THE LAST DAY.

BY WILLIAM BECKFORD, ESQ.

HARK! heard ye not that deep, appalling sound?
Tremble! for lo, the vex'd affrighted ground
Heaves strong in dread convulsion-streams of fire
Burst from the vengeful sky-a voice of ire
Proclaims, "Ye guilty, wait your final doom:
No more the silent refuge of the tomb

Shall screen your crimes, your frailties. Conscience reigns,—
Earth needs no other sceptre ;-what remains
Beyond her fated limits dare not tell ;—
Eternal Justice! Judgment! Heaven! Hell!"

WHERE is the man, who, as his thoughts survey
The days of Roman grandeur pass'd away-
Whose memory loves in reverence to dwell,
O'er minds that held the world within their spell,-
Calls up the mighty shadows from the tomb,
Whose names give immortality to Rome,—
But feels his mind in virtue's scale ascend,
Improved as patriot, husband, father, friend?

Sound but the name of everlasting Rome,
What glorious visions o'er the fancy come!
At their high deeds to gain a deathless name,
The dullest heart will wake, and pant for fame :
Their sacrifice of self, in virtue's cause,
From sternest eyes the tear of manhood draws;
And Rome has form'd, in many an after age,
The Hero, Poet, Orator, and Sage.

O'er ancient Rome, the Muse once more this night Plumes her wild pinions for a daring flight,

Depicts the self-devotion-noble strife

By which her sons maintain'd their country's life;
And shews how beautiful the holy zeal

That hearts which beat for freedom only feel.
The Bard, who drew, with such success, of late,
Virginius madd'ning o'er a daughter's fate,
To soothe his terrors, here has bid me come-
The delegate of Gracchus and of Rome:
That if, with hands made feeble by his fear,
He strike the chords that freemen love to hear-
Humbly to ask, what modern bard may hope
With strength commensurate with such theme to cope?
Then o'er his efforts let no coldness lour,
But, with your kindness, help his want of power.

PROLOGUE

TO THE VESPERS OF PALERMO.

WRITTEN BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY MR ABBOTT.

SAD is the story we to-night relate,
Among the dire vicissitudes of fate;
A truth recorded in the historic page,
To shew the perils of tyrannic rage;
To aim, in Freedom's cause, the patriot stroke,
And at her call to spurn a foreign yokc.
In such a cause each British heart must feel,
And hail the scene with sympathizing zeal;
A cause, like air, expanding unconfined,
To breathe its vital spirit o'er mankind.

If, with the public ills that mark the tale,
The softer cares of hapless love prevail,
Know 'tis a female Bard supplies the theme,
And Love o'er female bosoms reigns supreme.
A female Bard, who, not unknown to Fame,
To patriot laurels boasts a rightful claim.
Warm'd by the fire that blazed in ancient days,
Oft has her harp been tuned to Cambria's lays;
That Bards had sung their freedom to maintain,
While every mountain echo'd with the strain.

LADIES, for your support we need not sue,
Assured you all will render honours due;

15

With fond indulgence you our play will scan,
Proud that your sex can rival haughty Man.

BEAUX, if 'mid modern manners, Beaux remain,
The gallantry of former days sustain ;

Beaux then by female favour held their breath,
A smile was paradise, a frown was death!

CRITICS, to-night assume a gentle brow,
With fost'ring smiles receive a female now;
To honest DRYDEN's just remark adhere:-
It is not to be wise to be severe."

FONTHILL SALE.

A PARODY.

WHO has not heard of the Sale at Fonthill,
With its bijoux the brightest that earth ever gave;
Its pictures and books-and its knights of the quill,
Who of all its "attractions" so ceaselessly rave.

Oh! to see it at mid-day, when warm o'er the HALL
Its full gather'd splendour an autumn sun throws;
Ere the smug auctioneer to his seat in his stall

"Like a bride full of blushes," so smilingly goes; And punctual to Time, without stoppage or stammer, Reads his list of " Conditions" and raises his hammer.

When gems, bronzes, and paintings, are gleaming half shewn, (Mr Beckford's we mean-t'other half would not please, sir,) From tables of ebony-rosewood-and one,

Which they tell us belonged to the Prince de Borghese, sir; But geese we should be all we hear thus to hug,

Since we know many come from the Prince of HUMBUG!

Then to see all the china from Nankin and Dresden,
The "rare Oriental" and "famed Japanese,"
Mix'd with all kinds of trumpery, but recently press'd in,
Our judgments to dupe and our pockets to ease!
With bronzes and boxes,-chef d'œuvres of skill,—
Made" to order," they say, for the sale at Fonthill !

Here the music of bidding grows loud and more loud ;-
Here the sweetener is conning his hints for the day ;-
And here by the rostrum, apart from the crowd,

Billy Tims and his brethren are scribbling away
(Striving who shall bedaub Mr Phillips the most)
Their puffs for the Chronicle, Herald, and Post!
Let us pause ere we blame, for 'tis well understood,
Though some things are so so, Harry's dinners are good;
And since paying and feeding the piper's no jest,
Sure they ought to play for him the tune he likes best.

}

Here a black-letter hero, with rat-smelling air,
Tipping winks full of meaning, squats down in his chair,
The vet'ran of many a book-auction is he,

And he'll not be bamboozled, we think, Mr P.!

If the item is genuine, away goes his nod,

And if cheap, is knock'd down with, 'Tis yours, Mr Rodd.
If a "foist," and his glance of contempt is enough, [
Why he dives for his snuff-box and only takes snuff!
Here the white-trowser'd dandy and black-whisker'd swell,
The lean sprig of fashion-the beau and the belle-
The lord and the lady-but few of the latter

Have all journey'd, post-haste, not to buy, but to chatter,→
To lounge, look about them, and prate at their ease,

Of Mieris, Correggio, and Paul Veronese !

But vainly the vender directs his keen glance

To many a gay group as the biddings advance;

Inattentive are they to the beam of his eye,

And he turns to Clarke, Lawford, and Rodd, with a sigh,
'Mid sunshine and storm, 'mid report good and ill;
The heroes and props of the sale at Fonthill!

SUMMER'S ABSENCE.

WHERE, Summer, hast thou linger'd? Thy blue skies, I
And generous warmth, and breathing melodies,

Come not to cheer us; but the breeze hath blown

Wet storms and cold from winter's icy zone.

Love's month hath pass'd us, breathing nought of Spring-
Thou cam'st not on the zephyr's downy wing
With stately June; while her next sister moon...
Ran her career, nor brought thy sunny noon.

Where, Summer, hast thou linger'd? what command
Or dalliance sweet in some more favourite land,
Holds thee away from us, till nature, clad

In universal gloom, looks faint and sad ?

What purple islands of the glowing west,

Or rosy fields of Eden and the blest,

Keep to themselves thy sunbeams, whose embrace
Gives to our fruits and flow'rs their bloom and grace?

Where dost thou linger, Summer? time hath ta'en
Much of thy wonted period; soon again
Winter will come, and thy return prevent,
Dressing our hills in hoary garnishment.

The watery fruits no grateful flavour yield;
The harvest sickens in the stagnant field;

Where hast thou linger'd, Summer? Haste, O haste!
Lest man despair, and earth become a waste.

ON DRINKING FROM A GOLD-RIMMED GOBLET OF GARRICK, NOW IN THE POSSESSION OF HIS NIECE, MRS GEORGE GARRICK.

BY H. CAMPBELL, LL.D. F.A.S.

I HAVE drunk from the goblet that flow'd to the brim,
While the soul of the orator rose;

I have sipp'd from the cup consecrated by him
Whose fame on Eternity flows-

And it flows in a stream undiminish'd and pure,
Where the bark of his Shakspeare, in pride,
(High colour'd in beauties, that still must endure,)
Is with Nature lash'd close alongside!