bring it here I have no correspondent who franks. 'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes. "Dear sir, as I know you desire That the Church should receive due protection, I humbly presume to require Your aid at the Cambridge election. "It has lately been brought to my knowledge, To suppress each cathedral and college, To assist this detestable scheme Three nuncios from Rome are come over; And landed to dinner at Dover. "An army of grim Cordeliers, Well furnished with relics and vermin, Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears, To effect what their chiefs may determine. Lollard's bower, good authorities say, Is again fitting up for a prison; And a wood-merchant told me to-day "Tis a wonder how faggots have risen. "The finance scheme of Canning contains A new Easter-offering tax; And he means to devote all the gains To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. Your living, so neat and compact Pray, don't let the news give you pain!Is promised, I know for a fact, To an olive-faced Padre from Spain." I read, and I felt my heart bleed, To our Protestant champion's committee. No fleering! no distance! no scorn! They asked after my wife who is dead, And my children who never were born. They then, like high-principled Tories, There were parsons in boot and in basket; There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair A smug chaplain of plausible air, Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches. Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host, Who, with arguments weighty as lead, Proves six times a week in the Post That flesh somehow differs from bread. Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup; A layman can scarce form a notion So ill with our free constitution; How the Bishop of Norwich had bartered We were all so much touched and excited That the rules of politeness were slighted, And in tones, which each moment grew louder, Thus from subject to subject we ran, Till at last Dr. Humdrum began; From that time I remember no more. We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones. SONG. (1827.) O STAY, Madonna! stay; "Tis not the dawn of day That marks the skies with yonder opal streak: Then press thy lips to mine, O sleep, Madonna! sleep; O'er fancy's vanished dream, O wake, Madonna! wake; Even now the purple lake Is dappled o'er with amber flakes of light; A glow is on the hill; And every trickling rill In golden threads leaps down from yonder height, O fly, Madonna! fly, Lest day and envy spy What only love and night may safely know: Lest those who hate us hear The sounds of thy light footsteps as they go. |