But say, what nymph will prize the flame
Which seems, as marshy vapours move,
To flit along from dame to dame,
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined,
Will deign to own a kindred care?
Who will debase his manly mind,

For friendship every fool may share?

In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen;
No more so idly pass along :

Be something, any thing, but-mean.

To death even hours like these must roll; Ah! then repeat those accents never; Or change « my life!» into « my soul!»> Which, like my love, exists for ever.

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.

ΤΟ

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest-and 't will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass-Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kiss'd it, for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,

And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee 1 can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all, save hope, the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime

We met, and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling couldst thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

In moments to delight devoted,

My life!» with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words on which my heart had doted, If youth could neither fade nor die.

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 massy 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, Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home, 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 spellIndulge 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 propious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhel.n'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. 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 glass 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 and plays
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 echo'd 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 your own.
The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!
Britons our judges, nature for our guide,

Still may we please-long, long may you preside!

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 e'en 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 then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
Το
prove thee-not Eternity.

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! beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate:

my

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 maddening 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.

A SONG.

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 lovest-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,
We 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.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even 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 there 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.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure,
From what even here hath past, may guess,
What there thy bosom must endure.

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again.

Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

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.

Quaff while thou canst-another race,
When thou and thine like me are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.

Newstead Abbey, 1808.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.

THERE is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave; But nations swell the funeral cry, And triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is sorrow's purest sigh

O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent: In vain their bones unburied lie,

All earth becomes their monument!

A tomb is theirs on every page,

An epitaph on every tongue.
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.

For them the voice of festal mirth

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep remembrance pours to worth

The goblet's tributary round.

A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,

Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined

Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find

A model in thy memory.

But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In woe, that glory cannot quell;
And shuddering hear of victory,

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

While grief's full heart is fed by fame.

Alas! for them, though not for thee,

They can not choose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be,

Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.

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 tearsAuspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!

March, 1812.

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:
"T is past-to them and thee adien—
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

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

That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought— I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 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 mornSuch seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought remorse can claim-nor virtue scorn.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

Tay 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.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

WHEN Some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise,
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.

FAREWELL.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,

Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky. T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;

But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
Eer burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree

May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest!