WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM AT MALTA. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer by ; d when by thee that name is read, ud think my heart is buried here. September 14, 1809 TO FLORENCE. ly when I left the shore, distant shore which gave me birth, o, amidst this barren isle, panting Nature droops the head, ar from Albin's craggy shore, soe'er I now may roam, in whom at once conspire ms, which heedless hearts can move, t to see is to admire, I forgive the word to love. e word, in one who ne'er so cold as look on thee, would think that form had pass'd POSTSCRIPT. I HAVE been informed, since the present edition went to the press, that my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are preparing a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, whom they have already so bedevilled with their ungodly ribaldry: "Tantæne animis cælestibus ir!" I suppose I must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecheek saith, "An I had known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus before the next number has passed the Tweed. But I yet hope to light my pipe with it in Persia. My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffrey; but what else was to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by "lying and slander. ing," and slake their thirst by "evil speaking?" I have adduced facts already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion, nor has he thence sustained any injury;-what scavenger was ever soiled by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because ] have censured there" persons of honour and wit about town;" but I am coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are very different from fears, literary or personal; those who do not, may one day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not been concealed; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels; but, alas! "the age of chivalry is over," or in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit nowadays. There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi, Esquire) a Sizer of Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has been accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy of his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, and what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the "Satirist," for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard his name till coupled with the "Satirist." He has therefore no reason to complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour to notice me and mine, that is, my ear band my book, except the editor of the "Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman, God wot! I wish he could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Mæcenas, Lord Carlisle. I hope not: he was one of the few, in the very short intercourse I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy; and whatever he may say or do," pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and publisher; and in the words of Scott, I wish "To all and each a fair good night, And rosy dreams and slumbers light." LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM AT MALTA. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone And when by thee that name is read, Reflect on me as on the dead, Aud think my heart is buried here. September 14, 1809 TO FLORENCE. OH Lady! when I left the shore, The distant shore which gave me birth, Yet here, amidst this barren isle, Though far from Albin's craggy shore, But wheresoe'er I now may roam, On thee, in whom at once conspire All charms, which heedless hearts can move, And, oh! forgive the word-to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er With such a word can more offend; Ah! who would think that form had pass'd Lady! when I shall view the walls The Turkish tyrants now inclose; Though mightiest in the lists of fame, And though I bid thee now farewell, Since where thou art I may not dwell, "Twill soothe to be where thou hast been. September, 1809. STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND WHILE BEWILDERED CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast, Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, Is yon a cot I saw, though low? When lightning broke the gloom How welcome were its shade !-ah, no! Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, My way-worn countryman, who calls A shot is fired-by foe or friend? The mountain-peasants to descend, 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 ilash, oh, dreadful hour! Yet here one thought has still the power While wand'ring through each broken path, While elements exhaust their wrath, Not on the sea, not on the sea, Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, And long ere now, with foaming shock, Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now And since I now remember thee As in those hours of revelry Do thou, amid the fair white walls, At times, from out her latticed halls, Then think upon Calypso's isles, And when the admiring circle mark A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Of melancholy grace, Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Nor own for once thou thought'st on one, Though smile and sigh alike are vain, My spirit flies o'er mount and main, |
