As the chief who to combat advances Secure of his conquest before,
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, Hast pierced through my heart to its core. Ah, tell me, my soul, must I perish
By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish,
For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidée ! There Flora all wither'd reposes,
And mourns o'er thine absence with me.
THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left Shall never part from mine, Till happier hours restore the gift Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:
The tear that from thine eyelid streams Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest In gazing when alone; Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own. Nor need I write-to tell the tale My pen were doubly weak: Oh! what can idle words avail, Unless the heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woe, That heart, no longer free, Must bear the love it cannet show,
And silent ache for thee.
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.
ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be,
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? Have years of care for thine and thee Alike been all employ'd in vain ? Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee feels thou art A fitter emblem of his own.
LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.* WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah! happy if each tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away! Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!
• The Princess Charlotte. (EDIT.)
THE CHAIN GAVE. FROM THE TURKISH.
THE chain I gave was fair to view, The lute I added sweet in sound; The heart that offer'd both was true, And ill deserved the fate it found. These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well,- Alas! they could not teach thee thine. That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such. Let him who from thy neck unbound The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too The chain is broke, the music mute. "Tis past-to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER. STRANGER! behold, interr'd together, The souls of learning and of leather. Poor Joe is gone, but left his all: You'll find his relics in a stall. His works were neat, and often found Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound. Tread lightly-where the bard is laid He cannot mend the shoe he made; Yet is he happy in his hole, With verse immortal as his sole. But still to business he held fast, And stuck to Phoebus to the last. Then who shall say so good a fellow Was only leather and prunella?' For character-he did not lack it; And if he did, 'twere shame to Black it.
FAREWELL TO MALTA.
ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette! Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat! Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd ! Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventured! Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!
(How surely he who mounts you swears!) Adieu, ye merchants often failing! Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets-without letters!
Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters!
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine, That gave me fever, and the spleen
Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs, Adieu, his Excellency's dancers! Adieu to Peter-whom no fault's in, But could not teach a colonel waltzing.
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces ! Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!
Adieu, the supercilious air
Of all that strut 'en militaire !'
1 go-but God knows when, or why, To smoky towns and cloudy sky, To things (the honest truth to say) As bad-but in a different way. Farewell to these, but not adieu, Triumphant sons of truest blue ! While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more, And nightly smiles, and daily dinners, Proclaim you war and woman's winners. Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is, And take my rhyme-because 'tis 'gratis.' And now I've got to Mrs Fraser, Perhaps you think I mean to praise her- And were I vain enough to think My praise was worth this drop of ink, A line-or two-were no hard matter, As here, indeed, I need not flatter: But she must be content to shine In better praises than in mine, With lively air, and open heart, And fashion's ease, without its art; Her hours can gaily glide along, Nor ask the aid of idle song.
And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us, Thou little military hothouse ! I'll not offend with words uncivil, And wish thee rudely at the Devil, But only stare from out my casement, And ask, for what is such a place meant? Then, in my solitary nook, Return to scribbling, or a book, Or take my physic while I'm able (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label), Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, And bless the gods I've got a fever.
UNHAPPY DIVES! in an evil hour
Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst! Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose ! But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of
ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA.
GOOD plays are scarce,
So Moore writes farce : The poet's fame grows brittle
We knew before
That Little's Moore,
But now 'tis Moore that's little.
IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO 'BANISH CARE."
'OH! banish care '-such ever be The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights Renew those riotous delights, Wherewith the children of Despair Lull the lone heart, and banish care.' But not in morn's reflecting hour, When present, past, and future lower, When all I loved is changed or gone, Mock with such taunts the woes of one, Whose every thought--but let them pass- Thou know'st I am not what I was. But, above all, if thou wouldst hold Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, By all the powers that men revere, By all unto thy bosom dear, Thy joys below, thy hopes above, Speak-speak of anything but love.
'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear, The tale of one who scorns a tear; And there is little in that tale Which better bosoms would bewail. But mine has suffer'd more than well "Twould suit philosophy to tell. I've seen my bride another's bride,- Have seen her seated by his side,- Have seen the infant, which she bore, Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, When she and I in youth have smiled, As fond and faultless as her child; Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, Ask if I felt no secret pain; And I have acted well my part, And made my cheek belie my heart, Return'd the freezing glance she gave, Yet felt the while that woman's slave,- Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine, And show'd, alas! in each caress. Time had not made me love the less.
But let this pass-I'll whine no more, Nor seek again an eastern shore; The world befits a busy brain,- I'll hie me to its haunts again. But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain's 'May is in the sere, Thou hear'st of one whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times,
Of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise One, who in stern ambition's pride, Perchance not blood shall turn aside; One rank'd in some recording page With the worst anarchs of the age,
Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause, Nor with the effect forget the cause. Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811.
ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. Ye who beheld (oh! sight admired and mourn'd,
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !) > Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, [home, Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall; Say--shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you? Yes it shall be the magic of that name Defies the scythe of Time, the torch of Flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spell- Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art [heart. O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander's head,*
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn, Reflect how hard the task to rival them!
Friends of the stage! to whom both Players
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The boundless power to cherish or reject ; If e'er frivolity has led to fame,
And made us blush that you forbore to blame; If e'er the sinking stage could condescend To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, All past reproach may present scenes refute, And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, And reason's voice be echoed back by ours!
This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win
By neither shalt thou be forgot, Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!
Tis ours to look on you-you hold the prize,' Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise! A double blessing your rewards impart '— I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 'Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause,' Why son and I both beg for your applause. Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarti-When in your fostering beams you bid us live, culate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of My next subscription list shall say how much
'WHEN energising objects men pursue,'
Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows
A modest monologue you here survey,' Hiss'd from the theatre the 'other day,' As if Sir Fretful wrote the slumberous' verse, And gave his son the rubbish' to rehearse. Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,' Knew you the rumpus which the author raised, 'Nor even here your smiles would be represt,' Knew you these lines-the badness of the best, 'Flame! fire! and flame!' (words borrow'd from Lucretius,) [issues!
Dread metaphors which open wounds like And sleeping pangs awake-and-but away' (Confound me if I know what next to say). Lo, Hope reviving re-expands her wings,' And Master G- recites what Dr Busby sings !-If mighty things with small we may compare,' (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) Dramatic 'spirit drives a conquering car,' And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of 'tar.' This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,' To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 'Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,'
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain Disgraces, too! inseparable train !' 'Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid' [stupid): (You all know what I mean, unless you're Harmonious throng' that I have kept in petto Now to produce in a divine sestetto' !! 'While Poesy,' with these delightful doxies, 'Sustains her part in all the 'upper boxes! Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along,' Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 'Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play' (For this last line George had a holiday).
Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,' So says the manager, and so say I.
'But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast ;' Is this the poem which the public lost? 'True-true-that lowers at once our mounting pride;
But lo-the papers print what you deride
TO TIME. TIME! on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to dieHail thou! who on my birth bestow'd Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them be joy or rest, on me
Thy future ills shall press in vain : I nothing owe but years to thee, A debt already paid in pain. Yet ev'n that pain was some relief,
It felt, but still forgot thy power: The active agony of grief
Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to woe; For them, however drear and dark My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To prove thee-not Eternity. That beam hath sunk, and now thou art A blank; a thing to count and curse, Through each dull tedious trifling part, Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene ev'n thou canst not deform; The limit of thy sloth or speed, When future wanderers bear the storm Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone.
Without one friend to hear my woe, I faint, I die beneath the blow. That love had arrows well I knew ; Alas! I find them poison'd too. Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net Which love around your haunts hath set; Or, circled by his fatal fire,
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. A bird of free and careless wing Was I, through many a smiling spring; But caught within the subtle snare, I burn, and feebly flutter there.
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, Can neither feel nor pity pain, The cold repulse, the look askance, The lightning of Love's angry glance. In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine; Now hope, and he who hoped, decline; Like melting wax, or withering flower, I feel my passion, and thy power. My light of life! ah, tell me why That pouting lip and alter'd eye? My bird of love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate? Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: What wretch with me would barter woe? My bird! relent: one note could give A charm, to bid thy lover live.
My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, In silent anguish I sustain ; And still thy heart, without partaking One pang, exults-while mine is breaking. Pour me the poison; fear not thou! Thou canst not murder more than now : I've lived to curse my natal day, And Love, that thus can lingering slay. My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, Can patience preach thee into rest? Alas! too late, I dearly know That joy is harbinger of woe.
THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU
THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought; The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought: Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest. The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit ; But she who not a thought disguises,
Whose love is as sincere as sweet,- When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow, Is doom'd to all who love or live; And if, when conscious on the morrow, W'e scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only, To leave the waking soul more lonely. What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition;
As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming!
ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 'ORIGIN OF LOVE.'
THE 'Origin of Love!'-Ah, why That cruel question ask of me, When thou may'st read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?
And shouldst thou seek his end to know: My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He'll linger long in silent woe; But live-until I cease to be.
REMEMBER HIM WHOM PASSION'S POWER.
REMEMBER him whom passion's power Severely, deeply, vainly proved: Remember thou that dangerous hour, When neither fell, though both were loved That yielding breast, that melting eye, Too much invited to be bless'd; That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. Oh! let me feel that all I lost
But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost
To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whost busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whate'er to others, thou Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: I bless thy purer soul ev'n now,
Ev'n now, in midnight solitude.
Oh, God! that we had met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee!
Far may thy days, as heretofore, From this our gaudy world be past! And that too bitter moment o'er, Oh! may such trial be thy last. This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroy'd might thee destroy ; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall.
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