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,

here goes!

So,

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, And Southey's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep ;That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never

man saw.

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

man,

[man. And what dignity decks the flat face of the great 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.

CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH, COUNT-
ESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S
RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE. (1)

WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave, or just;
What most admired each scrutinising eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering 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.

(1) ["The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-abduction by our Regent, and have published them—with my name, too, smack-without even asking leave, or enquiring whether or no! D-n their impudence, and d-n every thing. It has put me out of patience, and so I shall say no more about it."- B. Letters.]

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze

Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less;
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's crown, and of his 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!

Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 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 ev'ry 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
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.

August, 1814.

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 wreathe 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.

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. (1)

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!

(1) [This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twenty-ninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a party belonging to his ship, the Menelaus, and animating them, in storming the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's first cousin; but they had never met since boyhood. -E]