Portrait of His Majesty, from a Picture by Sir
Thomas Lawrence, P. R. A. engraved by
The African Daughter, painted by Bonington,
engraved by Mr. Sangster
Portrait of Mrs. Arbuthnot, painted by Sir
Thomas Lawrence, P. R. A. engraved by
Mr. Ensom
The Bagpiper, painted by David Wilkie, R. A.
engraved by Mr. Fox
Portrait of Lady Jane Grey, painted by De Heere,
in the Collection of the Right Hon. Earl Spen-
cer, K.G. engraved by Mr. Dean
Milton composing Paradise Lost, from a Drawing
by Thomas Stothard, R. A. engraved by Mr.
Ensom
The Blue Bell, Portrait of a Child, by W. A.
Hastings, engraved by Mr. Fox
Ada, a Portrait of a Young Lady, from a Picture
by Sir Thomas Lawrence, P. R. A. engraved
by Mr. Dean
Rosalind and Celia, painted by Thomas Stothard,
R. A. engraved by Mr. Phelps
BY EDWARD QUILLINAN, ESQ.
FOR war and conquest and the Regent's days
Let others ply the graceful arts of praise,
Revive the pomp of arms on land and main,
Awake the martial symphonies of Spain,
Bid all the Regent's splendour blaze anew,
And all His trophies crowd upon His view;
Make London's turrets strike up all their chimes
To hail magnific guests of many climes ;
Call Prussia from his amber throne afar,
And thaw the gelid sleep that binds the Czar;
And let the war-worn visitants repose
Beneath the canopy of England's Rose.
What Roman triumph, where the savage throng Rejoiced at princes led in chains along,
What spectacle of Nile, though Egypt saw
Six harness'd kings her monarch's chariot draw,
Could match the glory of that British feast
For ancient thrones restored and kings releast?
Proud were those days; yet they, with all their pride And all the glare of Waterloo beside, Seem but dim heralds to a brighter day That glorifies THE KING'S pacific sway.
Of warlike honour fickle is the boast;
The newest armour ever shines the most;
No banners charm the multitude like those
Which last were bravely wrench'd from stubborn foes.
The wreath of Cressy was but freshly made
When Poictiers' laurels threw it into shade.
Both Cressy's Victor and his dark-mail'd Son
Were overtopt when Agincourt was won.
Fame, ever loving exploits that are new,
As Blenheim once, now trumpets Waterloo,
Whose one day's toil a richer harvest yields
Than all the labours of a hundred fields.
A few short lustres hence, in strong relief,
On fortune's fore-ground stands some other chief;
Behind him Churchill's, ay, and Wellesley's, Shades
In vain exalt their visionary blades.
The favour'd god of those that worship strife
Must stand before them in substantial life :
And war's deciduous laurel only springs
For living heroes and existing kings.
There is for Kings a fame that never dies,
A sunlike glory which itself supplies,
The light that emanates from grateful minds,
Defying envy, which its lustre blinds.
There is, for ever flowing and to flow,
For Him who turns to joy his people's woe,
A stream of love unwearied in its course,
A nation's heart its warm and salient source.
Through loyal veins, devolved from sires to sons,
From age to age the faithful current runs,
And bears for ever on in just renown
The buoyant name that dignified a crown.
One Patriot King has earn'd this meed of fame,
And Ireland's voice will vindicate His claim.
The Lusian where delightful Minho glides
May drown his wrongs in its oblivious tides*,
Forget the Prince that saved his land of vines
And scared the Gaul from his polluted shrines;
The Spaniard, stung with disingenuous shame,
May loathe the arm that propt his tottering frame,
Or, lull'd by pride's strong opiate, fondly dream
His own the glory, his Ally's a gleam:
Recording Echoes from the Belgian Plain
May thunder in Batavia's ears in vain,
Nor move her placid sense of cold repose
To one warm retrospect of friends and foes:
France may not heed what Royal Neighbour's bower Preserved her lily from the spoiler's power,
*The Roman soldiers were so charmed with the North of Portugal, where the Minho flows out of Spain into the sea, that it was said that river was their Lethe, which had made them forget their own country.
SON of the most beloved and best
Of Kings to Britain known,
A thousand glories on Thee rest,
Thy Father's and Thine own.
He, when the storm was raging high
Of blood, revolt, and anarchy,
Sate calmly on His throne;
peace and triumph both have shed Their brightest radiance on Thy head.
'Twas His to pour along the flood
A matchless sailor-band,
Till Nelson sank in fire and blood
The last fleet France e'er mann'd; 'Tis Thine to boast of trophies won By British troops and Wellington, "The Nelson of the land!"
And how the foe, who earth defied, Bow'd to Thine arms, and exiled died!
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