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METHINKS, Some thrice ten summers— thereabouts,
Have flown since last I paced thy princely streets,
Rich Rotterdam! admired thy quays, thy Schuyts.
The Treck, I ween, is wanting, which completes
The name of that blithe bargeling which one meets

At every turn; but far more will be missing,

Ere you have travell'd through these awful sheets; So pray, good sir, without or hem or hissing,

Let me proceed-I rather want thy blessing.



Louis beloved by the Dutch.

Time has been busy, since in this Exchange,
I first heard gabbled, and abjured thy Dutch;
Thy kingdom, too, has ta'en a wider range,
Since gentle Louis, whom you loved so much1,
Wielded the royal rod; which he would touch,
With so much loving-kindness;—'twas a shame,

He should have suffer'd 'neath a brother's clutch :
Another monarch reigns of sense and fame,

Few heads more worthy of a diadem.

Getting under



The pennant up-The Kaiser heaves in view;
Hence let us hasten to yon nimble oar.

Already do the passengers and crew

Re-echo to the cheerings from the shore

Zounds! what a buzz, and what a deafening roar ;

1 It will be observed, that this stanza was written before those troubles occurred in Belgium, which have been a source of so much regret, and which are alluded to at another part of the Poem.

Remember, that at Dordrecht we're to dine,

And that is distant three good leagues or more; The Maese, too, must be pass'd, and then, Oh Rhine ! Thy bosom shall receive us free from brine.


Ay ! spite the pelting showers, and biting air,
Which make our June a winter,-and the dreams,
Long wove, of all that's beautiful and fair,

On thy loud-lauded banks-thou Prince of Streams,

Half realized :-Ay! spite the ruined schemes Of those poor villagers, who, midst the mire,

Mourn their hard labours lost 1.-Ah! still it seems

As if the music of our Byron's lyre

Was breathing in our ear-Behold!-Admire !—

A backward


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While gorgeous brigantines, all deeply laden,

And floats, the spoil of many a stately wood;

1 The summer of 1830 was peculiarly wet and cold, and, on that account, injurious to the labours of the husbandmen on the banks of the Rhine.

Timber floats.

And happy hamlet, and sweet smiling maiden,

In costly guise, and graceful attitude;

Awake in us the surety of that good,

Which springs from peace, and arts, and enterprise;
As, on the smoking barge, in sapient mood,
We ponder on man's works, and moralize;

And praise thee, our lov❜d England, to the skies!

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to the Spirit of Byron.

Oh! thou proud spirit,-wilt thou, canst thou, say,

Vouchsafe on humble Bardling to bestow

One single spark of that celestial fire 1,

With which thou mad'st thy magic while below?
Thou can'st not want it now, sure great one- -No!
Sublim'd from all that's earthly at the core;

For such may there be found, nay, some that's low,
Mids't e'en thy minstrelsy; but where's the ore
That has not some alloy ?—all less or more.

1 Of all the eulogies on Lord Byron, there appears to be none equal in beauty and truth to the fine Stanzas found in Kennedy's Fitful Fancies, I select the following:

page 84.

"Unequal to your giant span,

You burst your narrow shell,

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