When George, alarmed for England's creed,
Turned out the last Whig ministry,
And men asked--who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confest 'twas he.
For tho', by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright _seen_ the King,
He sent such hints thro' Viscount _This_,
To Marquis _That_, as clenched the thing.
The same it was in science, arts,
The Drama, Books, MS. and printed--
Kean learned from Ned his cleverest parts,
And Scott's last work by him was hinted.
Childe Harold in the proofs he read,
And, here and there infused some soul in't--
Nay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned,
Had--odd enough--an awkward hole in't.
'Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing,
Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer,
Whatever was the best pie going,
In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger.
* * * * *
WHAT SHALL I SING THEE?
TO ----.
What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell
Of that bright hour, remembered well
As tho' it shone but yesterday,
When loitering idly in the ray
Of a spring sun I heard o'er-head,
My name as by some spirit said,
And, looking up, saw two bright eyes
Above me from a casement shine,
Dazzling my mind with such surprise
As they, who sail beyond the Line,
Feel when new stars above them rise;--
And it was thine, the voice that spoke,
Like Ariel's, in the mid-air then;
And thine the eye whose lustre broke--
Never to be forgot again!
What shall I sing thee? Shall I weave
A song of that sweet summer-eve,
(Summer, of which the sunniest part
Was that we, each, had in the heart,)
When thou and I, and one like thee,
In life and beauty, to the sound
Of our own breathless minstrelsy.
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