Poems on Several Occasions. By EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. Second Edition. 8vo. pp. 39. London. 1813.
Moonlight, a Poem, with several Copies of Verses. By EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. 4to. pp. 75. London. 1814.
The Doge's Daughter a Poem; with Several Translations from Anacreon and Horace. By EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. 8vo. pp. 66. London. 1814.
Ariadne: a Poem, in Three Parts. By EDWARD, LORD THURLOW. 8vo. pp. 58. London. 1814.
Our modern heroes, poetical as well as military, are endowed with a rapidity of motion and achievement which keeps gazettes and reviews continually on the alert. Indeed. so difficult do we critics find it to keep pace with the "celeritas incredibilis" of some of our literary Caesars, that we think it would not he amiss if each of hew poetical chieftains had a Reviewer appointed expressly, "aupres de sa personne," to give the earliest intelligence of his movements, and do justice to his multifarious enterprizes.
The Poems of Lord Thurlow — whose prowess in this way is most alarmingly proved by the list prefixed to this article — come graced and recommended to notice by two or three very imposing considerations. In the first place, the rank of the writer is not without its prepossessing influence; — "a saint in crape is twice a saint in lawn:" — and we could name but one noble Bard, among either the living or the dead, whose laurels are sufficiently abundant to keep the coronet totally out of sight. Lord Thurlow himself seems fully aware of this advantage; and we are not quite sure that he did not mean a sly allusion to it, in the following motto from Shakespeare prefixed to one of these volumes—
—and then "my state"
(Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate.
In the next place, his Lordship is evidently an enthusiast in his art, and loves the Muse with a warmth which makes us regret that the passion is not mutual. Indeed, we doubt whether the shrine of Apollo ever boasted a more ardent worshipper; and if, unluckily, he but seldom feels the approaches of the god, it is not for want of invocations many and importunate. At times he even contrives, by the mere force of devotion, to work himself up into a sort of mock inspiration, like that of the young priestess Phemonoe in Lucan; — but, like her too, we fear he will fail in passing off his spurious ecstasies, upon any one at all acquainted with the true symptoms of divine afflation.
Another peculiarity by which this noble author deceives us into a momentary feeling of interest about his writings, is that air of antiquity, which his study of our earlier writers enables him to throw not only over his verse but his prose. This charm, however, is of short duration. A mimickry of the diction of those mighty elders; — a resemblance, which keeps carefully wide of their beauties, and is laboriously faithful to their defects alone; — the mere mouldering form of their phraseology, without any of that life-blood of fancy which played through it — is an imposture that soon wearies, and, if his Lordship does not take especial care, will, at last, disgust. He must not be surprised, if some unlucky critic should fall into the tasteless error of Martinus Scriblerus's maid, and, in scouring off the rust from the pretended antique shield, discover but a very indifferent modern sconce underneath it.
The first poem, of any length, that occurs, and, perhaps, one of the best that Lord Thurlow has written, is "Hermilda in Palestine." We are assured, indeed, by no less an authority than Dr Busby, that the Hermilda "has given much pleasure to the lovers of fine poetry." It would be scarcely fair, however, to animadvert upon this poem in its present imperfect state. We have little more than the opening of it; and the noble author has managed, in the course of a few hundred lines, to get half a dozen persons into scrapes and situations, from which twice as many thousand would not extricate them safely or creditably. At present, therefore, we shall refrain from touching this very tangled web. But, should Lord Thurlow at any time complete his design; — should he ever succeed in bringing back these stray heroes and heroines, and restoring them to their disconsolate friends and relations, we promise, in our critical capacity, to pay all due attention to his labours. At the same time, we submit, for his soberest consideration, whether a King of Ithaca. who thus traces his pedigree—
Ye kings, and heroes, of whose race I am,
Deducing from high Jove my sacred birth,
And he indeed from ancient Saturn came,
That was the first great ruler of the Earth.
Hermilda, p. 9.
Or a King of Pergamus, addicted to the following pastimes;
For in his tender years he wont to wring
The speckled serpents, and compel to die;
And after in the forests he would tear
The bloody jaws of libbard and of bear. p. 49.
Or finally a fair Amazon, who talks in this homespun style;—
This wretched man, I sleeping in the wood,
Thought well to rob me, maugre all his fear;
But found, at last, and to his bitter cost,
He reckoned up his bill without his host. p. 54.
—We submit, we say, whether such personages as these deserve that either he or we should be doomed to take any further trouble about them.
We come next to "Verses, in all humility dedicated to his Royal Highness the Prince Regent." These are excellent. The rising Sun is, of course, the stock simile upon such occasions; and his Lordship thus manages his two great luminaries.
As when the burning Majesty of day
The golden-hoofed steeds doth speed away
To reach the summit of the Eastern hill
(And sweet expectance all the world doth fill);
With all his gorgeous company of clouds
(Wherein sometimes his awful face he shrouds)
Of amber and of gold, he marcheth on,
And the pure angels sing before his throne
So you, great Sir, &c. &c. p. 112, 113.
Now, really, if Lord Thurlow were not one of the last persons to be suspected of any wilful deviation into wit and humour; — if we did not know how he scorns to descend from upper air into the low region of those will-o'th'-wisp meteors, whose brilliancy is too often derived from the very grossness of that earth they illuminate; — we should swear, that by all these tawdry similitudes, this "amber" and "gold, " and "golden-hoofed steeds," — he meant something not over charitable to the illustrious person so typified. It requires, indeed, our utmost reliance upon the noble author's sublimity, not to suspect him of some little declension towards waggery, in the line, "With all his gorgeous company of clouds." This, surely, is too happy and appropriate to be the mere casual windfall of sublimity. Atistophanes had already prepared its for the allusion, by representing a "company of Clouds" as the secret advisers of Socrates; and, in short — not to enter needlessly into particulars — we know nothing in descriptive poetry more strikingly graphical, than this motley mixture of gorgeousness and opacity, in which the Poet has enveloped his "Majesty of day" and "his company." The following is the concluding stanza of these delectable verses.
The tears, which we have shed, no more shall flow;
Your beauteous rising in our hearts shall glow;
And hymns of praise, as we behold your light,
Shall warble from the bosom of the night! p. 113.
Though we do not by any means agree with Lucretius "gigni posse ex non-sensibus sensus;" yet we think a little sense might be elicited out of this last couplet, by the restitution of a single letter, which, we have no doubt, dropped out at the press: we would read, "Shall warble from the bosom of the Knight," — meaning evidently Sir George Smart, who has the honour of presiding over the royal concerts.
The remainder of this volume, to the amount of near three hundred pages, consists of poems upon various subjects, under the general title "Sylva." There is "The Induction to my poem, which I designed to write, entitled England Triumphant;" and "The Legend of the Knight of Illyria" — another fragment of another great work — in which his Lordship thus introduces the dam and sire of a certain horse called Eupheme,
Milk-white she was, as is a holy heifer,
And bore this son, as I have said, to Zephyr. p. 215.
Indeed, from the frequency and fondness with which this noble animal, the horse, is mentioned, we suspect that, like the famous philologer Henry Stephen, his Lordship writes most of his poems on horse-back; which makes it the more surprizing that he should ever condescend to woo the "Musa pedestris," or dismounted Muse, in numbers so very near the ground as the following.
His warlike spear into his hand he took,
And paced forth into Eupheme's stall;
Then loosed him, whereas in little nook
That horse divine was tied to the wall. p. 221.
But pity of that lady's sad mishap
Did most torment him thro' the restless night;
He thinks the slave will in a dungeon clap
Her tender limbs; perhaps will kill outright;
Or, since he now hath got her in his trap,
Will quite despoil, to feed his appetite. p. 22.
There is nothing more delightful than to he admitted, as it were, into the work-shop of genius; — to see the many unhewn masses of thought which are destined to grow beneath the chisel into forms of grace and magnificence; — to observe, too, how much of this precious material has been wasted in wild experiments and forgotten fragments; — and then turn with delight to the contemplation of one divine work, which, after nights of thought, and days of labour, has at length risen into bright, consummate beauty, and waits but the last superficial polish, to take its place in a niche of Immortality's temple. This is no common treat; and with something like this (how like we will not say) the sublime Lord Thurlow has good-naturediy gratified us. We have already seers how kindly he lays open his workshop to the curious; — how many mishapen trunks, and pagod-looking things, (some with hardly foot to stand upon), he has generously submitted to the inspection of literary virtuosi: — But, not content with this exhibition of all he has done, or attempted to do, his Lordship, in some verses addressed "to the very noble and accomplished Lord Holland," gives the following clear account of all he hereafter means to do.
Perhaps, if time and grace be spar'd,
We may prepare a flight,
Wherein the heights of glory dar'd,
And the o'er-fabled night,
From out those adamantine gates,
And plains of penal woe,
We may, returning to our mates,
In blameless triumph go.
I think, my Lord, to build a verse,
Which, if our language hold,
Shall thro' the sides of darkness pierce,
And to all time unfold,
In language of thrice golden praise,
And ever-dear delight,
What lives amid th' Olympic ways,
And in the shoreless night. p. 140, 141.
The public, we are convinced, will be all impatience to receive the very valuable information promised in this last couplet: and though his Lordship seems to fear that our language may break down under him, we trust that no such accident will happen, but that he may perform his journey in safety to those "adamantine gates" he talks of, and tell us all about "th' Olympic ways" and "the shoreless night," on his return.
In the Appendix, or continuation of the Sylva, there is a poem of no less than four hundred lines' length, in praise of Althea, who, we at first supposed, must be some allegorical personage; conceiving that nothing but a "headstrong allegory from the banks of the Nile," could run away with a man, through four hundred lines together, without suffering him to draw one breath of common sense by the way: but we believe, after till, this Althea is a downright mortal mistress — though, if she knows the meaning of his Lordship's eulogy, she is much deeper in his secrets than we can ever expect to be. Menage was laughed at for writing to ladies in Greek; but we think Lord Thurlow's English has quite as little chance of being understood by them. — We defy any Greek — even "Prize" Greek — to be much more puzzling than the following stanzas.
Then are we to this fatal passion sworn,
As innocent as is the balmy air;
Nay, often on the pinion's of the morn,
The angels to her golden rest repair.
What promise I myself this perfect praise
Of spirits, and the large adoring world,
That must upon her faultless beauty gaze,
But shows the height from which I may be hurl'd.
What virtue is in me? the way unknown,
With no diviner guide, like Hercules, &c. &c.
Appendix, p. 10.
A fact, however, has transpired in these verses, which renders them important in a political point of view. It now turns out, that neither Moscow, nor Spain, nor even the inspired fatuity of our own government, in blundering on to success through more than twenty years of waste and failure, are to be assigned any longer as the causes (under Providence) of Napoleon's down-fall, and the deliverance of Europe; — for we now find, on the authority of these verses, it was Lord Thurlow's friend Althea that did it all:
Ah me! whatever is more soft, and pure,
Than all the world of woman-kind can show;
Whatever can to blameless love allure,
And make us with heroick passion glow,
In her, as in its native seat is found,
As light has still most splendour in the sun
The name of England is by her renown'd,
"And by her charms Napoleon is undone." p. 17.
We have heard indeed of another illustrious claimant to the sole and exclusive glory of these happy events; — but it is not for us to undertake so delicate an arbitrement: — Between that great person and Althea the matter rests at present.
We come now to the "Moonlight" of the Noble author, having already had a foretaste of his lunar inspirations in a Sonnet (Poems, p. 196) beginning thus:
How oft, O Moon, in thy most tragick face,
The travell'd map of mournful history,
Some record of long-perish'd woe I trace,
Fetch'd from old Kings' moth-eaten memory.
"Moonlight" is dedicated to Lord Eldon. "It is the labour," the Noble author says, "of two days, and presented to Lord Eldon on two accounts." We shall try the patience and ingenuity of our readers with but one enigmatical extract from this poem; — hoping, at the same time, that Lord Thurlow is less cruelly given than that ancient dealer in riddles, the Sphinx, who made a point of devouring all those that were unable to understand her conundrums.
No soul has flown unto the gate of woe,
Or to the blissful soil, or brush'd the shore
Of Limbo with its wings; or flown and liv'd:
But yet intelligence from these has come,
By angels, and pale ghosts, and vexed fools,
That, straying as they wont, were blown athwart
The nether world, from the oblivious pool
Scarce 'scaping, on our scornful marge to land;
Thence to he blown by every idle wind,
Their tale half told, with a new flight of fools,
Eclectick, to the planetary void. p. 12.
On this extraordinary passage, — its blown-about ghosts, and eclectick flight of fools — and on all such extraordinary passages in Lord Thurlow, we would willingly pass no severer sentence than that which a Mufti, whom Toderini mentions, pronounced upon some verses of the Turkish poet Misri; — "Le Fens de ces vers ne peut etre connu et entendu de personne que de Dieu et de Misri." — The Noble author had evidently been reading Dante; and the same process appears to have taken place, which, from his Lordship's peculiar affinities, must always occur upon his immersion into any such writers, — he comes out incrusted with a rich deposit of their faults. Not all the authority of Dante can reconcile us to hearing the dog Cerberus called "a worm" with "an iron throat."
At length we arrive at a story, which the Noble author has condescended to finish; — one of those chef-d'oeuvres from "the working-house of thought," which we have already said there is such fulness of delight in contemplating. "The Doge's Daughter" was written, as we are told in the dedication, for the laudable purpose of curing Lord Eldon of the gout: — "but I thank God," says the dedicator, "your Lordship's pain lasted not so long as my labour:" — The poem, however, is here ready against any future attack; and we trust the Learned Lord
Will find benefit from the application. It is a conceit of Cowley, in speaking of Ovid's writings during his banishment, that "the cold of the country had stricken through the very feet of his verses" — and we really fear that the feet of Lord Thurlow's verses are not wholly free from that malady, for which he thinks them so sovereign a cure; — they have all its visible symptoms of hobbling and inflation, and indeed are in such a state as to make us feel that it would be barbarous to handle them too shall therefore be as gentle in our account of "the Doge's Daughter" as possible.
The Poem opens with Aurora leaving the bed of that eternal old gentleman Tithonus, and Apollo
Coming forth with all his state
From the oriental gate
Now the Doge was at his prayers;
And her bright and golden hairs
Amphitrite combed free
Underneath the crystal sea. p. 1.
We think this Doge must be quite as astonished to find him self "at his prayers" between Apollo and Amphitrite, as his brother Doge was upon seeing himself at the court of Lewis the XIVth.
But yet Heliodora lay,
Turning from the golden day,
Naked, on her purple bed,
Tears, like amber, she did shed,
And her bosom heav'd with groans,
Fit to melt the marble stones
That jut upon the Adrian shore. p. 3.
This gorgeous young lady, who lies upon purple, and weeps amber, is the Doge's daughter; — and, not having her recollection very clear about her in waking, she asks her nurse
Is not this the fatal day,
Tell me, O Caneura, pray,
When the Doge, my father, said,
I should mount the marriage bed
With the Lord Orsino's heir?
O day of madness and despair! p. 3, 4.
The lover of her own choice is Frangipani; — she is, of course, superlatively wretched, and thus calls upon "the golden air of all conceivable and inconceivable things — to pity her!
O pity me, thou golden air!
For pity to my God I fly;
O Frangipani, let me die
If I behold thee not again!
Then, overcome with sudden pain.
The maiden fell upon her back,
All her reason gone to wrack. p. 6.
The nurse endeavours to console her; — Frangipani, she suggests, is gone; and it were "idle pain" to sigh after him.
Would you with Frangipani go
An exile, o'er the mountain's snow?
Would you be the "windy" spouse
Of a Corsair— p. 6.
But all the eloquence of the nurse is vain; — the maiden is not to be consoled; — though her talent for sleeping, in such circumstances, is truly enviable.
No more the hapless virgin said
But fell again upon the bed,
And her bright and golden head
In the dews of night was steep'd;
"Long time then the maiden sleep'd." p. 8.
The nurse's heart is at length touched, — whether by the profoundness of her ladys's sorrow, or of her sleep, is left doubtful; and she resolves to assist her in escaping to Frangipani.
I've an old head, and that can tell—
There's nothing so impossible,
But that this eve, ere Hesper glow,
To Frangipani thou shalt go.
There's never a prince in Italy
With my Heliodore shall lie,
But I'll know the reason why:
Unless, and I myself deceive,
Frangipani give them leave. p. 9.
This good old woman arranges their voyage in the same unaffected style.
To the Port we'll make repair:
I have a good brother there,
Captain of the ship Saint Mark,
Who will take us in the dark. p. 11.
The young lady puts on sailors' clothes; — is told that "it will not hurt her chastity" to learn to curse and swear a little; and they embark for Athens.
The Second Canto opens with their arrival in "the Athenian Bay;" — they see the Duke Oeneus and his court;
And by his side a knight there rode,
Much in semblance like a god; p. 18.
who turns out to be Frangipani, though shrewdly suspected at first view to be Apollo: — The Duke and his warriors depart on an expedition against the Pagans; and Heliodora, after remarking that "battle is a sweet delight" resolves to follow them. She applies, for equipment on the occasion, to a facetious armourer, who quotes Anacreon, sings ballads about Achilles, and cries "Anan?" whenever he is spoken to. He accommodates her with a ready-made suit of armour; and she arrives on the field of battle at the very moment when an able-bodied infidel is attacking her lover Frangipani.
She gave a cry, as doth a dove,
Who death will for her offspring prove;
And, soul and body, to the fight
She drove her steed against the knight:
Like Jove's divine and winged dart,
Her spear went right way thro' the heart,
And o'er his crupper he fell dead:
But Heliodore so swiftly sped,
That, falling o'er the man her steed,
She tumbled headlong on the mead. p. 26, 27.
No sooner did the lady tumble than
Frangipani saw the thing;
And, making for himself a ring,
Like Ajax, with his shield and blade,
Protected the unhappy maid.
He recognizes his Heliodora in the prostrate knight; and — in short — the story ends joyously with a marriage.
The Duke of Athens join'd their hands,
Love knit them in his golden bands,
And while the stars their lustre spent,
And to and fro young Hymen went,
The Doge's daughter gave content
For Frangipani's banishment. p. 29.
If this does not charm away Lord Eldon's gout, we doubt whether even "my maid's aunt at Brentford" could cure him though she, too, used to "work by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is; beyond our element."
"The Doge's Daughter," is followed by "several translations from Anacreon and Horace." "The sense of the former poet," his Lordship tells us, "has never been poetically given except by Cowley." He says also, "this, at least, is due to me, that I have not wandered far from my author; nor made that evil, which I found entirely void of it." If the noble author could have extended this last-mentioned favour to the poetry a well as the morality of his original, we might, perhaps, have been regaled with something better than the stale, musty potpourri of poor Anacreon's roses he has given us. Boileau describes one of the guests, at his well-known dinner, "Lamentant tristement une chanson bachique;" — and heartily do we pity the audience, if they were doomed to more doleful "Anacreontiques" than the following:
What needs it then the stone t' anoint,
Special, if here you disappoint
Our greedy thirst, or on the earth
To pour down the goblet's worth?
Me rather, while I live, with oil
Anoint, and with the rose's spoil
Adorn my head, for life is short,
And call me here a maid to court. p. 35.
The noble translator, however, is sometimes more amusing; — as in the Ode, beginning—
Yes, I wish, I wish to love;
Cupid of old this thing did move;
But I, who had no prudent mind, &c. &c. p. 42.
Such flights, however, are rare; — and he has even been at the trouble of inventing for himself a grave, steady sort of blank verse — "Anacreontique," to save him from all possible risk of degenerating into the usual airiness of this species of composition:—
Then the cup let us accept,
And our wrinkled cares dismiss;
"For what benefit to yon,
By solicitude disturb'd?"
Have we known whate'er shall be?
Life to men is wholly dark. p. 49.
And this is poetry! — surely, to give the name of poetry to such lines as we have quoted but too abundantly throughout this article, — merely because they are furnished with their proper quota of syllables, — is a stretch of complaisance, only to be equalled by that of Linnaeus, when he classed hats with mankind, in consideration of their mammae. Horace has fared no better under his Lordship's hands than Anacreon; — "Si flava excutitur Cloe," is translated "If 'yellow Cloe' go to wrack."
There is still another publication on the list — called "Ariadne" — But we are so anxious, before we take leave of Lord Thurlow, to give our readers some specimen of his happier efforts, which may excuse, if not justify, us in their eyes for bestowing so many pages on such a writer, that we shall despatch this last production in as few words as possible.
The heroine, Ariadne, is left alone on a desart island by her lover — not Theseus, as in our ignorance we expected, but one "Lord Marinell" — and
And with her tears augments the briny flood.
Love's prodigal and "widow of despite." p. 7.
This "Despite," whose widow the unfortunate lady is, must be some relation, we surmise, to "that vile thief Deformed," — who, in Dogberry's time, used to "go up and down like a gentleman:" — Amphitrite, however, takes pity on the deserted lady, and sends Ariel — But we really are unable to get through the story; — and must, like Sloth in the Lutrin, break off in the middle of our narration; happy, if good-breeding can keep us from imitating that goddess, when she
—succombant sous l'effort,
Soupire, etend les bras, ferme l'oeil et s'endort.
We shall only remark, that it required no ordinary courage to take Ariel in hand after Shakespeare; and that his fate here very touchingly reminds us of the story of poor Ver-vert. That divinely-spoken bird, in his way to the nuns who borrowed him, forgot the holy language for which he had been famed, and learned all sorts of vulgar abominations instead; and we are sorry to say the loan of Prospero's "bird" to Lord Thurlow, has been attended with quite as provoking a metamorphosis.
But it is time to give the more favourable specimens we have promised: — The following reflections upon "the Sacred islands," are in the Noble author's very best manner.
There sorrow never enters, nor sad pain
Afflicts, but joy with youthful love is wed,
And endless summer o'er the clime doth reign:
There the great poets' and the heroes dwell,
And kings, who held the glorious sceptre well.
And there too you, but be the season long,
My * *, shall repose in soft delight;
And feed your perfect soul with Virgil's song,
Your temples with pure laurel chastely dight;
Since still you sought the right, and left the wrong,
There through the golden day, and radiant night,
Your bliss shall be; but ah! I fable here
Your virtue will be crown'd in higher sphere.
Hermilda, p. 55.
The following extract from his Lordship's Appendix to the Sylva, contains as few of those faults which are peculiar to himself, with as many of those beauties which are common to him with thousands, as any we can select.
Much pleasure yet there is, and sweetness too,
In this pale look of the declining year;
I know not if the golden summer's hue,
More soft to me or lovely can appear:
The nightingale, indeed, is flown away,
The zephyr on its joyous wing is gone,
But yet the robin pours a plaintive lay,
And a soft murmur makes the air its own!
Then thus to lie amid these mournful bowers,
To dream of joys that may again return,
T' extract the worth of these declining hours,
Shall make my fancy soar, my spirit burn:
Let others love the Summer's flattering glare,
But I will sing to the Autumnal air!
Indeed, we rather think the most respectable efforts of the Noble author's pen are to be found among these lesser pieces of the Sylva and the Appendix; — though, at the same time, truth obliges us to add, that in proportion as they grow rational, they cease to be amusing; and that we have never read poetry, which explained to us so perfectly, why that people of antiquity — the Traezenians, we believe — sacrificed to Sleep and the Muses on the same altar.
We had concluded this article, when we received, by express, another Poem from the pen of this indefatigable Nobleman, entitled — "Carmen Britannicum, or, the Song of Britain, written in honour of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent." — This is really overpowering; and we find we have not a moment to lose in adopting the measure suggested at the beginning of the article, and appropriating one of our brethren exclusively to his Lordship. The "Carmen Britannicum" is admirable in its way; — and we only regret, that we have not room for abundant extracts from it. He traces the descent of the Regent in a direct line from Jupiter, through Hercules, Glaucus, the Tarquins, &c. down to Azo, son of Hugo,—
From whom our kings the Saxon sceptre claim,
And the White Horse do in their banners place. p. 17.
From Azo, the pedigree flows downward through several other "sons of gods," till it ends most satisfactorily in the Prince Regent; — whom the poet thus addresses—
The Sun beholds thee with uprising love,
And joyous, laughs, in his thrice-golden sphere,
And does reluctant from thy presence move;
The son of Jove, thou to his beams art dear. p. 23.
He has the hardihood, however, in one memorable line, to charge this illustrious person with a deed, of which few have ever suspected him to be capable—
Thames, by thy victories, "is set on fire!"—
and we were agreeably surprised to find from the following couplets, that India and Africa are the birth-places of some of those obnoxious things about Court, which we had very much feared were all of home extraction—
All herbs of earth are in thy gardens seen,
And in thy forests every glorious tree;
The Indian world has been despoiled clean,
And Africa, to find new beasts for thee! p. 24.
One more passage, and we have done.—
This is thy praise: but greater is thy bliss
To sit enthron'd upon the regal chair,
And see around thee what no land, but this,
Can yield to thought of beautiful and fair;
Ladies whom nature for a pattern made,
In shape, in stature, in complexion pure. p. 25.
And now we, for the second time, take our leave of Lord Thurlow — heartily wishing that, as he styles himself "the Priest" of the Prince Regent, and seems to threaten many more such oblations at his shrine, he would, at once, assume the laurel in form, and emancipate the brows of the present wearer, whose Pegasus is much too noble an animal, to be doomed to act the part of a cream-coloured horse upon birth-days.