Still is the toiling hand of Care, The drays and hacks repose; But, hark, how through the vacant air The rattling clamour glows! The wanton Miss and rakish Blade, Eager to join the Masquerade, Through streets and squares pursue their fun; Home in the dusk some bashful skim; Some lingering late, their motley trim Exhibit to the sun. IV. To Dissipation’s playful eye, Such is the life for man, And they that halt and they that fly Should have no other plan: Alike the busy and the gay Should sport all night till break of day, In Fashion’s varying colours drest; Till seiz’d for debt through rude mischance, Or chill’d by age, they leave the dance, In gaol or dust――to rest. V. Methinks I hear, in accents low, Some sober quiz reply, Poor child of Folly! what art thou? A Bond-Street butterfly? Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets, No taste hast thou of vernal sweets, Enslav’d by noise, and dress, and play; Ere thou art to the country flown, The sun will scorch, the Spring be gone, Then leave the town in May. From _The Fashionable World Displayed_. By John Owen. London, 1804, ―――― ODE ON THE CLOSING OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, _By George, Prince Regent, in_ 1816. Lo! where the scarlet-bosom’d band, The REGENT’S pomp, appear; Lo! where the Commons crowding stand, The Session’s close to hear! The spangled Ruler pours his throat, Responsive to the Speaker’s note, Well-prim’d his part to play; While Placemen, Pensioners, and Peers, By listening with attentive ears, Their ready tribute pay. Where the old tapestry figures stretch Their cobwebs round the throne; Where note-takers contrive to catch No meaning but their own; Viewing the REGENT’S well-plum’d head, Some time I stood, then whisp’ring said, As much I marvell’d at his hat―― How true to Nature is his wig; What beaux, what triflers are the big! What Dandies are the fat! The Treasury tribe is on the wing, Eager to end their troubled Spring, And bask them in the Summer noon; Some prosing in the lobby wait, Some show their star-bedizen’d state, Or Cossack pantaloon. To Contemplation’s sober eye, Such is the race of man; And they that speak, and they that try, Must end where they began. Methinks I hear, in accents low, Some holder of a place―― “Poor moralist! and what art thou? A patriot in disgrace! “Thy hand no gracious REGENT meets, No hive hast thou of pension sweets―― No stars, no riband to display; In rebel speech thy hope is flown; Thy name is up, thy party known―― We pocket while we may.” From _The New Tory Guide_. London: Ridgeway, 1819. ――――:o:―――― ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT. _Drowned in a Tub_[28] _of Gold Fishes._