If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will
cheer,

Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who, with me, shall hold thy former place?
Thine image what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none !—a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.

LINES

1803.

WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND

AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN BY J. J. ROUSSEAU :
FOUNDED ON FACTS."

"AWAY, away! your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving."

ANSWER

TO THE FOREGoing, addressed to miss.

DEAR, Simple girl, those flattering arts,
From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,
Exist but in imagination,-

Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,

to whom the affectionate verses, given in page 3, were addressed:

**Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born," etc.

But in the altered form of the Epitaph, not only this passage, but every other containing an allusion to the low rank of his young companion, is omitted; while, in the added parts, the introduction of such language as

"What though thy sire lament his failing line, "

seems calculated to give an idea of the youth's station in life, wholly different from that which the whole tenour of the original Epitaph warrants. That he grew more conscious of his high station, as be approached to manhood, is not improbable, and this wish to sink his early friendship with the young cottager may have been a result of that feeling.—Moore.

The following is a copy of the lines, as they first appeared in the private volume:

"Oh, Boy! for ever loved, for ever dear!

What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,
While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!

With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee.
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance,
Thou 'It there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises:

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty :
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,—'t is truth.

July, 1804.

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING. (1)

[ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Hospes comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca?-
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos.]

АH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
AD LESBIAM.

EQUAL to Jove that youth must be-
Greater than Jove he seems to me-
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.

Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey,
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrades' honour and thy friend's delight.
"Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born,
"No titles did thy humble name adorn,
"To me far dearer was thy artless love,

"Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove
For thee alone I lived, or wish'd to live;
Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive!
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where, this frail form composed in endless rest,
I'll make my last cold pillow on thy breast;
That breast, where oft in life I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead:
This life resign'd, without one parting sigh,
Together in one bed of earth we " lie!
Together share the fate to mortals given;
Together mix our dust, and hope for heaven."

E.

6

Ah! Lesbia! though 't is death to me, I cannot choose but look on thee; But, at the sight, my senses fly;

I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,

My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My cars with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veiled in starless night :
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.

"Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. 4.

CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease

Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?

Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for love and you again :
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate :
By death alone I can avoid your hate.

TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's (1) unequal hand alike controll❜d,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, etc.]

YE Cupids! droop each little head;
Nor let your wings with joy be spread'
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved.
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm, he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom moved :

And, softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrupp'd oft, and, free from care,
Tuned to her ear his grateful strain,

(1) The hand of Death is said to be most unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease,

Now, having pass'd the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away : For thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay.

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.

[Justum et tenacem propositivirum, etc.]
THE man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow

Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent

To curb the Adriatic main,

Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain.

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,

He would, unmoved, unawed, behold.
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile :

Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.

TO ELLEN.

OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire :
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavour :
Could I desist ?-ah! never-never.

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS.

[Μηδαμ' ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.]

GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne

Both gods and mortals homage pay,

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey!
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;
My voice shall raise no impious strain

'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

How different now thy joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride, When placed aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou satt'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled! The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor jove relentless frown'd. (1)

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring:
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now, reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:-
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies;

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :

66

My bow can still impel the shaft :

'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?”

Harrow, Dec. I, 1804.

FROM ANACREON.

[Μεσονυκτίοις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ. λ.]

'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bootes, only, seem'd to roll
His arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,—
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child,
In faltering accents sweetly mild,
"A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast;
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby who can fear?”
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung.
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,

(1) Lord Byron, in one of his diaries, says, "My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as exercises), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Eschylus, were received by Dr. Drury,

FROM ANACREON.

[Θέλω λέγειν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.]

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds,
All, all in vain! my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of war's alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

ΤΟ ΕΜΜΑ.

SINCE now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.

my grand patron (our head-master) but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subside into poesy."E.

Alas! that pang will be severe,

Which bids us part to meet no more; Which tears me far from one so dear,

Departing for a distant shore.

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;

Where, from this Gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We, lingering, look a last farewell.
O'er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play,
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes.
See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waving o'er the park,

The elm I clamber'd for your sake.
These times are past-our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes I must retrace alone:
Without thee what will they avail ?
Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace,
When, torn from all you fondly loved,
You bid a long adieu to peace?

This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; This is of love the final close,

Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!

TO M.S.G.

WHENE'ER I view those lips of thiue,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet I forego that bliss divine,

Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet is the daring wish represt,

For that would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet I conceal my love-and why?

I would not force a painful tear.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well;

And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree :
By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know :
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortured heart,
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,

I bid thee now a last farewell.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair,

And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain my soul would dare

All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. At least from guilt shalt thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love.

TO CAROLINE.

THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say ?
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd

Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,

In sighs alone it breathed my name.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,—
But that will make us weep the more.
Again, thou best beloved, adieu!

Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review ;—
Our only hope is to forget!

TO CAROLINE.

The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. From my eyes flow no tear, from my lips flow no

curses,

I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss ;

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses

Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,

Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,

On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its lightning,

With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation,

In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.

(1) Lord Strangford's translations of Camoëns' Amatory Poems are mentioned by Mr. Moore as having been at this period a favourite study of Lord Byron.-E.

features,

Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures,

In the death which one day will deprive you of me. Mistake not, sweet sceptic! the cause of emotion ; No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; He worships each look with such faithful devotion, A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake

us,

And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,

When calling the dead,in earth's bosom laid low,Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,

Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow;

Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full

THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou 'It prize!
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
Who blames it but the envious fool,

The old and disappointed maid;
Or pupil of the prudish school,

In single sorrow doom'd to fade?

Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead
In pity for the poet's woes.

He was in sooth a genuine bard;

His was no faint fictitious flame : Like his, may love be thy reward,

But not thy hapless fate the same. (2)