TO THOMAS MOORE.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on: Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won.

Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,

Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour

Should be peace with thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

CHILDE HAROLD'S DEPARTURE.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto i. Stanzas 4-11.)

CHILDE HAROLD bask'd him in the noontide sun,
Disporting there like any other fly;

Nor deem'd before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety :

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee :

Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolved to go,

And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

The Childe departed from his father's hall :

It was a vast and venerable pile;

So old, it seemed only not to fall,

Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle.
Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile !
Where Superstition once had made her den
Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;
And monks might deem their time was come agen,
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,
As if the memory of some deadly feud

Or disappointed passion lurk'd below :

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

For his was not that open, artless soul

That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,

Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

And none did love him-though to hall and bower

He gather'd revellers from far and near,

He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;

The heartless parasites of present cheer.

Yea! none did love him—not his lemans dear-
But pomp and power alone are woman's care,
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,

And Mammon wins his ways where Seraphs might despair.

Childe Harold had a mother-not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not
Before his weary pilgrimage begun :

If friends he had, he bade adieu to none.

Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel:

Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon

A few dear objects, will in sadness feel

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,
The laughing dames in whom he did delight,
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands,
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,

And long had fed his youthful appetite;
His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,

And all that mote to luxury invite,

Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line.

STANZAS

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDERSTORM.

CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise,
And angry clouds are pouring fast
The vengeance of the skies.

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play,

But show where rocks our path have crost,
Or gild the torrent's spray.

Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
When lightning broke the gloom—
How welcome were its shade !—ah, no!
'Tis but a Turkish tomb.

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
I hear a voice exclaim-

My way-worn countryman, who calls
On distant England's name.

A shot is fired—by foe or friend?
Another-'tis to tell

The mountain-peasants to descend,
And lead us where they dwell.

Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness?

And who 'mid thunder peals can hear

Our signal of distress?

And who that heard our shouts would rise

To try the dubious road?

Nor rather deem from nightly cries

That outlaws were abroad.

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!

More fiercely pours the storm!

Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm.

While wand'ring through each broken path, O'er brake and craggy brow;

While elements exhaust their wrath,

Sweet Florence, where art thou?