Come away, come away, little fly! 
  Don’t disturb the sweet calm of lore’s nest;
If you do, I protest you shall die,
  And your tomb be that beautiful breast. 
Don’t tickle the girl in her sleep,
  Don’t cause so much beauty to sigh;
If she frown, half the graces will weep,
  If she weep, all the graces will die. 
      Come away, little fly, &c.

Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone;
  Life is precious:  away, little fly! 
Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn,
  You’ll meet death from the glance of her eye. 
Were I ask’d by fair Chloe to say
  How I felt, as the flutterer I chid;
I should own, as I drove it away,
  I wish’d to be there in its stead! 
      Come away, little fly, &c.

THE HEROES OF WATERLOO.

Address, written for a Benefit, at a Provincial Theatre, for the
Wounded Survivors, Families, and Relatives, of the Heroes of
Waterloo.

Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu’ring sword,
And Peace returns, by Victory restored;
Peace, that erewhile estranged, ’midst long alarms,
Scarce welcomed home, was ravish’d from our arms;
What time, fierce bounding from his broken chain,
Gaul’s banish’d Despot re-aspired to reign;
Whilst at his call, prompt minions of his breath,
Round his dire throne rush’d Havoc, Spoil, and Death;
With wonted pomp his baleful ensign blazed,
And Europe shrunk, and shudder’d as she gazed. 
Insulted Liberty her tocsin rung;
Again Britannia to the combat sprung: 
Star of the Nations! her auspicious form
Led on their march, and foremost braved the storm.

Pent-in its clouds, ere yet the tempest flash’d,
Ere peal on peal the mingling thunder crash’d;
While Fate hung dubious o’er the marshall’d powers,
What anxious fears, what trembling hopes, were ours! 
For never yet from Gallia’s confines came
War’s fell eruption with so fierce a flame: 
She sent a Chief, matur’d in martial strife,
Who fought for fame, for empire, and for life;
Whose Host had sworn, deep-stung with recent shame,
To satiate vengeance, and retrieve their fame! 
Each furious impulse, each hot throb, was there,
That spurs Ambition, or inflames Despair. 
Then Britain fix’d on her Unconquer’d Son,
Her eye, her hope—­immortal WELLINGTON! 
He, skill’d to crash, with one collective blow
Sustain’d sedate the fierce assaulting foe. 
How stood his squadrons like the steadfast rock,
Frowning on Ocean’s ineffectual shock! 
Till forward summon’d to the fierce attack,
They give to Gaul his furious onset back;
Swift on its prey each fiery legion springs,
As when Heaven’s ire the vollied lightning wings! 
Then Gallia’s blood in expiation stream’d,
Then trembling Europe saw her fate redeem’d;
And England, radiant in her triumph past,
Beheld them all transcended in the last: 
Yes, raptured Britons blest the gale that blew
The tidings home—­the tale of Waterloo! 
But, oh! while joy tumultuous hail’d the day,
Cold on the plain what gallant victims lay! 
Deaf to the triumph of their sacred cause,
Deaf to their country’s shout, the world’s applause!