Imágenes de páginas

What if thy deep and ample stream should be 'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young
A mirror of my heart, where she may read Live as I lived, and love as I have loved :
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
Wild as thy wave,and headlong as thy speed? And then at least my heart can ne'er be

What do I say, a mirror of my heart ?
Are not thy waters sweeping , dark and
strong ?

DRINKING-SONG. Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art, were my passions long. Fill the goblet again, for I never before

Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart Time may have somewhat tamed them, not

to its core : for ever:

Let us drink-who would not ? since, thro' Thou overflowst thy banks, and not for aye;

life's varied round, Thy bosom overboils, congenial river ! In the goblet alone no deception is found. Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk


I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;

I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling But left long wrecks behind them, and again

eye ; Borne on our old unchanged career, we move; I have lov'd-who has not ? but what tongue Thou tendest wildly onward to the main,

will declare And I to loving one I should not love.

That pleasure existed while passion was

there? The current I behold will sweep beneath Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; In the days of our youth, when the hearts Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall

in its spring, breathe

And dreams that affection can never tako The twilight-air, unharm’d by summer's

wing, heat.

I had friends,— who has not ? but what She will look on thee: I have look'd on thee,

tongue will avow Full of that thought, and from that That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as

thou? moment ne'er Thy waters could I dream of, name or see, The breast of a mistress some boy may Without the inseparable sigh for her.

estrange ; Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy Friendship shifts with the sun-beam,- thou stream ;

never canst change. Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now:

Thou growst old—who does not? but on

earth what appears, Mine cannot witness, even in a dream, That happy wave repass me in its flow.

Whose virtues, like thine, but increase

with our years? The wave that bears my tears returns no


Yet if blest to the utmost that love can Will she return by whom that wave shall

bestow, sweep?

Should a rival bow down to our idol below, Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy We are jealous—who 's not? thou hast no

such alloy, I near thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. For the more that enjoy thee, the more they

enjoy. But that which keepeth us apart is not Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of When, the season of youth and its jollities earth,

past, But the distraction of a various lot, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last, As various as the climates of our birth. Then we find—who does not? in the flow

of the soul, A stranger loves a lady of the land, That truth, as of yore, is confin'd to the bowl. Born far beyond the mountains, but his


When the box of Pandora was opened on Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

earth, By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. And Memory's triumph commenced over

Mirth, My blood is all meridian; were it not, Hope was left-was she not? but the goblet I had not left my clime; I shall not be

we kiss, In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot, And care not for hope, who are certain of A slave again of love, at least of thec.

bliss. 82


Long life to the grape! and when summer | Few and short were the prayers we said,

is flown,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
The age of our nectar shall gladden my own. But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the
We must die-who does not? may our sins

be forgiven! And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.

We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread

o'er his head
ON SIR JOHN MOORE'S BURIAL. And we far away on the billow!
Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,


And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; But nothing he'll reck, if they let him
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

sleep on
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. In the grave where a Briton has laid his
We buried him darkly at dead of night, But half of our heavy task was done,
The sods with our bayonets turning, When the clock told the hour for retiring;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And we heard by the distant and random gun,
And the lantern dimly burning.

That the foe was suddenly firing.
No useless coffin confined his breast, Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
Nor in sheet nor in shrouds we bound him, From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, We carved not a line, we raised not a stoes,
With his martial cloak around him. But we left bim alone with his glory.



Μήτ' αρ με μάλ' αίγες, μήτε τι νείκει.

He whistled as he went for want of thought.



Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE,

to battle

Led their vassals from Europe to Pales KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, etc. etc.

tine's plain,

The escutcheon and shield, which with

every blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that


No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringWhy dont thou build the hall? Son of the winged day!! Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a

ing numbers, few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howle

Raise a flame in the breast, for the varin thy empty court.

laurell'd wreath;

OSBIAN. Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan TAROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the

slumbers, hollow winds whistle;

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel, by Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone

death. to decay; In thy once smiling garden the hemlock and Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of thistle

Cressy; Have choked up the rose, which late For the safety of Edward and England bloom'd in the way.

they fell;

dress ye;


ly Fathers! the tears of your country re- No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,

But living statues there are seen to weep; How you fought how you died! still her Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy annals can tell.


Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. on Marston, with Rupert 'gainst traitors What though thy sire lament his failing line, contending,

A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Four brothers enrich'd with their blood Though none, like thee, his dying hour will

the bleak field; or the rights of a monarch, their country Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: defending,

But, who with me shall hold thy former Till death their attachment to royalty

place? seal'd.

Thine image, what new friendship can

efface? bades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, Ah, none! a father's tears will cease to flow, departing

Time will assuage an infant-brother's woe; From the seat of his ancestors, bids you To all, save one, is consolation known, adieu !

While solitary Friendship sighs alone. Abroad, or at home, your remembrance

1803. imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and


WEEN, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice Though a tear dim his eye at this sad Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; separation,

When, poised ipon the gale, my form shall 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his

ride, regret;

Or, dark in mist, descend the mountains' far distant he goes, with the same emulation,

side; The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured

urns, That fame, and that memory, still will he To mark the spot where earth to earth recherish,

turns: He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd renown;

stone; Like you will he live, or like you will he My epitaph shall be, my name alone : perish;

If that with honour fail to crown my clay, When decay'd, may he mingle his dust Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay; with your own

That, only that, shall single out the spot, 1803. By that remember'd, or with that forgot.




Αστερ πριν μεν ελαμπες ενι ζωοισιν έωος. .

O lachrymarum fons, tenero eacros
BT109. Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater

Felix! in imo qui scatentem
On! Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.

What fruitless tears have bathed thy hon-
our'd bier!

When Friendship or Love
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, Our sympathies move;
While thou wast struggling in the pangs of When Truth, in a glance, should appear,

The lips may beguile,
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; With a dimple or smile,
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; But the test of affection 's a Tear.
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Too oft is a smile
Thou still hadst lived, to bless my aching But the hypocrite's wile,

To mask detestation, or fear; Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's Give me the soft sigh, delight.

Whilst the soul-telling eye

, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear.
The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes

Mild Charity's glow,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, To us mortals below,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. Shows the soul from barbarity clear;



Compassion will melt,

Which the children of vanity rear; Where this virtue is felt,

No fiction of fame And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

Shall blazon my name,

All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear. The man, doom'd to sail

With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer;
As he bends v'er the wave,

Which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The following illiberal Impromptu appeared

in a Morning-Paper. The soldier braves death,

“Our Nation's foes lament on Fox's death, For a fanciful wreath,

But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd bis In Glory's romantic career;

breath; But he raises the foe,

These feelings wide, let Sense and Trath When in battle laid low,

unclue, And bathes every wound with a Tear. We give the palm where Justice points it

due.” If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride,

To which the Author of these Pieces ses Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear;

the following Reply. All his toils are repaid, When, embracing the maid,

OH! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Would mangle still the dead, perverting

truth; Sweet scene of my youth,

What, though our “nation's foes " lampest

the fate, Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chased each fast-fleeting year;

With generous feeling, of the good and

great; Loth to leave thee, I mourn’d,

Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the For a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame!

When Pitt expired, in plenitude of power, Though my vows I can pour,

Though ill success obscured bis dying hour. To my Mary no more,

Pity her dewy wings before him spread. My Mary, to Love once so dear;

For noble spirits "war not with the dead." In the shade of her bower,

His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gare, I remember the hour,

As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight

Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state: By another possest,

When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appeard May she live ever blest,

Who, for a time, the ruind fabric reard: Her name still my heart must revere;

He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied With a sigh I resign,

With him, our fast reviving hopes have died: What I once thought was mine,

Not one great people only raise his art, And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

All Europe's far extended regions moum.

“These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth Ye friends of my heart,

unclue, Ere from you I depart,

To give the palm where Justice points it This hope to my breast is most near;

due;" If again we shall meet,

Yet let not canker'd calumny assail, In this rural retreat,

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy

veil. May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning yorld

must weep. When my soul wings her flight,

Whose dear remains in honour'd marble To the regions of night,

sleep, And my corse shall recline on its bier;

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations graan, As ye pass by the tomb,

While friends and foes alike his talents avn. Where my ashes consume,

Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

Nor e'en to Port the patriot's palm resiga,

Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask. May no marble bestow

For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask The splendour of woe,

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, Then read, dear Girl, with feeling read,

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; delivered previous to the performance of The To thee in vain I shall not plead,

Wheel of Fortune," at a private theatre. In pity for the Poet's woes.
Since the refinement of this polish'd age He was, in sooth, a genuine bard ;
Jas swept immoral raillery from the stage; His was no faint fictitious flame;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Like his, may love be thy reward,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author But not thy hapless fate the same.

Since, now, to please with purer scenes we

seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's

TO M••• cheek; Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, On! did those eyes, instead of fire, And meet indulgence though she find not With bright, but mild affection shine:


Though they might kindle less desire, Still, not for her alone we wish respect, Love, more than mortal, would be thine. Others appear more conscious of defect; To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold, For thou art form’d so heavenly fair, In all the arts of scenic action old;

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, No Cooke, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, We must admire, but still despair: No Sidons draw the sympathetic tear; That fatal glance forbids esteem. To-night, you throng io witness the debut, Of embryo-Actors, to the drama new. When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, Here, then, our almost unfledged wings So much perfection in thee shone,

we try;

She fear'd, that, too divine for earth, Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly; The skies might claim thee for their own. Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more. Therefore, to guard her dearest work, Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, Lest angels might dispute the prize, Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet She bade a secret lightning lurk

your praise,

Within those once celestial eyes. But all our Dramatis Personæ wait, In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate. These might the boldest sylph appal, No venal views our progress can retard, When gleaming with meridian blaze; Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; Thy beauty must enrapture all, For these each Hero all his power displays, But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? Each timid Heroine shrinks before your


'Tis said, that Berenice's hair Surely, the last will some protection find, In stars adorns the vault of heaven; None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind; But, they would ne'er permit thee there, Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

shield, The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. For, did those eyes as planets roll, Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail, Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: Should, after all, our best endeavours fail; E'en suns, which systems now controul, Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, Would twinkle dimly through their And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.




With the Poems of Camoens. Woman! experience might have told me,

That all must love thee who behold thee; Tuis votive pledge of fond esteem, Surely, experience might have taught,

Perhaps, dear Girl! for me thou'lt prize; Thy firmest promises are nought; It sings of Love's enchanting dream, But, placed in all thy charms before me, A there we never can despise.

All I forget, but to adore thee.

Oh ! Memory! thou choicest blessing, Who blames it, but the envious fool, When join'd with hope, when still possessing;

The old and disappointed maid ? But how much cursed by every lover, Or pupil of the prudish school,

When hope is fled, and passion's over. In single sorrow doom'd to fade. Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,

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