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Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part,

As if its guilt had made thee mine.

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. (1) WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent)

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise
Why would they let him print his lays?

*

To me, divine Apollo, grant-O!
Hermilda's first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ;

And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining -
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

(1) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. II. p. 198.-E.]

1813.

TO LORD THURLOW.

"I lay my branch of laurel down,
Then thus to form Apollo's crown

Let every other bring his own."

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers.

"I lay my branch of laurel down.” THOU❝lay thy branch of laurel down!" Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou-none.

"Then thus to form Apollo's crown."
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,

Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

"Let every other bring his own."

When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,

Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MK. LEIGH HUNT IN

COLD BATH FIELDS PRISON, MAY 19. 1813. (')

Он you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,

For hang me if I know of which you may most [Bag; Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post

*

brag,

*

*

*

*

But now to my letter-to yours 'tis an answer-
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some
codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,
Must put on my breeches,, and wait on the Heath-

cote,

But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. (2)

(1) [See antè, Vol. II. p. 206.]

(2) [The reader who wishes to understand the full force of this scandalous insinuation is referred to Muretus's notes on a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled In Casarem; but consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the favourite Mamurra :

66

Quis hoc potest videre? quis potest pati,

Nisi impudicus et vorax et helluo?

Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia

Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia ?" &c.— E.]

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.

WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink :
My thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell. (1)

September, 1813.

SONNET, TO GENEVRA.

THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features - caught From contemplation—where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.

(1) [These verses are said to have dropped from the poet's pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy which overclouded the general gaiety. It was impossible to observe his interesting countenance, expressive of a dejection belonging neither to his rank, his age, nor his success, without feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether it had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional temperament. It was obviously of a degree incalculably more serious than that alluded to by Prince ArthurI remember when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night

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Only for wantonness.'

But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned them, and felt that his sphere was far above the frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave a strong effect of colouring to a character whose tints were otherwise romantic. SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn—

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!

With nought Remorse can claim nor Virtue

scorn.

December 17. 1813. (1)

SONNET, TO THE SAME.

THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but, oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,'
The soul of melancholy Gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

December 17. 1813.

(1) ["Redde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets. I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise- and I will never write another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic compositions." Diary, 1813.-F.]

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