Quarter ?-Foul fall your whining noise,
Ye recreant spawn of fraud!

No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys.
No quarter! Think on Laud.

What ho! The craven slaves retire.

On! Trample them to mud,

No quarter!-Charge.-No quarter!-Fire. No quarter!-Blood!-Blood!-Blood!

Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch, Brave lads, to tell us where,

Sure London's sons be passing rich,

Her daughters wondrous fair:
And let that dastard be the theme
Of many a board's derision,

Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream
Of any sweet Precisian.

Their lean divines, of solemn brow,

Sworn foes to throne and steeple,

From an unwonted pulpit now

Shall edify the people:

Till the tir'd hangman, in despair,

Shall curse his blunted shears,

And vainly pinch, and scrape, and tear,
Around their leathern ears.

We'll hang, above his own Guildhall,
The city's grave Recorder,

And on the den of thieves we'll fall,
Though Pym should speak to order.
In vain the lank-haired gang shall try
To cheat our martial law;

In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry
That strangers must withdraw.

Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair,
We'll build a glorious pyre,

And tons of rebel parchment there
Shall crackle in the fire.

With them shall perish, cheek by jowl,

Petition, psalm, and libel,

The Colonel's canting muster-roll,

The Chaplain's dog-ear'd bible.

We'll tread a measure round the blaze
Where England's pest expires,
And lead along the dance's maze
The beauties of the friars :

Then smiles in every face shall shine,
And joy in every soul.

Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine,
And crown the largest bowl.

And as with nod and laugh ye sip
The goblet's rich carnation,
Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip

The wink of invitation;

Drink to those names,-those glorious names,-
Those names no time shall sever,—
Drink, in a draught as deep as Thames,

Our Church and King for ever!

SERMON IN A CHURCHYARD. (1825.)

LET pious Damon take his seat,

With mincing step, and languid smile, And scatter from his 'kerchief sweet, Sabæan odours o'er the aisle ;

And spread his little jewelled hand,

And smile round all the parish beauties,
And pat his curls, and smooth his band,
Meet prelude to his saintly duties.

Let the thronged audience press and stare,
Let stifled maidens ply the fan,
Admire his doctrines and his hair,

And whisper "What a good young man!"
While he explains what seems most clear,
So clearly that it seems perplexed,

I'll stay, and read my sermon here;

And skulls, and bones, shall be the text.

Art thou the jilted dupe of fame?

Dost thou with jealous anger pine
Whene'er she sounds some other name,
With fonder emphasis than thine?
To thee I preach; draw near; attend!
Look on these bones, thou fool, and see
Where all her scorns and favours end,
What Byron is, and thou must be.

Dost thou revere, or praise, or trust

Some clod like those that here we spurn; Some thing that sprang like thee from dust, And shall like thee to dust return? Dost thou rate statesmen, heroes, wits, At one sear leaf or wandering feather? Behold the black, damp, narrow pits,

Where they and thou must lie together.

Dost thou beneath the smile or frown
Of some vain woman bend thy knee?
Here take thy stand, and trample down
Things that were once as fair as she.
Here rave of her ten thousand graces,
Bosom, and lip, and eye, and chin,
While, as in scorn, the fleshless faces
Of Hamiltons and Waldegraves grin.

Whate'er thy losses or thy gains,
Whate'er thy projects or thy fears,
Whate'er the joys, whate'er the pains,

That prompt thy baby smiles and tears,
Come to my school, and thou shalt learn,
In one short hour of placid thought,
A stoicism, more deep, more stern,

Than ever Zeno's porch hath taught.

The plots and feats of those that press
To seize on titles, wealth, or power,
Shall seem to thee a game of chess,

Devised to pass a tedious hour.
What matters it to him who fights
For shows of unsubstantial good,
Whether his Kings, and Queens, and Knights,
Be things of flesh, or things of wood?

We check, and take; exult and fret;

Our plans extend, our passions rise,

Till in our ardour we forget

How worthless is the victor's prize.
Soon fades the spell, soon comes the night:
Say will it not be then the same,
Whether we played the black or white,
Whether we lost or won the game?

Dost thou among these hillocks stray,
O'er some dear idol's tomb to moan?
Know that thy foot is on the clay

Of hearts once wretched as thy own.
How many a father's anxious schemes,
How many rapturous thoughts of lovers,
How many a mother's cherished dreams,
The swelling turf before thee covers!

Here for the living, and the dead,

The weepers and the friends they weep, Hath been ordained the same cold bed,

The same dark night, the same long sleep Why shouldest thou writhe, and sob, and rave O'er those, with whom thou soon must be? Death his own sting shall cure-the grave Shall vanquish its own victory.

Here learn that all the griefs and joys,
Which now torment, which now beguile,
Are children's hurts, and children's toys,
Scarce worthy of one bitter smile.
Here learn that pulpit, throne, and press,
Sword, sceptre, lyre, alike are frail,
That science is a blind man's guess,
And History a nurse's tale.

Here learn that glory and disgrace,
Wisdom and folly, pass away,
That mirth hath its appointed space,
That sorrow is but for a day;
That all we love, and all we hate,

That all we hope, and all we fear,
Each mood of mind, each turn of fate,
Must end in dust and silence here.