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Long life to the grape! and when summer | Few and short were the prayers we sald,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; The age of our nectar shall gladden my own. But we stedfastly gazed on the face of t We must die-who does not? may our sins
dead, be forgiven! And we bitterly thought of the morrot. And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.
We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed
o'er his head ON SIR JOHN MOORE'S BURIAL. And we far away on the billow! Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's got.
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; But nothing he'll reck, if they let his Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
sleep on O’er the grave where our hero we buried. In the grave where a Briton has laid hin. We buried him darkly at dead of night, But half of our heavy task was done, The sods with our bayonets turning, When the clock told the hour for retiring: By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And we heard by the distant and random gul And the lantern dimly burning.
That the foe was suddenly firing. No useless coffin confined his breast, Slowly and sadly we laid him down, Nor in sheet nor in shrouds we bound him, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, With his martial cloak around him. But we left him alone with his glory.
HOURS OF IDLENESS.
Μήτ' άρ με μάλ' αίνεε, μήτε τι νείκει.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
THESE POEMS ARE INSCRIBED BY RIS OBLIGBD
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, prondly, FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE,
Led their vassals from Europe to PalesKNIGHT OF TUB GARTER, etc. etc.
tine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with
every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that
remain. ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringWhy dost thou build the hall? Son of the winged
ing numbers, days! Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls
Raise a flame in the breast, for the warin thy empty cour.
Ossian. Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan Through thy battlements, Newstead, the
slumbers, hollow winds whistle;
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel, by Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone
death. to decay ; In thy once smiling garden the hemlock and Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of thistle
Cressy; Have choked up the rose, which late For the safety of Edward and England bloom'd in the way.
My Fathers! the tears of your country re- No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;. How you fought! how you died ! still her Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy annals can tell.
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. On Marston, with Rupert 'gainst traitors What though thy sire lament his failing line, contending,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Four brothers enrich'd with their blood Though none, like thee, his dying hour will the bleak field;
cheer, For the rights of a monarch, their country Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: defending,
But, who with me shall hold thy former Till death their attachment to royalty
Thine image, what new friendship can
efface? Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, Ah, none! a father's tears will cease to flow, departing
Time will assuage an infant-brother's woe; From the seat of his ancestors, bids you To all, save one, is consolation known, adien!
While solitary Friendship sighs alone. Abroad, or at home, your remembrance
1803. imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and
A FRAGMENT. you.
When, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice Though a tear dim his eyo, at this sad Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; separation,
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountains' Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
side; The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget. Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured That fame, and that memory, still will heTo mark the spot where earth to earth rocherish ,
turns: He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd renown;
stone; Like you will he live, or like you will he My epitaph shall be, my name alone : perish;
If that with honour fail to crown my clay, When decay'd, may he mingle his dust | Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay; with your own.
That, only that, shall single out the spot, 1803. By that remember'd, or with that forgot.
EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.
Αστερ πριν μεν ελαμπες ενι ζωοισιν έωος.
O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Felix! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.
When Friendship or Love
The lips may beguile,
Too oft is a smile
To mask detestation, or fear;
Whilst the soul-telling eye
Mild Charity'a glow,
Compassion will melt,
Which the children of vanity rear; Where this virtue is felt,
No fiction of fame And its dew is diffused in a Tear.
Shall blazon my name,
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear. The man, doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer; As he bends o'er the wave,
ON THE DEATH OF M8. FOX Which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The following illiberal Impromptu appears
in a Morning-Paper. The soldier braves death,
“Our Nation's foes lament on Fox's death For a fanciful wreath,
But bless the hour when Pirt resign'd E In Glory's romantic career ;
breath; But he raises the foe,
These feelings wide, let Sense and Trad When in battle laid low,
unclae, And bathes every wound with a Tear. We give the palm where Justice points i
due." If, with high-bounding pride, He return to his bride,
To which the Author of these Pieces set Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear;
the following Reply. All his toils are repaid, When, embracing the maid,
OH! factious viper! whose en venom'd tooth From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Would mangle still the dead, perverting
truth; Sweet scene of my youth,
What, though our “nation's foes" lament
the fate, Seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chased each fast-fleeting year;
generous feeling, of the good and Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,
great; For a last look I turn'd,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the
name Bat thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Of him, whose meed exists
in endless fame!
When Pitt expired, in plenitude of pover, Though my vows I can pour,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour, To my Mary no more,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread, My Mary, to Love once so dear;
For noble spirits “war not with the dead." In the shade of her bower,
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, I remember the hour,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o’erwhelming our conflicting state; By another possest,
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appeard, May she live ever blest,
Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric reard; Her name still my heart must revere; He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied; With a sigh I resign,
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died: What I once thought was mine,
Not one great people only raise his urn, And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
“These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth Ye friends of my heart,
unclue, Ere from you I depart,
To give the palm where Justice points it This hope to my breast is most near;
due;" If again we shall meet,
Yet let not canker'd calumny assail, In this rural retreat,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy
veil. May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world
must weep, When my soul wings her flight,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble To the regions of night,
sleep, And my corse shall recline on its bier;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations sgroan, As ye pass by the tomb,
While friends and foes alike his talents own, Where my ashes consume,
Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
Nor e'en to Port the patriot's palm resign,
Vrbich Envy,wearing Candour's sacred mask, May no marble bestow
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. The splendour of woe,
AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, Then read, dear Girl, with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; elivered previous to the performance of “The To thee in vain I shall not plead,
Wheel of Fortune," at a private theatre. In pity for the Poet's woes. SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age He was, in sooth, a genuine bard ; Jas swept immoral raillery from the stage; His was no faint fictitious flame; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Like his, may love be thy reward, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author But not thy hapless fate the same. Since, now, to please with purer scenes we
seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's
TO M. cheek; Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, On! did those eyes, instead of fire, And meet indulgence though she find not With bright, but mild affection shinc:
Though they might kindle less desire, Still, not for her alone we wish respect, Love, more than mortal, would be thine. Others appear more conscious of defect; To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold, For thon art form'd so heavenly fair, In all the arts of scenic action old;
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, No Cooke, no KEMBLE, can salute you here, We must admire, but still despair : No SIDDON, draw the sympathetic tear; That fatal glance forbids esteem. To-night, you throng to witness the debut, Of embryo-Actors, to the drama new. When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, Here, then, our almost unfledged wings So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd, that, too divine for earth, Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly; The skies might claim thee for their own. Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drvoping, alas! we fall to rise no more. Therefore, to guard her dearest work, Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays, Lest angels might dispute the prize, Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once celestial eyes. But all our Dramatis Personæ wait, In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate. These might the boldest sylph appal, No venal views our progress can retard, When gleaming with meridian blaze; Your generous plaudits are our sole reward; | Thy beauty must enrapture all, For these each Hero all his power displays, But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? Each timid Heroine shrinks before your
'Tis said, that Berenice's hair Surely, the last will some protection find, In stars adorns the vault of heaven; None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind; But, they would ne'er permit thee there, Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
shield, The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. For, did those eyes as planets roll, Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail, Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: Should, after all, our best endeavours fail; E'en suns, which systems now controul, Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, Would twinkle dimly through their And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.
STANZAS TO A LADY.
With the Poems of Camoens. Woman! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee; This votive pledge of fond esteem, Surely, experience might have taught,
Perhaps, dear Girl! for me thou'lt prize; Thy firmest promises are nought; It sings of Love's enchanting dream, But, placed in all thy charms before me, A theme we never can despise.
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh ! Memory! thou choicest blessing, Who blames it, but the envious fool, When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
The old and disappointed maid ? But how much cursed by every lover, Or pupil of the prudish school,
When hope is fled, and passion's over. In single sorrow doom'd to fade.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!' Yet, it could not be Love, for I kner » How throbs the pulse, when first we view
the nase ; The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
What passion can dwell in the heart et Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
child? A beam from under hazel brows!
But, still, I perceive an emotion the sa How quick we credit every oath, As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-core: And hear her plight the willing troth!
wild: Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, One image, alone, on my bosom impret, When, lo! she changes in a day.
I loved my bleak regions,nor panted for nee, This record will for ever stand,
And few were my wants, for my wishe “Woman! thy vows are traced in sand."
were blest, And pure were my thoughts, for my soul
was with you TO M. S. G.
I arose with the dawn; with my dog u
my guide, When I dream that you love me, you'll From mountain to mountain I boundet surely forgive,
along, Extend not your anger to sleep; I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide For in visions alone your affection can live; And heard at a distance the Highlandei I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread te Shed o'er me your languor benign;
my view, Should the dream of to-night but resemble And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing What rapture celestial is mine!
on you. They tell us, that slumber, the sister of I left my bleak home, and my visions are death,
gone, Mortality's emblem is given;
The mountains are vanish’d, my youth is To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
no more ; If this be a foretaste of heaven!
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days I have witness'd Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your
before. soft brow, Ah! splendour has raised, but embitter'd Nor deem me too happy in this; If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, More dear were the scenes which my inThus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.
fancy knew ;
Though my hopes may have sail'd, yet they Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps,
are not forgot, you may smile, Though cold is my heart, still it lingers Oh! think not my penance deficient; When dreams of your presence my slumbers
When I see some dark hill point its crest To awake will be torture sufficient.
to the sky, I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Col
bleen; When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking SONG.
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rade Wuen I roved, a young Highlander, o'er
scene; the dark heath, When, haply, some light waving locks 1 And climb'd thy steep summit, oh! Morven
behold, of Snow,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty and Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd
you. below, Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, Yet the day may arrive, when the mountAnd rude as the rocks where my infancy
ains, once more, grew,
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of So feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear,
snow: Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred But while thcsc soar above me, unchanged in you?