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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
you have travell’d through these awful sheets;
Time has been busy, since in this Exchange,
I first heard gabbled, and abjured thy Dutch;
Since gentle Louis, whom you loved so much ",
Wielded the royal rod; which he would touch,
Louis beloved by the Dutch.
He should have suffer'd 'neath a brother's clutch :
Another monarch reigns of sense and fame,
The pennant up—The Kaiser heaves in view;
Hence let us hasten to
Already do the passengers and crew
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,
A backward season.
Mourn their hard labours lost 1.-Ah! still it seems
As if the music of our Byron's lyre
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.
And happy hamlet, and sweet smiling maiden,
In costly guise, and graceful attitude ;
Awake in us the surety of that good,
As, on the smoking barge, in sapient mood,
Invocation to the Spirit of Byron.
Oh! thou proud spirit-wilt thou, canst thou, say,
Vouchsafe on humble Bardling to bestow
With which thou mad'st thy magic while below ?
Thou can’st not want it now, sure great one- -No!
For such may there be found, nay, some that's low,
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, page 84. I select the following:
“ Unequal to your giant span,
You burst your narrow shell,