Ah! shun then their delusive blaze,
Thy forward steps forbear to number,
The flame which on my altar plays
Gives genial warmth and gentle slumber.
Turn, turn, from love and such repose,
Nurse what of life within thee lingers,
With me at least thou’lt warm thy toes,
With Love thou’lt only burn thy fingers.
‘Warmingpan.’
5th May.—Last week Ld. H. made a motion in the H. of Lords in favour of the Catholics, to obtain what they call their emancipation.[98] Lord Lansdown, like a sly old politician, was glad of an opportunity of saying something on behalf of the Catholics, mingled with a praise of the Union, so that should the Union fail, he may say, ‘I foresaw that ye measure, without granting the Catholics their demands, would prove a mischievous one’; and if it should succeed he may say, ‘I supported Ministers on it.’ In his speech he made several heartfelt compliments to Ld. H. He said that whenever he differed in opinion from him he doubted the rectitude of his own judgment; for of his excellent abilities, he added, the House were competent to judge, but of the goodness of his heart those only who had the happiness of knowing him in private could estimate the value. He went on in this strain for near ten minutes. The whole debate was flat, none were in spirits; Ld. H. was unwell, and more than usually chilled by the deadness of his audience. Tierney declares that accustomed as he is to act singly in the H. of Commons, yet he could not bear up in the H. of Lords; there is a palsied indifference in the hearers that checks all spirit.