Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what ev'n here hath pass'd, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure.
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.
Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet;
Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine:
It felt not half so much to part

As if its guilt had made thee mine.

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
WHEN, from the heart where sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;

At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.
'TU MI CHAMAS.'

IN moments to delight devoted,

'My life!' with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words! on which my heart had doted, If youth could neither fade nor die. To death even hours like these must roll, Ah! then repeat those accents never; Or change my life!' into 'my soul !' Which, like my love, exists for ever. ANOTHER VERSION.

You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word

Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh: Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name, For, like the soul, my love can never die.

FROM THE FRENCH.

beauty and poet, has two little crimes; She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.

SONNETS TO GENEVRA.

I.

THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features-caught From contemplation-where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air. That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born (Except that thou hast nothing to repent), The Magdalen of Guido saw the mornSuch seem'st thou-but how much more excellent ! [scorn.

With nought Remorse can claim--nor Virtue

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow: And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes-but, oh! While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;

WINDSOR POETICS.

LINES COMPOSED ON THE OCCASION OF HIS
ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE REGENT
BEING SEEN STANDING BETWEEN THE
COFFINS OF HENRY VIII. AND CHARLES I.,
IN THE ROYAL VAULT AT WINDSOR.

FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies;
It moves, it reigns-in all but name, a king:
Between them stands another sceptred thing-
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
-In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
The blood and dust of both-to mould a
Ah, what can tombs avail, since these disgorge
George!

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE;
AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY.
THE Devil return'd to hell by two,
When he dined on some homicides done in
And he stay'd at home till five; [ragoût,

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew-
And bethought himself what next to do,

'And,' quoth he, I'll take a drive. walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night; In darkness my children take most delight, And I'll see how my favourites thrive. 'And what shall I ride in?' quoth Lucifer then'If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

I should mount in a waggon of wounded men, And smile to see them bleed.

But these will be furnish'd again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed ;
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.

'I have a state-coach at Carlton House,
A chariot in Seymour Place:
But they're lent to two friends, who make me
By driving my favourite pace: [amends,
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.

'So now for the earth to take my chance :'
Then up to the carth sprung he;

And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp'd across the sea,

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say
That he hover'd a moment upon his way,
To look upon Leipsic plain;

And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,
That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;
And he gazed with delight from its growing
height,

Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well:

[dead, For the field ran so red with the blood of the That it blush'd like the waves of hell ! Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he: 'Methinks they have here little need of me I'

But the softest note that soothed his ear Was the sound of a widow sighing; And the sweetest sight was the icy tear, Which horror froze in the blue eye clear Of a maid by her lover lying

As round her fell her long fair hair;

So he sat him on his box again,
And bade him have no fear,

But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein,
His brothel, and his beer;

'Next to seeing a lord at the council board, I would rather see him here.'

The Devil gat next to Westminster,

And he turn'd to the room' of the Commons: But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, That the Lords' had received a summons; And he thought, as a 'quondam aristocrat,' He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;

own,

And he walk'd up the House so like one of our
[throne.
That they say that he stood pretty near the
He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk-a man of some size-
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,
Because the Catholics would not rise,
In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard-which set Satan himself a star-
ing-
[ing.
A certain Chief Justice say something like swear-
And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, 'I

must go,

For I find we have much better manners below: If thus he harangues when he passes my border, I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order.'

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name; There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: [impart But the tear which now burns on my cheek may

Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!

And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,
A child of famine dying:

And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,
And the fall of the vainly flying!

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day:

But he made a tour, and kept a journal
Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,
And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,
Who bid pretty well-but they cheated him,
though!

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,
Its coachman and his coat;
So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
And seized him by the throat :
'Aha!' quoth he, what have we here?
'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer !'

heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness cease? chain,We repent, we abjure, we will break from our We will part, we will fly to-unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! Forgive me, adored one!--forsake, if thou wilt; But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, [may'st. And man shall not break it-whatever thou And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be ; And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,

[feet.

With thee by my side, than with worlds at our

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove⚫ And the heartless may wonder at all I resign|Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

TO LORD THURLOW.

'I lay my branch of laurel down,
Then thus to form Apollo's crown,
Let every other bring his own.'

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr Rogers.

'I lay my branch of laurel down. THOU lay thy branch of laurel down!' Why, what thou'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send it back to Doctor Donne :
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou-none.

'Then thus to form Apollo's crown.'
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,

Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers, They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown, Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

'Let every other bring his own.'

When coals to Newcastle are carried,

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried, Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO
MR LEIGH HUNT IN HORSEMONGER LANE
GAOL, MAY 19, 1813.

OH you, who in all names can tickle the town,
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom
Brown,
[brag,
For hang me if I know of which you may most
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny
Post Bag;

But now to my letter-to yours 'tis an answer-
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you're engaged with

some codgers,

ADDRESS

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN RECITED AT THE CALEDONIAN MEETING, 1814.

WHO hath not glow'd above the page where fame

Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name; The mountain land which spurn'd the Roman chain,

And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane :

Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No foe could tame-no tyrant could command!
That race is gone-but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath :
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And, England! add their stubborn strength to
thine.
[free,
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support-the world hath given him
fame!

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led-
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath-'tis all their fate allows-
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze;
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose,
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form,
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
While sad she chants the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The coronach's wild requiem to the brave!
'Tis heaven-not man-must charm away the

Must put on my breeches, and wait on the But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the

Scurra,

And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.

air?

The thought of Brutus-for his was not there!

That absence proved his worth,-that absence fix'd

His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked)

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, [Russes,The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman, [great man.

less: If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits Heir of his father's crown, and of its wits, If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart, Could with thy gentle image bear depart; That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? A garden with all flowers-except the rose ;A fount that only wants its living stream; A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, Than all he shall not force on our applause.

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : The symmetry of youth, the grace of mien, The eye that gladdens, and the brow serene ; The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, Which shades, yet shows that forehead more] than fair! [throws Each glance that wins us, and the life that A spell which will not let our looks repose, But turn to gaze again, and find anew Some charm that well rewards another view. These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight; And those must wait till every charm is gone, To please the paltry heart that pleases none;That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by; Who rack'd his little spirit to combine It's hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE.

'WHAT say I?'-not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man of all measures,' dear Tom,-so here goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. [in the flood,

If our weight breaks them down, and we sink We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap,

And Southey's last Paan has pillow'd his sleep;That Felo de se,' who, half drunk with his [sea,

malmsey,

Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm

I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,— For a prince, his demeanour was rather too

hearty.

You know we are used to quite different graces,

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,

But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the Jersey,

Who lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted With Majesty's presence as those she invited.

ELEGIAC STANZAS

ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
THERE is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And triumph weeps above the brave.
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh

O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,
All earth becomes their monument !
A tomb is theirs on every page,

An epitaph on every tongue :
The present hours, the future age,

For them bewail, to them belong. For them the voice of festal mirth

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round.

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

Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ;
And early valour, glowing, find

A model in thy memory.

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

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

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.

Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot choose but weep the more;
Deep for the dead the grief must be,
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.

TO BELSHAZZAR. BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn, Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; Behold! while yet before thee burn

The graven words, the glowing wall, Many a despot men miscall

Crown'd and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of all

Is it not written, thou must die?

Go! dash the roses from thy brow

Grey hairs but poorly wreath with them; Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,

More than thy very diadem,
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem :-
Then throw the worthless bauble by,
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn;
And learn like better men to die!

Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,
And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth :
But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth-
Unfit to govern, live, or die.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep :
So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

'O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pla Nympha, sensit.'
GRAY'S Poemata.

THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;

our tears,

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath,

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

Oh! could I feel as I have felt-or be what I have been,

Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene;

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

DARKNESS.

I HAD a dreamn, which was not all a dream,
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless; and the icy earth [air;
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless
Morn came and went-and came, and brought
no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires-and the
thrones,

The palaces of crowned kings-the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gather'd round their blazing
homes

To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch :
A fearful hope was all the world contained;
Forests were set on fire- but hour by hour
They fell and faded-and the crackling trunks