“The verse adorn again “Fierce War, and faithful Love, “And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. “In buskin’d measures move “Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, “With Horror, Tyrant of the throbbing breast. “A voice, as of the Cherub Choir, “Gales from blooming Eden bear; “And distant warblings lessen on my ear, “That lost in long futurity expire. “Fond impious Man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud, “Rais’d by thy breath, has quench’d the Orb of day? “To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, “And warms the nations with redoubled ray. “Enough for me: With joy I see “The different doom our Fates assign. “Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care, “To triumph, and to die, are mine.” He spoke; and headlong from the mountain’s height Deep in the roaring tide he plung’d to endless night. THOMAS GRAY. ―――― THE BARD. _A Covent Garden Ode._ “Ruin seize thee, ruthless John,[51] Confusion on thy banners wait; Though bless’d with all the smiles of _ton_, They mock the air with idle state: Helm nor hauberks twisted mail, Nor e’en thy sister’s[52] acting, shall prevail, To save thy soul from nightly fears, From O.P.’s curse, from O.P.’s cheers.” Such were the sounds that from the gallery’s height Roll’d thundering to the pit below; Rous’d slumbering Uproar from her seat, And wak’d the yell of clamorous _Row_: Fierce Wienholt stood aghast in speechless trance; To arms! Fitzgerald cried, and shook the sconce: Perch’d on a box, with haughty brow, Flush’d with the purple stream, in angry mood, Rob’d in his soldier’s garb, he stood Prepar’d the loose placard to throw. With haggard eyes, surcharg’d with blood, Shatter’d his garments, torn his hair, His arms wide sprawling to the air, With hurried voice and accent loud, Thus bellow’d to the rebel crowd: “Hark how each private box’s desert cave Sigh’s to the torrent’s voice beneath―― Our fierce battalions deafening clamours breathe, And high in air their hundred arms they wave, Swearing they’ll not an added ducat pay, For _high born_ Shakspeare’s harp, or _softer_ Otway’s lay.” Stopp’d is the _Bank Clerk’s_ prattling tongue. That rous’d the stormy scene, Brave Cowlam sleeps upon a craggy bed, O.P.’s ye mourn in vain; Clifford, whose lawless bold harangue Made lofty Graham bow his crested head; In dreary _Rufus’ Hall_[53] they lie, Struck with dismay, and ghastly pale, Far, far aloof, the promis’d witness fail, The Attorney-General screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of the noisy art, Dear as the _ruddy drops_ that glad my eyes; Dear as the hopes that lately fed my heart, When first I saw the daring conflict rise.