The Complete Works of Lord Byron Read Online

iv.

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 FROM CATULLUS

[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.]

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, 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 chirrup’d oft, and, free from care,
   Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
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:
From 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.

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 endeavor:
Could I desist? — ah! never — never!

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE

[Justum et tenacem propositi virum, &c.]

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.

FROM ANACREON

I wish to tune my quivering lyre
To deed 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.

FROM ANACREON

‘Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Boötes, 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,
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:-
‘My bow can still impel the shaft:
‘Tis firmly fix’d, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?’

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS

 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 the side,
 Thou sat’st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
 And mirthful strains the hours beguiled;
 The Nymphs and Tritons dances around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix’d, nor Jove relentless frown’d.

TO EMMA

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.

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,
   We shelter of our infant years;

Where from this Gothic casement’s height,
   We view’s 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 thine,
   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 belov’d, 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 tortur’d heart,
   By driving dove-ey’d 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,
   Suffus’d in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmov’d 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 could’st 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 breath’d 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 belov’d, adieu!
   Ah! if thou canst, o’ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
   Our only hope is, to forget!

TO CAROLINE

When I hear that you express an affection so warm,
   Ne’er think, my beloved, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
   And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
   That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear;
That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,
   Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear;

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
   Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining
   Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

‘Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o’er my 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 will one day 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 measure,
   And quaff the contents as our nectar below.

1805

TO CAROLINE

Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
   Oh when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow
   But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.

From my eye flows 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 launch in vengeance its lightning,
   With transport my tongue give 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.

STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOËNS

This votive pledge of fond esteem,
   Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou’lt prize;
It sings of Love’s enchanting dream,
   A theme we never can despise.

Who blames it but the envious fool,
   The old and dssappointed 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.

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE

Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
   Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
   Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
   Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
   Could you ever tasted the first kiss love!

If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
   Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
   And try the effect of the first kiss of love.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!
   Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
   Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
   Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
   What are visions like these to the first kiss of love.

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
   From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
   And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past —
   For years fleet away with the wings of the dove —
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
   Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBUC SCHOOL

WHERE are those honours, Ida! once yow own,
When Probus fill’d your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail’d a barbarian in her Cæsar’s place,
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul,
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway’d,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
Such as were ne’er before enforced in schools
Mistaking pedantry for learning’s laws,
He governs, sanction’d but by self applause;
With him the same dire fate attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom;
Like her o’erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name.

July 1805.

TO THE DUKE OF DORSET

Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray’d,
Exploring every path of Ida’s glade;
Whom still affection taught me to defend
And made me less a tyrant than a friend
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches and the pride of power;
E’en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown’d in rank, nor far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade control,
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,–
And even in simple boyhood ‘s opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,–
When these declare, ‘ that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;’
Believe them not;– they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name.
Turn to the few in Ida’s early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart; ‘twill bid thee, boy, forbear;
For well I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark’d thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
   Yes! I have mark’d within that generous mind
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail’d her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
   ‘Tis not enough, with other sons of power
To gleam tile lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot–
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering ‘scutcheon, or the herald’s roll,
That well-emblazon’d but neglected scroll,
Where lords, unhonour’d, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o’erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune’s minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires play.
One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call’d, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view, not less renown’d for wit;
Alike for Courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour’d by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain’d to shine;
Far, far distingish’d ish’d from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow’s hue,
And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown’d away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o’er
Scenes hail’d, as exiles hall their native shore,
Receding, slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself thy weal or woe,
With thee non more saain I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice:
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought,
If these – but let me cease the lengthen’d strain,–
Oh! if these wishes arc not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

1805

FRAGMENT

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE
MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH

HILLS of Annesley, bleak and barren,
   Where my thoughtless childhood stray’d,
How the northern tempests, warring,
   Howl above thy tufted shade!

Now no more, the hours beguiling,
   Former favourite haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling
   Makes ye seem a heaven to me.

1805

GRANTA

A MEDLEY

OH! could Le Sage’s demon’s gift
   Be realized at my desire,
This night my trembling form he’d lift
   To place it on St. Mary’s spire.

Then would, unroof’d, old Granta’s halls
   Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls’
   The price of venal votes to pay.

Then would I view each rival wight,
   Petty and Palreerston survey;
Who canvass there with all their might,
   Against the next elective day.

Lo! candidates and voters lie
   All lull’d in sleep, a goodly number;
A race renown’d for piety
   Whose conscience won’t disturb their slumber.

Lord H –, indeed, rnay not demur:
   Fellows are sage, reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur
   But very seldom, – now and then.

They know the Chancellor has got
   Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that one may be his lot,
   And therefore smiles on his proposal.

Now from the soporific scene
   I’ll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,
   The studious sons of Alma Mater.

There, in apartments small and damp,
   The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
   Goes late to bed, yet early rises.

He surely well deserves to gain them,
   With all the honours of his college,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
   Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:

Who sacrifices hours of rest
   To scan precisely meres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast
   In solving problems mathematic:

Who reads false quantities in Seale,
   Or puzzles o’er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
   In barbarous Latin doom’d to wrangle:

Renouncing every pleasing page
   From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter’d sage
   The square of the hypothenuse.

Still, harmless are these occupations
   That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,
   Which bring together the imprudent;

Whose daring revels shock the sight,
   When vice and infamy combine,
When drunkenness and dice invite,
   As every sense is steep’d in wine.

Not so the methodistic crew,
   Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
   And for the sins of others pray:

Forgetting that their pride of spirit
   Their exultation in their trial
Detracts most largely from the merit
   Of all their boasted self-denial.

‘Tis morn:– from these I turn my sight.
   What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd, array’d in white,
   Across the green in numbers fly.

Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
   ‘Tis hush’d:-what sounds are these I hear?
The organ’s soft celestial swell
   Rolls deeply on the list’ning ear.

To this is join’d the sacred song,
   The royal minstrel’s hallow’d strain;
Though he who hears the music long
   Will never wish to hear again.

Our choir would be scarcely excused,
   Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused
   To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,
   Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne’er descended,–
   In furious mood he would have tore ‘em.

The luckless Israelites, when taken
   By some inhuman tyrant’s order,
Were ask’d to sing, by joy forsaken
   On Babylonian river’s border.

Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
   Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease
   The devil a soul had stay’d to hear.

But if I scribble longer now
   The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
   ‘Tis almost time to stop, indeed.

Therefore, farewell old Granta’s spires!
   No more like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my muse inspires;
   The reader’s tired, and so am I.

1806

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF THE HARROW HILL

Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos. —
Virgil

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection
   Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;
Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,
   And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;

Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
   Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne’er fading remembrance,
   Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny’d!

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
   The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;
The school where, loud warn’d by the bell, we resorted,
   To pore o’er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,
   As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander’d,
   To catch the last gleam of the sun’s setting ray.

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
   Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
   I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.

Or, as Lear, I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,
   By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv’d;
Till, fir’d by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
   I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv’d.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
   Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you:
   Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
   While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o’ershadows the prospect before me,
   More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!

But if, through the course of the years which await me,
   Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
   Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.

TO M —

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
   With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
   Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,
   Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
   That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,
   So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear’d that, too divine for earth,
   The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
   Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
   Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest Sylph appall,
   When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
   But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

‘Tis said that Berenice’s hair,
    In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne’er permit thee there,
   Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,
   Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E’en suns, which systems now control,
   Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

TO WOMAN

Woman! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought:
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! Thou choicest blessing
When join’d with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled and passion’s over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope’t will last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
“Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.”

TO M.S.G.

When I dream that you love me, you’ll surely forgive;
   Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live, —
   I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
   Shed o’er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
   What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
   Mortality’s emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
   If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,
   Nor deem me to happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone it for now,
   Thus doom’d but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,
   Oh, think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
   To awake will be torture sufficient.

TO MARY

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE

This faint resemblance of thy charms,
   (Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
   Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Here, I can trace the locks of gold
   Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,
   The lips, which made me Beauty’s slave.

Here I can trace — ah, no! that eye,
   Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter’s art defy,
   And bid him from the task retire.

Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
   But where’s the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
   Like Luna o’er the ocean playing?

Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
   Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
   Save her who plac’d thee next my heart.

She plac’d it, sad, with needless fear,
   Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
   Held every sense in fast control.

Thro’ hours, thro’ years, thro’ time, ‘twill cheer —
   My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life’s last conflict ‘twill appear,
   And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

TO LESBIA

Lesbia! since far from you I’ve ranged,
   Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say ‘t is I, not you, have changed,
   I’d tell you why,- but yet I know not.

Your polish’d brow no cares have crost;
   And, Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
   Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.

Sixteen was then our utmost age,
   Two years have lingering past away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
   At least I feel disposed to stray, love!

‘Tis I that am alone to blame,
   I, that am guilty of love’s treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
   Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth,
   With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
   One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended,
   For, Oh! I loved you most sincerely;
And- though our dream at last is ended –
   My bosom still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers;
   Absence has made me prone to roving;
But older, firmer hearts than ours
   Have found monotony in loving.

Your cheek’s soft bloom is unimpeair’d,
   New beauties still are daily bright’ning,
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
   The forge of love’s resistless lightning.

Arm’d thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
   Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
   Fonder, alas! they ne’er can be, love!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY

[As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden,two ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them; to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.]

DOUBTLESS, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
   Wafting destruction o’er thy charms,
And hurtling o’er thy lovely head,
   Has fill’d that breast with fond alarms.

Surely some envious demon’s force,
   Vex’d to behold such beauty here,
Impell’d the bullet’s viewless course,
   Diverted from its first career.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour
   The ball obey’d some hell-born guide;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
   In pity turn’d the death aside.

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
   Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which I, th’ unconscious cause of fear,
   Extracted fromn its glistening cell:

Say, what dire penance can atone
   For such an outrage done to thee?
Arraign’d before thy beauty’s throne,
   What punishment wilt thou decree?

Might I perform the judge’s part,
   The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart
   Which but belong’d to thee before.

The least atonement I can make
   Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
   Thou shalt be all in all to me.

But thou, perhaps, may’st now reject
   Such expiation of my guilt;
Come then, some other mode elect;
   Let it be death, or what thou wilt.

Choose then, relentless! and I swear
   Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!
   Let it be aught but banishment.

LOVE’S LAST ADIEU

The roses of love glad the garden of life,
    Though nurtured ‘mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
    Or prunes them for ever, in love’s last adieu!

In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
    In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
    Or death disunite us in love’s last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
    Will whisper, ‘Our meeting we yet may renew:’
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
    Nor taste we the poison, of love’s last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth,
    Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
    Till chill’d by the winter of love’s last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
    Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
    Thy reason has perish’d with love’s last adieu!

Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind?
    From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind,
    The mountains reverberate love’s last adieu!

Now hate rules a heart which in love’s easy chains,
    Once passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins;
    He ponders in frenzy on love’s last adieu!

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel!
    His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
    And dreads not the anguish of love’s last adieu!

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
    No more, with love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
    The shroud of affection is love’s last adieu!

In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
    Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at love’s gentle shrine,
    The atonement is ample in love’s last adieu!

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light
    Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
    His cypress, the garland of love’s last adieu!

DAMÆTAS

In law an infant, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean’d;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Women his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin:
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure’s bowl;
But, pall’d with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.

TO MARION

Marion! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
‘Tis not love disturbs thy rest,
Love’s a stranger to thy breast;
He in dimpling smiles appears,
Or mourns in weedy timid tears’
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding frown.
Then resume thy former fire
Some will love, and all admire;
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool indifference thrills us.
Wou’dst thou wandering hearts beguile,
Smile at least, or seem to smile.
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint.
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips – but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curt’sies, frowns,– in short she
Dreads lest the subject should transport me;
And flying off in search of reason,
Brings prudence back in proper season.
All I shall therefore say (whate’er
I think, is neither here nor there)
Is, that such lips of looks endearing,
Were form’d for better things than sneering:
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least’s disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of flattery free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill’d to cozen
It shares itself among a dozen.

   Marion. adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing:
At once I’ll tell thee our opinion
Concerning woman’s soft dominion:
Howe’er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue or lips carnation,
Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe’er those beauties may distract us,
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture
To say they form a pretty picture;
But wouldst thou see the secret chain
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, ‘tis ANIMATION.
 

TO A LADY

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN

These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine
Than all th’ unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,
With silly whims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter to nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene’s a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent,
Since Juliet first declared her passion),
To from the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain,
He surely, in commiseration,
Had changed the place of declaration.
In Italy I’ve no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we’ve done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than placed in all th’ Arcadian groves
That ever witness’d rural loves;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I’ll be content to freeze;
No more I’ll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after

OSCAR OF ALVA

A TALE

How sweetly shines through azure skies,
   The lamp of heaven on Lora’s shore;
Where Alva’s hoary turrets rise,
   And hear the din of arms no more!

But often has yon rolling moon
   On Alva’s casques of silver play’d;
And view’d at midnight’s silent noon,
   Her chief’s in gleaming mail array’d:

And on the crimson’d rocks beneath,
   Which scowl o’er ocean’s sullen flow,
Pale in the scatter’d runks of death,
   She saw the gasping warrior low;

While many an eye which ne’er again
   Could mark the rising orb of day,
T’urn’d feebly from the gory plain,
   Beheld in death her fading ray.

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love,
   They blest her dear propitious light;
But now she glimmer’d from above,
   A sad, funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva’s noble race,
   And gray her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
   Or roll the crimson tide of war.

But who was last of Alva’s clan?
   Why grows the moss on Alva’s stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
   They echo to the gale alone.

And when that gale is fierce and high,
   A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
   And vibrates o’er the mould’ring wall.

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,
   It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But there no more his banners rise,
   No more his plumes of sable wave.

Fair shone the sun on Oscar’s birth,
   When Angus hail’d his eldest born
The vassals round their chieftain’s hearth
   Crowd to applaud the happy morn.

They feast upon the mountain deer,
   The pibroch raised its piercing note;
To gladden more their highland cheer,
   The strains in martial numbers float:

And they who heard the war-notes wild
   Hoped that one day the pibroch’s strain
Should play belore the hero’s child
   While he should lead the tartan train.

Another year is qulckly past,
   And Angus hails another son;
His natal day is like the last,
   Nor soon the jocund feast was done.

Taught by their sire to bend the bow,
   On Alva’s dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chased the roe,
   And left their hounds in speed behind.

But ere their years of youth are o’er,
   They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore
   And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar’s hair,
   Wildly it stream’d along the gale;
But Allan’s locks were bright and fair,
   And pensive seem’d his cheek, and pale.

But Oscar own’d a hero’s soul,
   His dark eye shone through beams of truth;
Allan had early learn’d control,
   And smooth his words had been from youth.

Both, both were brave; the Saxon spear
   Was shiver’d oft beneath their steel;
And Oscar’s bosom scorn’d to fear,
   But Oscar’s bosom knew to feel;

While Allan’s soul belied his form,
   Unworthy with such charms to dwell:
Keen as the lightning of the storm,
   On foe, his deadly vengeance fell.

From high Southannon’s distant tower
   Arrived a young and noble dame;
With Kenneth’s lands to form her dower,
   Glenalvon’s blue-eyed daughter came;

And Oscar claim’d the beauteous bride,
   And Angus on his Oscar srniled:
It soothed the father’s feudal pride
   Thus to obtain Glenalvon’s child.

Hark to the pibroch’s pleasing note!
   Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
   And still the choral peal prolong.

See how the heroes’ blood-red plumes
   Assembled wave in Alva’s hall;
Each youth his varied plaid assumes,
   Attending on thir chieftain’s call.

It is not war their aid demands,
   The pibroch plays the song of peace;
To Oscar’s nuptials throng the bands,
   Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease.

But where is Oscar? sure ‘tis late:
   Is this a bridegroom’s ardent flame?
While thronging guests and ladies wait,
   Nor Oscar nor his brother came.

At length young Allan join’d the bride;
   ‘Why comes not Oscar?’ Angus said:
Is he not here?’ the youth replied;
   ‘With me he roved not o’er the glade:

‘Perchance, forgetful of the day,
   ‘Tis his to chase the bounding roe;
Or ocean’s waves prolong his stay;
   Yet Oscar’s bark is seldom slow.’

‘Oh, no!’ the anguish’d Sire rejoin’d,
   ‘Nor chase nor wave, my boy delay;
Would he to Mora seem unkind?
   Would aught to her impede his way?

‘Oh, search, ye chiefs! oh, search around!
   Allan, with these through Alva fly;
Till Oscar, till my son is found,
   Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply.’

All is confusion — through the vale
   The name of Oscar hoarsely rings,
It rises on the murmuring gale,
   Till night expands her dusky wings;

It breaks the stillness of the night,
   But echoes through her shades in vain;
It sounds through morning’s misty light,
   But Oscar comes not o’er the plain.

Three days,three sleepless nights, the Chief
   For Oscar search’d each mountaln cave:
Then hope is lost; in boundless grief,
   His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave.

‘Oscar! my son! thou God of heaven,
   Restore the prop of sinking age!
Or if that hope no more is given,
   Yield his assassin to my rage.

‘Yes, on some desert rocky shore
   My Oscar’s whiten’d bones must lie;
Then grant, thou God! I ask no more,
   With him his frantic sire may die!

‘Yet he may live, — away, despalr!
   Be calm, my soul! he yet may live;
T’arraign my fate, my voice forbear!
   O God! my impious prayer forgive.

‘What, if he live for me no more,
   I sink forgotten in the dust,
The hope of Alva’s age is o’er:
   Alas! can pangs like these be just?’

Thus did the hapless parent mourn,
   Till Time, which soothes severest woe,
Had bade serenity return
   And made the tear-drop cease to flow.

For still some latent hope survived
   That Oscar might once more appear;
His hope now droop’d and now revived,
Till Time had told a tedious year.

Days roll’d along, the orb of light
   Again had run his destined race;
No Oscar bless’d his father’s sight,
   And sorrow left a fainter trace.

For youthful Allan still remain’d,
   And now his father’s only joy:
And Mora’s heart was quickly gain’d,
   For beauty crown’d the fair-hair’d boy.

She thought that Oscar low was laid,
   And Allan’s face was wondrous fair;
If Oscar lived, some other maid
   Had clairn’d his faithless bosom’s care.

And Angus said, if one year more
   In fruitless hope was pass’d away,
His fondest scruples should be o’er,
   And he would name their nuptial day.

Slow roll’d the moons, but blest at last
   Arrived the dearly destined morn
The year of anxious trembling past,
   What smiles the lovers’ cheeks adorn!

Hark to the pibroch’s pleasing note!
   Hark to the swelling nuptial song!
In joyous strains the voices float,
   And still the choral peal prolong.

Again the clan, in festive crowd,
   Throng through the gate of Alva’s hall;
The sounds of mirth re-echo loud,
   And all their former joy recall.

But who is he, whose darken’d brow
   Glooms in the midst of general mirth?
Before his eyes’ far fiercer glow
   The blue flames curdle o’er the hearth.

Dark is the robe which wraps his form,
   And tall his plume of gory red;
His voice is like the rising storm,
   But light and trackless is his tread.

‘Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round,
   The bridegroom’s health is deeply quaff’d;
With shouts the vaulted roofs resound,
   And all combine to hail the draught.

Sudden the stranger-chief arose,
   And all the clamorous crowd are hush’d;
And Angus’ cheek with wonder glows,
   And Mora’s tender bosom blush’d

‘Old rnan!’he cried,’this pledge is done;
   Thou saw’st ‘twas duly drank by me;
It hail’d the nuptials of thy son:
   Now will I claim a pledge from thee.

‘While all around is mirth and joy,
   To bless thy Allan’s happy lot,
Say, hadst thou ne’er another boy?
   Say, why should Oscar be forgot?’

‘Alas!’ the hapless sire replied,
   The big tear starting as he spoke
‘When Oscar left my hail, or died,
   This aged heart was almost broke,

‘Thrice has the earth revolved her course
   Since Oscar’s form has bless’d my sight;
And Allan is my last resource,
   Since martial Oscar’s death or flight.’

“Tis well,’ replied the stranger stern,
   And fiercely flash’d his rolling eye;
‘Thy Oscar’s fate I fain would learn;
   Perhaps the hero did not die.

‘Perhaps, if those whom most he loved
   Would call, thy Oscar might return;
Perchance the chief has only roved;
   For him thy beltane yet may burn.

‘Fill high the bowl the table round,
   We will not climb the pledge by stealth;
With wine let every cup be crown’d
   Pledge me departed Oscar’s health.’

‘With all my soul,’ old Angus said,
   And fill’d his goblet to the brim:
‘Here’s to my boy! alive or dead’
   I ne’er shall find a son like him’

‘Bravely. old man this health has sped;
   But why does Allan trembling stand?
Come, drink remembrance of the dead,
   And raise thy cup with firmer hand.’

The crimson glow of Allan’s face
   Was turn’d at once to ghastly hue;
The drops of death each other chase
   Adown in agonizing dew.

Thrice did he raise the goblet high,
   And thrice his lips refused to taste;
For thrice he caught the stranger’s eye
   On his with deadly fury placed.

‘And is it thus a brother’s hails
   A brother’s fond remembrance here?
If thus affection’s strength prevails’
   What might we not expect from fear?’

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl,
   ‘Would Oscar now could share our mirth!’
Internal fear appall’d his soul;
   He said and dash’d the cap to earth,

“Tis he! I hear my murderer’s voice!’
   Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form.
‘A murderer’s voice!’ the roof replies,
   And deeply swells the bursting storm,

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink,
   The stranger’s gone, — amidst the crew,
A form was seen in tartan green,
   And tall the shade terrific grew.

His waist was bound with a broad belt round,
   His plume of sable stream’d on high;
But his breast was bare, with the red wounds there,
   And fix’d was the glare of his glassy eye.

And thrice he smiled, with his eyes so wild,
   On Angus bending low the knee;
And thrice he frown’d on a chief on the ground
   Whom shivering crowds with horror see

The bolts loud roll from pole to pole
   The thunders through the welkin ring,
And the gleaming form, through the mist of the storm,
   Was borne on high by the whirlwind’s wing

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased.
   Who lies upon the stony floor?
Oblivion press’d old Angus’ breast,
   At length his life-pulse throbs once more.

‘Away, away! let the leech essay
   To pour the light on Allan’s eyes;’
His sand is done, – his race is run –
   Oh! never more shall Allan rise!

But Oscar’s breast is cold as clay,
   His locks are lifted by the gale;
And Allan’s barbed arrow lay
   With him In dark Glentanar’s vale.

And whence the dreadful stranger came,
   Or who, no mortal wight can tell;
But no one doubts the form of flame,
   For Alva’s sons knew Oscar well.

Ambition nerved young Allan’s hand,
   Exulting demons wing’d his dart;
While Envy waved her burnng brand,
   And pour’d her venom round his heart.

Swift is the shaft from Allan’s bow;
   Whose streaming life-blood stains his side?
Dark Oscar’s sable crest is low,
   The dart has drunk his vital tide.

And Mora’s eyes could Allan move,
   She bade his wounded pride rebel:
Alas! that eyes which beam’d with love
   Should urge the soul to deeds of hell.

Lo! seest thou not a lonely tomb
   Which rises o’er a warrior dead?
It glimmers through the twilight gloom;
   Oh! that is Allan’s nuptial bed.

Far distant far, the noble grave
   Which held his clan’s great ashes stood;
And o’er his corse no banners wave,
   For they were stain’d with kindred blood.

What minstrel gray, what hoary bard,
   Shall Allan’s deeds on harp-strings raise?
The song is glory’s chief reward,
   But who can strike a murderer’s praise?

Unstrung, untouch’d, th harp must stand,
   No minstrel dare the theme awake;
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand,
   His harp in shuddering chords would break.

No lyre of fame, no hallow’d verse,
   Shall sound his glories high in air:
A dying father’s bitter curse,
   A brother’s death-groan echoes there.

THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS

A paraphrase from the ÆNEID, LIB. IX

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood,
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood;
Well skill’d in fight the quivering lance to wield,
Or pour his arrows through th’ embattled field:
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave,
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave.
To watch the movements of the Daunian host,
With him Euryalus sustains the post;
No lovelier mien adorn’d the ranks of Troy,
And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy;
Though few the seasons of his youthful life,
As yet a novice in the martial strife,
‘T was his, with beauty, valour’s gifts to share —
A soul heroic, as his form was fair:
These burn with one pure flame of generous love;
In peace, in war, united still they move;
Friendship and glory form their joint reward;
And now combined they hold their nightly guard.

“What god,” exclaim’d the first, “instils this fire?
Or, in itself a god, what great desire?
My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress’d,
Abhors this station of inglorious rest;
The love of fame with this can ill accord,
Be’t mine to seek for glory with my sword.
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim,
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb?
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain,
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign?
Then hear my thought: -- In deep and sullen grief
Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief:
Now could the gifts and promised prized be thine
( The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine ),
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound,
Methinks an easy path perchance were found;
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas’ walls,
And lead Æneas from Evander’s halls.”

With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy,
His glowing friend address’d the Dardan boy: —
“These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone?
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own?
Am I by thee despised, and left afar,
As one unfit to share the toils of war?
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught;
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought;
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate,
I track’d Æneas through the walks of fate;
Thou know’st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear.
Here is a soul with hope immortal burns,
And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns.
Fame, fame is cheaply earn’d by fleeting breath:
The price of honour is the sleep of death.”

Then Nisus: — “Calm the bosom’s fond alarms:
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms.
More dear thy worth and valour than my own,
I swear by him who fills Olympus’ throne!
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth,
And clasp again the comrade of my youth!
But should I fall, — and he who dares advance
Through hostile legions must abide by chance, —
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow,
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low,
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve,
Thy budding years a lengthen’d term deserve.
When humbled in the dust, let some one be,
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me;
Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force,
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse:
Or, if my destiny these last deny,
If in the spoiler’s power my ashes lie,
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb
To mark thy love, and signalize my doom.
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep
Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep?
Who, for thy sake, the tempest’s fury dared,
Who, for thy sake, war’s deadly peril shared;
Who braved what woman never braved before,
And left her native for the Latian shore.”

“In vain you damp the ardour of my soul,”
Replied Euryalus; “it scorns control!
Hence, let us haste! “  —  their brother guards arose,
Roused by their call, nor court again repose;
The pair, buoy’d up on Hope’s exulting wing,
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the king.

Now o’er the earth a solemn stillness ran,
And lull’d alike the cares of brute and man;
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold.
One one great point the council are agreed,
An instant message to their prince decreed;
Each lean’d upon the lance he well could wield,
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield;
When Nisus and his friend their leave request
To offer something to their high behest.
With anxious tremors yet unawed by fear,
The faithful pair before the throne appear:
Iulus greets them; at his kind command,
The elder first address’d the hoary band.

“With patience” ( thus Hyrtacides began )
“Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan.
Where yonder beacons half expiring beam,
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream,
Nor heed that we a secret path have traced,
Between the ocean and the portal placed.
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke,
Whose shade securely our design will cloak!
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow,
We’ll bend our course to yonder mountain’s brow,
Where Pallas’ walls at distance meet the sight,
Seen o’er the glade, when not obsured by night:
Then shall Æneas in his pride return,
When hostile matrons raise their offspring’s urn;
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead
Shall mark the havoc of our hero’s tread.
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way;
Where yonder torrent’s devious waters stray,
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream,
The distant spires above the valleys gleam.”

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed,
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim’d, —
“Ye parent gods!   who rule the fate of Troy,
Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy;
When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise,
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise;
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive,
And Ilion’s wonted glories still survive.”
Then in his warm embrace the boys he press’d,
And, quivering, strain’d them to his aged breast;
With tears the burning cheek of each bedew’d,
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew’d;
“What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize,
Can we bestow, which you may not despise?
Our deities the first best boon have given —
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven.
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth,
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth.
Æneas and Ascanius shall combine
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine.”

Iulus then: — ”By all the powers above!
By those Penates who my country love!
By hoary Vesta’s sacred fane, I swear,
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair!
Restore my father to my grateful sight,
And all my sorrows yield to one delight.
Nisus!  two silver goblets are thine own,
Saved from Arisba’s stately domes o’erthrown!
My sire secured them on that fatal day,
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber’s prey:
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine;
Two talents polish’d from the glittering mine;
An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave,
While yet our vessels press’d the Punic wave:
But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down,
When great Æneas wears Hesperia’s crown,
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed
Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed,
Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast,
I pledge my word, irrevocably past:
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dames,
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames,
And all the realms which now the Latins sway,
The labours of to-night shall well repay.
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years
Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres,
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun,
Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one;
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine;
Without thy dear advice, no great design;
Alike through life esteem’d, thou godlike boy,
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy.”

To him Euryalus: - “No day shall shame
The rising glories which from this I claim.
Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown,
But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown.
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart,
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart:
My mother, sprung from Priam’s royal line,
Like thine ennobled, hardly less divine,
Nor Troy nor king Acestes’ realms restrain
Her feeble age from dangers of the main:
Alone she came, all selfish fears above.
A bright example of maternal love.
Unknown the secret enterprise I brave,
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave;
From this alone no fond adieus I seek,
No fainting mother’s lips have press’d my cheek;
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow
Her parting tears would shake my purpose now:
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain,
In thee her much-loved child may live again:
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless,
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress:
So dear a hope must all my soul inflame,
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame.”
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt,
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt;
Faster than all, Iulus’ eyes o’erflow!
Such love was his, and such had been his woe.
“All thou hast, ask’d, receive,” the prince replied;
“Nor this alone, but many a gift beside.
To cheer thy mother’s years shall be my aim,
Creusa’s style but wanting to the dame.
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run,
But bless’d thy mother in so dear a son.
Now, by my life!  — my sire’s most sacred oath —
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth,
All the rewards which once to thee were vow’d,
If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow’d.”
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to view
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew;
Lycaon’s utmost skill had graced the steel,
For friends to envy and for foes to feel:
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion’s spoil,
Slain ‘midst the forest, in the hunter’s toil,
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows,
And old Alethes’ casque defends his brows.
Arm’d thence they go, while all th’ assembled train,
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain.
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace,
Iulus holds amids the chiefs his place:
His prayer he sends; but what can prayers avail,
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale?

The trench is pass’d, and, favour’d by the night,
Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight.
When shall the sleep of many a foe be o’er?
Alas!    some slumber who shall wake no more!
Chariots and bridles, mix’d with arms, are seen;
And flowing flasks, and scatter’d troops between:
Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine;
A mingled chaos this of war and wine.
“Now,” cries the first, “for deeds of blood prepare,
With me the conquest and the labour share:
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise,
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies:
I’ll carve our passage through the heedless foe,
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow.”
His whispering accents then the youth repress’d,
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting breast:
Strech’d at his ease, th’ incautious king reposed;
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed:
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince,
His omens more than augur’s skill evince;
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all,
Could not avert his own untimely fall.
Next Remus’ armour-bearer, hapless, fell,
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell;
The charioteer along his courser’s sides
Expires, the steel his sever’d neck divides;
And, last, his lord is number’d with the dead;
Bounding convulsive, flies, the gasping head;
From the swoll’n veins the blackening torrents pour;
Stain’d is the couch and earth with clotting gore,
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire,
And gay Serranus, fill’d with youthful fire;
Half the long night in childish games was pass’d;
Lull’d by the potent grape, he slept at last:
Ah!   happier far had he the morn survey’d,
And till Aurora’s dawn his skill display’d.

In slaughter’d fold, the keepers lost in sleep,
His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep;
‘Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls,
With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls;
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams;
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams.

Nor less the other’s deadly vengeance came,
But falls on feeble crowds without a name;
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel,
Yet wakeful Rhæsus sees the threatening steel;
His coward breast behind a jar he hides,
And vainly in the weak defence confides;
Full in his heart, the falchion search’d his veins,
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains;
Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow,
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below,
Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way,
Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray;
There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed,
Unwatch’d, unheeded, on the herbage feed:
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade’s arm,
Too flush’d with carnage, and with conquest warm:
“Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass’d;
Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last;
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn;
Now let us speed, nor temp the rising morn.”

What silver arms, with various art emboss’d,
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss’d,
They leave regardless!    yet one glittering prize
Attracts the younger hero’s wandering eyes;
The gilded harness Rhamnes’ coursers felt,
The gems which stud the monarch’s golden belt:
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn,
Once by a line of former chieftains worn.
The exulting boy the studded girdle wears,
Messapus ‘ helm his head in triumph bears;
Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend,
To seek the vale where safer paths extend.

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse
To Turnus’ camp pursue their destined course:
While the slow foot their tardy march delay,
The knights, impatient, spur along the way:
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led,
To Turnus with their master’s promise sped:
Now they approach the trench, and view the walls,
When, on the left, a light reflection falls;
The plunder’d helmet, through the waning night,
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright.
Volscens with question loud the pair alarms: —
“Stand stragglers!   stand!    why early thus in arms?
From whence? to whom?” — He meets with no reply;
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly:
The thicket’s depth with hurried pace they tread,
While round the wood the hostile squadron spread.

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between,
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene:
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede,
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead;
But Nisus scours along the forest’s maze
To where Latinus’ steeds in safety graze,
Then backward o’er the plain his eyes extend,
On every side they seek his absent friend.
“O God!  my boy,” He cries, “of me bereft,
In what impending perils art thou left! “
Listening he runs — above the waving trees,
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze;
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground.
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise;
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys:
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround.
While lengthening shades his weary way confound;
Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue,
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew.
What can his friend ‘gainst thronging numbers dare?
Ah!  must he rush his comrade’s fate to share?
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay,
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler’s prey?
His life a votive ransom nobly give,
Or die with him for whom he wish’d to live?
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high,
On Luna’s orb he cast his frenzied eye: —
“Goddess serene, trancending every star!
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar!
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove,
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign’st to rove;
If e’er myself, or sire, have sought to grace
Thine altars with the produce of the chase,
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd,
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud.”
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung;
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung;
The thirsty point in Sulmo’s entrails lay,
Transfix’d his heart, and stretch’d him on the clay:
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze,
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze.
While pale they stare, through Tagus’ temples riven,
A second shaft with equal force is driven:
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes;
Veil’d by the night, secure the Trojan lies.
Burning with wrath, he view’d his soldiers fall.
“Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all! “
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew,
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew.
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals;
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise,
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies:
“Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone;
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own.
Ye starry spheres!    thou conscious Heaven!  attest!
He could not — durst not — lo!    the guile confest!
All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend;
He only loved too well his hapless friend:
Spare, spare, ye chiefs!    from him your rage remove;
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love.”
He pray’d in vain; the dark assassin’s sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored;
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest,
And sanguine torrents mantle o’er his breast:
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air,
Languid in death, expires beneath the share;
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower,
Declining gently, falls a fading flower;
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head,
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead.

But fiery Nisus stems the battle’s tide,
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide;
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host,
Volscens must soon appease his comrade’s ghost;
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe;
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow;
In vain beneath unnumber’d wounds he bleeds,
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds;
In viewless circles wheel’d, his falchion flies,
Nor quits the hero’s grasp till Volscens dies;
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found,
The tyrant’s soul fled groaning through the wound.
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved —
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved;
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place,
And death was heavenly in his friend’s embrace!

Celestia pair!    if aught my verse can claim,
Wafted on Time’s broad pinion, yours is fame!
Ages on ages shall your fate admire,
No future day shall see your names expire,
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome!
And vanquish’d millions hail their empress, Rome !

TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES

When fierce conflicting urge
   The breast where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
   Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
   Can rouse the tortured breast no more;
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
   Absorbs each wish it felt before.

But if affection gently thrills
   The soul by purer dreams possest,
The pleasing balm of mortal ills
   In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise,
   Fair Venus! from thy native heaven,
What heart unfeeling would despise
   The sweetest boon the gods have given?

But never from thy golden bow
   May I beneath the shaft expire!
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,
   Awakes an all-consuming fire:
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears!
   With others wage internal war;
Repentance, source of future tears,
   From me be ever distant far!

May no distracting thoughts destroy
   The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be wing’d with joy,
   Which hover faithful hearts above!
Fair Venus, on thy myrtle shrine
   May I with some fair lover sigh,
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine –
   With me to live, with me to die!

My native soil! beloved before,
   Now dearer as my peaceful home,
Ne’er may I quit thy rocky shore,
   A hapless banish’d wretch to roam!
This very day, this very hour,
   May I resign this fleeting breath;
Nor quit my silent humble bower,
   A doom to me far worse than death.

Have I not heard the exile’s sigh?
   And seen the exile’s silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn’d to fly,
   A pensive, weary wanderer here?
Ah, hapless dame! no sire bewails,
   No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails
   Thy steps within a stranger’s doors.

Perish the fiend whose iron heart,
   To fair affection’s truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly loved depart,
   Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne’er unlocks with silver key
   The milder treasures of his soul,-
May such a friend be far from me,
   And ocean’s storms between us roll!

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
MAGNUS his ample front sublime up rears:
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god.
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod.
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill’d to plod in mathematic rules.

   Happy the youth in Euclid’s axiorn tried,
Though littie versed in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill’d an English line tc pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic’s ken.
What, though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord piled the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France.
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta;
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone’s on the shelf neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avon’s bard remembering scarce the name.

    Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope.
Not that our heads much eloquence require,
Th’ ATHENIAN’S glowing style, or Tully’s fire.
A manner clear or warm is useless, since
We do not try by speaking to convince.
Be other orators of pleasing proud,-
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd:
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone,
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan:
No borrow’d grace of action must he seen;
The slightest motion would displease the Dean;
Whilst everv staring graduate would prate
Against what he could never imitate.

   The man who hopes t’ obtain the promised cup
Must in one posture stand, and ne’er look up;
Nor stop, but rattle over every word –
No matter what, so it can not be heard.
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest’s sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space
May safely hope to win the wordy race.

   The sons of science these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta’s sluggish shade;
Where on Cam’s sedgy banks supine they lie,
Unknown, unhonour’d live, unwept-for die:
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix’d within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing Bentley’s, Brunck’s, or Porson’s note,
More than the verse on which the critic wrote:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
Whether ‘tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour;
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread.
But should a storm o’erwhelm him with disgrace,
They’d fly to seek the next who fill’d his place.
Such are the men who learning’s treasures guard!
Such is their practice, such is their reward!
This much, at least, we may presume to say –
The premium can’t exceed the price they pay.

1806

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER

Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne’er forget;
And though we ne’er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, “I love,” but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne’er forget.

What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke.
The toungue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale in never feels;
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul’s interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt, rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, “‘twas the spirit moved us.”
Though what they utter’d I repress,
Yet I conceive thou’lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I’ll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day:
Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora’s ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night:
Since, oh! whate’er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne’er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom’s care:
“May heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o’ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne’er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart’s partaker!
Oh, may the happy mortal, fated
To be by dearest ties related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What ‘t is to feel the restless woe
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!”

THE CORNELIAN

No specious splendour of this stone
   Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,
   And blushes modest as the giver.

Some, who can sneer at friendship’s ties,
   Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,-
   For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offer’d it with downcast look,
   As fearful that I ,ight refuse it;
I told him when the gift I took,
   My only fear should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I view’d,
   And sparkling as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew’d,
   And ever since I’ve loved a tear.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,
   Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he who seeks the flowers of truth,
   Must quit the garden for the field.

‘Tis not the plant uprear’d in sloth,
   Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
   In Nature’s wild luxuriance bloom.

Had Fortune aided Nature’s care,
   For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,
   If well proportion’d to his mind.

But had the goddess clearly seen,
   His form had fix’d her fickle breast;
Her countless hoards would his have been,
   And none remain’d to give the rest.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF ‘THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE’ AT A PRIVATE THEATRE

Since the refinement of this polish’d age
Has swept irnmortal raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp’d disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty’s cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect;
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise,
But all our dramatis personæ wait
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our prosress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward.
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can’t applaud, at le’st forgive.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER

‘Our nation’s foes lament on Fox’s death,
But bless the hour when PITT resign’d his breath:
These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
We give the palm where Justice points its due.’

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY

Oh factious viper! whose envenom’d tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What though our ‘nation’s foes’ lament the fate
With generous’ feeling, of the good and great’
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
Though Ilisuccess obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits ‘war not with the dead:’
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber’d in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending ‘neath the weight
Of cares o’erwhelmlng our conflicting state:
When, lo! a Hercules in FOX appear’d
Who for a time the ruin’d fabric rear’d:
He, too, is fall’n, who Britain’s loss supplied,
With him our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe’s far-extended regions mourn.
‘These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;’
Yet let not canker’d Calumny assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX o’er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour’d marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e’en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
FOX shall in Britain’s future annals shine,
Nor e’en to PITT the patriot’s palm resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour’s sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.

THE TEAR

‘O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros

Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater

Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.’ — GRAY

When Friendship or Love our sympathies move,
   When Truth, in a glance, should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
   But the test of affection’s a Tear:

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite’s wile,
   To mask detestation, or fear;
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soultelling eye
   Is dimm’d, for a time, with a Tear:

Mild Charity’s glow, to us mortals below,
   Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt, where this virtue is felt,
   And its dew is diffused in 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 which may soon be his grave,
   The green sparkles bright with a Tear;

The Soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath
   In Glory’s romantic career;
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
   And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If, with high-bounding pride he return to his bride!
   Renouncing the gore-crimson’d spear;
All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid,
   From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth,
   Where Love chas’d each fast-fleeting year
Loth to leave thee, I mourn’d, for a last look I turn’d,
   But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear:

Though my vows I can pour, to my Mary no more,
   My Mary, to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bow’r I remember the hour,
   She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest, may she live ever blest!
   Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine,
   And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
   This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
   May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night,
   And my corse shall recline on its bier;
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
   Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow the splendour of woe
   Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name.
   All I ask – all I wish – is a Tear.

October 26 1806

REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J.M.B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS

WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel’s disdain,
   Why thus in despair do you fret?
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh
   Will never obtain a coquette.

Would you teach her to love? for a time seem to rove;
   At first she may frown in a pet;
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,
   And then you may kiss your coquette.

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
    They think all our homage a debt:
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
    And humbles the proudest coquette.

Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,
    And seem her hauteur to regret;
If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny,
    That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,
   This whimsical virgin forget;
Some other adiaiire, who will melt with your fire,
    And laugh at the little coquette.

For me I adore some twenty or more,
    And love them most dearly but yet
Though my heart they enthral, I’d abandon them all,
    Did they act like your blooming coquette.

No longer repine, adopt this design,
   And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear
   To fly from the captious coquette.

Then quit her, my friend your bosom defend,
   Ere quite with her snares you’re beset;
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the smart,
   Should lead you to curse the coquette.

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON

Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend;
   Your pardon, a thousand times o’er:
From friendship I strove your pangs to remove,
   But, I swear, I will do so no more.

Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid,
   No more I your folly regret
She’s now most divine, and I bow at the shrine
   Of this quickly reformed coquette.

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
    From your verses what else she deserved;
Your pain seem’d so great, I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so devilish reserved.

Since the baim-br’eathing kiss of this magical miss
   Can such wonderful transports produce;
Since the ‘world you forget, when your lips once have met,’
   My counsel will get but abuse.

You Say, ‘When I rove, I know nothing of love;’
  ‘Tis true, ‘I am given to range;
If I rightly remember, I’ve loved a good number,
   Yet there’s pleasure, at least, in a change.

I will not advance, by the rules of romance,
   To humour a whimsical fair;
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won’t affright,
   Or drlve me to dreadful despair.

While my blood is thus warm I ne’er shall reform,
   To mix in the Platonists’ school;
Of this l am sure, was my passion so pure,
   Thy mistress would think me a fool.

And if I should shun every woman for one,
   Whose image must fill my whole breast -
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her -
   What an insult ‘twould be to the rest!

Now, Strephon, good bye, I cannot deny
   Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,
   For it only consists in the word.

TO ELIZA

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
   Who to woman deny the soul’s future existence!
Could they see thee, Eliza, they’d own their defect,
   And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.

Had their prophet possess’d half an atom of sense,
   He ne’er would have woman from paradise driven;
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,
   With woman alone he had peopled his heaven.

Yet still, to increase your calamities more,
   Not Content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!-
   With souls you’d dispense; but this last, who could bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made;
   On husbands ‘tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I Can’t contradict, what so oft has been said,
  ‘Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.’

LACHIN Y GAIR

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!
        In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
        Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
        Round their white summits though elements war;
Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
        I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d;
        My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains long perish’d my memory pondered,
        As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade;
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
        Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheered by traditional story,
        Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

“Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
        Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?”
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
        And rides on the wind, o’er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
        Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
        They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

“Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding
        Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?”
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,
        Victory crown’d not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy in death’s earthy slumber,
        You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;
The pibroch resounds, to the piper’s loud number,
        Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have roll’d on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
        Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flow’rs has bereft you,
        Yet still are you dearer than Albion’s plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
        To one who has roved o’er the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
        The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!

TO ROMANCE

Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
   Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead’st along, in airy dance,
   Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
   I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
   But leave thy realms for those of Truth.

And yet ‘tis hard to quit the dreams
   Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
   Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
   And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
   And even Woman’s smiles are true.

And must we own thee, but a name,
   And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
   A Pylades in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air i
   To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman’s false as fair,
   And friends have feeling for — themselves?

With shame, I own, I’ve felt thy sway;
   Repentant, now thy reign is o’er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
   No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
   And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton’s sigh,
   And melt beneath a wanton’s tear!

Romance! disgusted with deceit,
   Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
   And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
   For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
   To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

Now join with sable Sympathy,
   With cypress crown’d, array’d in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
   Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
   To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
   But bends not now before thy throne.

Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears
   On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
   With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
   Apostate from your gentle train
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
   From you a sympathetic strain.

Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
   The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E’en now the gulf appears in view,
   Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion’s blackening lake is seen,
   Convuls’d by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
   Alas! must perish altogether.

ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN

‘But if any old lady, knight, priest or physician
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?’

New Bath Guide.

CANDOUR compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse which blends the censor with the friend.
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon, — must I sue In vain?
The wise sometlrnes ftom Wisdom’s ways depart:
Can youth then hush the dlctates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can’t control
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love’s delirium haunts the glowing mind
Limping Decorum lingers far behind:
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish’d In the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those they ne’er confined my lay reprove:
Let those whose souls Conternn the pleasing power
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour’d lines In chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne’er can know!
The artless Helicon I boast is youth; —
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be ‘t from me the ‘vlrgin’s stand’ to ‘taint’:
Seduction’s dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firzn in her virtue’s strength, yet not severe
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine
Will ne’er be ‘tainted’ by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread
Sho would have fallen, though she ne’er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels I shall ne’er he proud;
Their warrnest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.

November 26, 1806

ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY

‘It is the voice of years that are gone!
they roll before me with all their deeds.’ — OSSIAN

Newstead! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
   Religion’s shrine! repentant HENRY’s pride!
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister’d tomb,
   Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,

Hail to thy pile! more honour’d in thy fall
  Than modern mansions in their pillar’d state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
  Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.

No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord,
  In grim array the crimson cross demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board
  Their chief’s retainers, an immortal band:

Else might inspiting Fancy’s magic eye
  Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
Marking each ardent youth, ordaln’d to die,
  A votive pilgrim in Judea’s clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
  His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
  Retiring from the garish blare of day.

Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound
  The monk abjured a world he ne’er could view;
Or blood-stain’d guilt repenting solace found,
  Or innocence from stern oppression flew.

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
  Where Sherwood’s outlaws once were wont to prowl;
And Superstition’s crimes, of various dyes,
  Sought shelter in the priest’s protecting cowl.

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
  The humid pail of life-extinguish’d clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,
  Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend
  Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
  Or matin orisons to Mary pald.

Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
  Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed;
Religion’s charter their protecting shield,
  Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed,

One holy HENRY rear’d the Gothic walls,
  And bade the pious inmates rest in peace
Another HENRY the kind gift recalls,
  And bids devotion’s hallow’d echos cease.

Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;
  He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world in deep despair —
  No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God.

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain
  Shakes with the martial music’s novel din!
The heralds of a warrior’s haughty reign,
  High crested banners wave thy wails within.

Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
  The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish’d arms,
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum,
  Unite in concert with increased alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
  Encircled by insulting rebel powers,
War’s dread machines o’erhang thy threat’ning brow,
  And dart destruction in sulphureous showers.

Ah vain defence! the hostile traitor’s siege,
  Though oft repulsed, by guile o’er-comes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,
  Rebellion’s reeking standards o’er him wave.

Not unavenged the raging baron yields;
  The blood of traitors smears the purple plain
Unconqu’r’d still, his falchion there he wields,
  And days of glory yet for him remain.

Still in that hour the warrior wish’d to strew
  Self-gather’d laurel on a self-sought grave;
But Charles’ protecting genius hither flew,
  The monarch’s friend, the monarch’s hope, to save.

Trembling, she snatch’d him ftom th’ unequal strife,
  In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here reservedhis life,
  To lead the hand where godlike FALKLAND fell

From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,
  While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense now ascends to heaven,
  Such victims wallow on the gory ground.

There many a pale and ruthless robber’s corse,
  Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O’er mingling man, and horse commix’d with horse,
  Corruption’s heap, the savage spoilers trod.

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o’erspread,
  Ransack’d, resign perforce their mortal mould:
From ruffian fangs escape not e’en the dead,
  Raked from repose in search of buried gold.

Hush’d is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre’
  The minstrel’s palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
  Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
  Retire: the clamour of the fight is o’er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,
  And sable Horror guards the massy door.

Here Desolation holds her dreary court:
  What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen’d birds resort,
  To flit their vigils in the hoary fane.

Soon a new morn’s restoring beams dispel
  The clouds of anarchy from Britain’s skies;
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,
  And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.

With storms she welcornes his expiring groans
  Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones,
  Loathing the offering of so dark a death.

The legal ruler now resumes the helm,
  He guides through gentle seas the prow of state
Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,
  And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate.

The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
  Howling, resign their violated nest;
Again the master on his tenure dwells,
  Enjoy’d, from absence, with enraptured zest.

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,
  Loudly carousing, bless their lord’s return.
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
  And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,
  Unwonted foliage mantles o’er the trees;
And hark! the horns proclalm a mellow note,
  The hunters’ cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.

Beneath their coursers’ hoofs the valleys shake:
  What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;
  Exulting shouts announce the finish’d race.

Ah happy days! too happy to endure!
  Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew
No splendid vices glitter’d to allure;
  Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

From these descending, sons to sires succeed
  Time steals along, and Death uprears the dart;
Another chief impels the foaming steed,
  Another crowd pursue the panting hart.

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
  Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line
  Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;
  Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers
  These, these he views, and views them but to weep.

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret:
  Cherish’d affection only bids them flow.
Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget
  But warm his bosom with irnpassion’d glow.

Yet he prefers thee to the gllded domes
  Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great,
Yet lingers ‘mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
  Nor breathes a murmur ‘gainst the will of fate.

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine,
  Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine,
  And bless thy future as thy former day.

CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS

‘I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me.’

WHEN slow Disease, with all her host of pains,
Chills the warm, tide which flows along the veins
When Health,affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confined,
Unyielding pangs avail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow
With Resignaion wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall’d, and clings to life!
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish’d days to rapture given,
When love was bliss, and Beauty form’d our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene,
Those farry bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when through clouds that pour the sumrner storm
The orb of day unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faiht beams the crystal dews of rain,
And dimly twinkles o’er the watery plain;
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams
The sun of memory, glowing through my drearns
Though sunk’ the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays;
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

   Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, uniook’d for and Unsought
My soul to Fancy’s fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o’er her airy fields.
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams;
Some who in marble prematurely sleep.
Whose forms I now remember but to weep;
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation fill the senior place.
These with a thousand visions now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight

Ida blest spot, where science holds her reign,
How joyous once I join’d thv youthful train!
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire,
Again I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game,
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same.
Through winding paths along the glade, I trace
The social smile of every welcome face;
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past,-
I bless the former and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth! when, nurtured in my breast,
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth
When every artless bosom throbs with truth
Untaught my worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein;
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose
In love to friends, in open hate to toes;
No varnish’d tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit,
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen’d years,
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears.
When now the boy is ripen’d into man,
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his son from candour’s path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cauautiously to think;
Still to assent, and never to deny -
A patron’s praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune’s warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word,
Although against that word his heart rebel,
And truth indignant all his bosom swell.

   Away with themes like this! not mine the task
From flattering friends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in satire’s sting;
My fancy soars not on Detraction’s wing:
Once, and but once, she aim’d a deadly blow,
To hurl defiance on a secret foe;
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn’d by some friendly hint, perchance, retired,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save,
She hush’d her young resentment, and forgave;
Or, my muse a pedant’s portrait drew,
POMPOSUS’ virtues are but known to few:
I never fear’d the young usurper’s nod,
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod.
If since on Granta’s failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
‘Tis past, and thus she will not sin again;
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And all may rsii when I shall rest in peace.

   Here first remember’d be the joyous band,
Who hail’d me chief, obedient to command;
Who join’d with rne in every boyish sport -
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant’s frown,
Or all the sable glories of his gown;
Who, thus transplanted from his father’s school -
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule -
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days!
PROBUS, the pride of science,and the boast,
To IDA now, alas! for ever lost,
With him, for years, we search’d the classic page,
And fear’d the master, though we loved the sage:
Retired at last’ his small yet peacefull seat
From learning’s labour is the blest retreat,
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;
POMPOSUS governs,- but, my muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant’s lot;
His name and precepts be alike forgot;
No more his mention shall my verse degrade
To him my tribute is already paid.

   High through those elms, with hoary branches crown’d,
Fair IDA’S bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour’d seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain.
In scatter’d groups each favour’d haunt pursue,
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush’d with his rays, beneath the noon-tide sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run,
Drive o’er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent’s cool waves in limpid currents stray;
While yonder few search out some green retreat
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew,
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
‘Twas here the gather’d swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn’d the conquest dearly bought;
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew’d the wild tumultuous fight.’
While thus our souls with early passions swell
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell,
Th’ allotted hour of daily sport is o’er,
And Learning beckons from her temple’s door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall;
There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro’s name
Secures its owner’s academic fame;
Here mingling view the names of sire and son -
The one long graved, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when son and sire
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire;
Perhaps their last memorial these alone,
Denied in death a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave.
And here my name, and many an early friend’s,
Along the wall in lengthen’d line extends.
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obey’d their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule, the little tyrants of an hour;
Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary winter’s eve away --
‘And thus our former rulers stemm’d the tide,
And thus they dealt the combat side by side;
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail’d;
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And here he falter’d forth his last farewell;
And here one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold POMPOSUS bravely stay’d at home;’
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

   Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before --
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu -
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, fashion’s gaudy world,
Where folly’s glaring standard waves unfurl’d,
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hoped was to forget.
Vain wish! if chance some well-remember’d face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim’d me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around’
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of beauty--(for, alas! I’ve known
What ‘tis to bend before Love’s mighty throne)--
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near;
My thoughts bewilder’d in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danced before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand’rers pour along,
I saw and join’d again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,
And friendship’s feelings triumph’d over love.
Yet why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim
Endear’d to all in childhood’s very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee--
A home, a worid, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father’s care.
Can rank, or e’en a guardian’s name supply
The love which glistens in a father’s eye?
For this can wealth or title’s sound atone,
Made, by a parent’s early loss, my own?
What brother springs a brother’s love to seek?
What sister’s gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link’d by kindred ties!
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest:
I hear-I wake-and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again,-but, ah! no brother’s voice.
A hermit, ‘midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone.
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than IDA’S social band.
Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends;
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise as his who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If hope anticipate the words of truth,
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest,
Oft have we drain’d the font of ancient lore;
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more.
Yet, when confinement’s lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
Together we impell’d the flying ball;
Together waited in our tutor’s hall;
Together join’d in cricket’s manly toil,
Or shared the produce of the river’s spoil;
Or, plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore;
In every element, unchanged, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.

   Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy!
DAVUS, the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet with a breast of such materials made--
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In danger’s path, though not untaught to feel.
Sill I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic’s musket aim’d against my life:
High pois’d in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue;
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th’ impending blow;
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career--
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm’d and baffled by your conquering hand,
Thc grovelling savage roll’d upon,the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay?
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene’er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

    LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate,
To thee alone, unrivall’d would belong.
The feeble efforts of my lengthen’d song.
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit:
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine,
Lycus! thy father’s fame will soon be thine.
Where learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope from genius thus re fined!
When time at length matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With honour’s soul, united beam in thee.

   Shall fair EURYALUS pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung:
What though one sad dissension bade us part?
That name is yet embalm’d within my heart;
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound.
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends, --I’ll think we are so still.
A form unmatch’d in nature’s partial mould,
A heart untainted, we in thee behold:
Yet not the senate’s thunder thou shalt wield,
Nor seek for glory in the tented field;
To minds of ruder texture these be given--
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish’d courts might be thy seat,
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier’s supple bow and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast with indignation burn,
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn.
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e’er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;
Ambition’s slave alone would toil for more.

   Now last, but nearest of the social band,
See honest, open, generous CLEON stand;
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day our studious race begun,
On the same day our studious race was run;
Thus side by side we pass’d our first career,
Thus side by side we strove for many a year;
At last concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer’d in the classic strife:
As speakers each supports an equal name,
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful rival’s early pride,
Though Cleon’s candour would the palm divide,
Yet candour’s self compels me now to own
Justice awards it to my friend alone.

   Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o’er pensive Fancy’s urn,
To trace the hours which never can return;
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twined,
When PROBUS’ praise repaid my lyric song,
Or placed me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue received applause,
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude to him my soul posseat,
While hope of dawning honours fill’d my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour’d name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.

    IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain!
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o’er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

   IDA! still o’er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time’s eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear,-
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow,
O’er their last scene of happiness below.
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl’d,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care has yet withheld her venom’d tooth;
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition’s fever’d dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man’s maturer toys
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys),
Recall one scene so much beloved to view,
As those where Youth her garland twined for you?
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life’s varied page;
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer’d leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where passion o’er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh’d a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow’d before the shrine of Truth,
And Love without his pinion, smiled on Youth.

ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM

ENTITLED ‘THE COMMON LOT’

MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
  Of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
  Some shall exist beyond the grave.

‘Unknown the region of his birth,’
  The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
  Which glares a meteor from afar.

His joy or grief; his weal or woe,
  Perchance may ‘scape the page of fame;
Yet nations now unborn will know
  The record of his deathless name.

The patriot’s and the poet’s frame
  Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
  That will arise, though empires fail.

The lustre of a beauty’s eye
  Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
  And sink the yawning grave beneath.

Once more the speaking eye revive,
  Still beaming through the lover’s strain;
For Petrarch’s Laura still survives:
  She died, but ne’er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,
  And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour’s laurel ne’er decay,
  But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,
  Collected in the silent tomb;
The old and young, with friends and foes,
  Fest’ring alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,
  Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To ruin’s ruthless fangs a prey,
  The wrecks of pillar’d pride remain.

What, though the sculpture he destroy’d,
  From dark oblivion meant to ward;
A bright renown shall he enjoy’d
  By those whose virtues claim reward

Then do not say the common lot
  Of all lies deep in Lethe’s wave;
Some few who ne’er will be forgot
  Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

TO A LADY

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE
VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES

This Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
  Is mine, sweet girl! Thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
  Like relics left of saints above.

Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
 ’Twill blind my soul in bonds to thee;
From me again ‘t will ne’er depart,
  But mingle in the grave with me.

The dew I gather from thy lip
  Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,
  And banquet on a transient bliss:

This will recall each youthful scene,
  E’en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
  When Memory bids them bud again.

Oh! little lock of golden hue,
  In gently waving ringlet curl’d
By the dear head on which you grow,
  I would not lose you for a world.

Not though a thousand more adorn
  The polish’d brow where once you shone,
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,
  Beneath Columbia’s fervid zone.

1806 [First published 1832, as
a single poem, though the last
two stanzas are apparently
independent of the first four]

LINES

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON
HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE
WITH SOCIETY

DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;
  I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
  I will not descend to a world I despise.

Did the senate or camp my exertions reuire,
  Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth
When infancy’s years of probation expire,
  Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal’d
  Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific reveal’d,
  No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.

Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame
  Bids me live but to hope for posterity’s praise.
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame
  With him Iwould wish to expire in the blaze.

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death,
  What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath;
  Their glory illurnines the gloom of their grave.

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion’s full herd?
  Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
  Why search for delight in the friendship of fools?

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love;
  In friendship I early was taught to believe
My passion the matrons prudence reprove;
  I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.

To me what is wealth? - it may pass in an hour,
  If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown:
To me what is title? - the phantom of power;
  To me what is fashion? - I seek but renown.

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul:
  I still am unpractised to varnish the truth:
Then why should I live in a hateful control?
  Why waste upon folly the days of my youth?

1806

REMEMBRANCE

‘Tis done! - I saw it in my dreams;
No more with Hope the future beams;
  My days of happiness are few:
Chill’d by misfortune’s wintry blast,
My dawn of life is overcast;
  Love Hope, and Joy, alike adieu!
  Would I could add Remembrance too!

1806 [First published 1832]

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON’S OSSIAN

Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. ‘Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!’ Past is the race of heroes. But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The gray Stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochim’s sons had fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul; his thoughts were given to friendship,-to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla: -gentle ‘alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o’er the blue waves. Erin’s sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies: but the blaring oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood.