Fall’n though I am, I ne’er shall mourn,
Like the dark Peer on Storer’s urn,[(nn)]
Reflecting on his seat!
In vain that mean mysterious Sire
In embers would conceal the fire;
While Honour’s pulse can beat.
For me shall droop th’ Assyrian Queen,[(o)]
With softest train and tragic mien,
The Siddons in her art;
E’en Bolla[(p)] shall forget to please,
With sparkling eye and playful ease,
And Didelot shall start.
Leo enthron’d bade Querno sit;
And Gianni’s[(q)] verse and regal wit
The Consul loves to share:
Pye has the laurel and the sack,
And C—mbe the foolscoat on his back,
But Galloway, no Chair.
Yet though, reduc’d by Taylor’s pranks,
I sit confounded in the ranks,
Good Humour’s still my own;
Still shall I breathe in rapt’rous trance,
“Eternal be the Song, the Dance,
The Opera and the Throne!”
NATURALISTS’ CALENDAR.
Mean Temperature 52·75.
[145] See vol. i. p. 541.
[146] Saluteth.