Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought,
If these-but let me cease the lengthen'd
strain,-

Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

FRAGMENT.

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF
MISS CHAWORTH.

HILLS of Annesley! bleak and barren,
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd,
How the northern tempests, warring,

Howl above thy tufted shade!

Now no more, the hours beguiling,
Former favourite haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling

Makes ye seem a heaven to me.

GRANTA: A MEDLEY.
Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα Κρατήσαις.
OH! Could Le Sage's demon's gift*
Be realized at my desire,

This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St Mary's spire.
Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls

Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,
The price of venal votes to pay.
Then would I view each rival wight,

Petty and Palmerston survey;
Who canvass there with all their might,
Against the next elective day.

Lo! candidates and voters lie

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number: A race renown'd for piety, [ber. Whose conscience won't disturb their slumLord H, indeed, may not demur; Fellows are sage reflecting men: They know preferment can occur But very seldom-now and then. They know the Chancellor has got Some pretty livings in disposal: Each hopes that one may be his lot, And therefore smiles on his proposal. Now from the soporific scene

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,

The studious sons of Alma Mater.
There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.

He surely well deserves to gain them, With all the honours of his college, Who, striving hardly to obtain them, Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge: Who sacrifices hours of rest

To scan precisely metres Attic; Or agitates his anxious breast

In solving problems mathematic:
Who reads false quantities in Seale,"
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: +
Renouncing every pleasing page
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage,

The square of the hypothenuse.+
Still, harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent;
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When drunkenness and dice invite,
As every sense is steep'd in wine.
Not so the methodistic crew,

Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,

And for the sins of others pray:
Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial,
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.
'Tis morn:-from these I turn my sight.
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,
Across the green in numbers fly.

Loud rings in air the chapel bell;

'Tis hush'd-what sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell

Rolls deeply on the list ning ear.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excused,
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused

To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended

In furious mood he would have tore 'em.

Seale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy.

+ The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and is not very intelligible.

angled triangle.

The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,

On Babylonian river's border.

Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.

But if I scribble longer now,

The deuce a soul will stay to read: My pen is blunt, my ink is low;

"Tis almost time to stop, indeed. Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires! No more, like Cleofas, I fly; No more thy theme my muse inspires; The reader's tired, and so am I.

[last;

And friendships were form'd, too romantic to Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; How welcome to me your ne'er-fading_remembrance, [denied!)

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is

Again I revisit the hills where we sported, The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; [resorted,

The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay : Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, [ray. To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,

I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.* Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived;

Till fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his per formance of Zanga.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget

you:

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest. To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! [me, Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. But if, through the course of the years which await me, [view, Some new scene of pleasure should open to I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,

་

'Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew!'

TO M.

OH! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright but mild affection shine,
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth.
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,

The skies might claim thee for their own:
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk

Within those once celestial eyes. These might the boldest sylph appal, When gleaming with meridian blaze: Thy beauty must enrapture all;

But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 'Tis said that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.*

TO WOMAN.

WOMAN! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.'-
SHAKSPEARE

But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.

O Memory! thou choicest blessing
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over!
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,

'Woman! thy vows are traced in sand.'*

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely
Extend not your anger to sleep; [forgive;
For in visions alone your affection can live-
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the
What rapture celestial is mine! [last,

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality's emblem is given:

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of heaven!

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.
THIS faint resemblance of thy charms,
Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarms,

Revives thy hopes, and bids me live.
Here I can trace the locks of gold,

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould,

The lips which made me beauty's slave. Here I can trace-ah, no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

Must all the painter's art defy,

And bid him from the task retire.

This line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.

Here I behold its beauteous hue;
But where's the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be,

Save her who placed thee next my heart She placed it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there

Held every sense in fast control.

Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer;

My hope in gloomy moments raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond expiring gaze.

TO LESBIA.

LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed,
I'd tell you why-but yet I know not.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
And, Lesbia! we are not much older
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. Sixteen was then our utmost age,

Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least I feel disposed to stray, love! "Tis I that am alone to blame,

I that am guilty of love's treason; Since your sweet breast is still the same, Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth,

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; Warm was the passion of my youth,

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I loved you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended-
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving!
But older, firmer hearts than ours

Have found monotony in loving.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
New beauties still are daily bright'ning;
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,

The forge of love's resistless lightning.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG

LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET

ING HIS PISTOLS IN A GARDEN.

With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt,

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu !

DOUBTLESS, sweet girl! the hissing lead, Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,

Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. Surely some envious demon's force,

Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; But Heaven, with interposing power, In pity turn'd the death aside. Yet, as perchance one trembling tear Upon that thrilling bosom fell; Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, Extracted from its glistening cell: Say, what dire penance can atone

For such an outrage done to thee? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,

What punishment wilt thou decree? Might I perform the judge's part,

The sentence I should scarce deplore; It only would restore a heart

Which but belong'd to thee before.
The least atonement I can make

Is to become no longer free :
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be all in all to me.
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt:
Come, then, some other mode elect;

Let it be death, or what thou wilt.
Choose then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.

LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. Δει, δ' άει με φευγει. —ANACREON. THE roses of love glad the garden of life, Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu. In vain with endearincnts we soothe the sad heart,

Yet why do I ask?-to distraction a prey,

Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu! Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind?

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu! Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains [knew ; Once passion's tumultuous blandishments Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins; He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel!

[few,

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are Who laughs at the pang which he never can feel, And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu !

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast;

No more with love's former devotion we sue : He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu! In this life of probation for rapture divine,

Astrea declares that some penance is due; From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine,

The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew; His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu!

DAMÆTAS.

IN law an infant, and in years a boy,*
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from
school;

Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin :

TO A LADY,

TO MARION,

MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast;
He in dimpling smiles appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears,
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold, forbidding frown.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire;
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool indifference thrills us.
Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile,
Smile at least, or seem to smile.
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips-but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curt'sies, frowns-in short, she
Dreads lest the subject should transport me:
And flying off in search of reason,
Brings prudence back in proper season.
All I shall therefore say (whate'er

I think, is neither here nor there)

Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,

Were form'd for better things than sneering:
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of flattery free;
Counsel like mine is like a brother's,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion
Concerning woman's soft dominion:
Howe'er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue or lips carnation,
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us,
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture
To say they form a pretty picture;
But wouldst thou see the secret chain
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION.

HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND AP-
POINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET
HIM IN THE GARDEN.

THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it:
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,
With silly whims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish ;
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half-frozen;
In leafless shades to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
Since Shakspeare set the precedent,
Since Juliet first declared her passion,
To form the place of assignation.*
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;

Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain,
He surely, in commiseration,
Had changed the place of declaration.
In Italy I've no objection;
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation;
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves
That ever witness'd rural loves;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after.+

To form the place of assignation."] In the above little piece the author has been accused by some candid readers of introducing the name of a lady from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in the tomb of all the Capulets,' has been converted, with a trifling alteration of her name, into an English damsel walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month of December, in a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of sonie ingenious critics. He would advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read Shakspeare.

+But curse my fate for ever after.] Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure had been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, Carr's Stranger in France:'-'As we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior 1 prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age ut