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read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me to this sin' little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not of late years had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions: while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others 'virúm volitare per ora. I look to the few who will hear with patience dulce est desipere in loco. To the former worthies I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst 'the mob of gentlemen who write '-my readers must determine whether I dare say 'with ease-or the honour of a posthumous page in The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, -a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers.

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age, the contents may afford amusement : trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor, even in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine, that when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed,' can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical censors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honours granted solely to a title.

• Frederick Howard, fifth Earl of Carlisle, author of fugitive pieces and two tragedies, was born 1748, and died in 1826.

HOURS OF IDLENESS.

WRITTEN FROM 1802 TO 1807.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.†

HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom,

Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey: Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,

And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ;-
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

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Yet envy not this gaudy state;
Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.

TO D-.

IN thee I fondly hoped to clasp
A friend, whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp,

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.
True, she has forced thee from my breast,
Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat;
There, there thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
And when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head-
Without thee, where would be my heaven?

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.
Αστὴρ πριν μεν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν ἑῷος.
LAERTIUS

OH Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!

What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!

Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.

What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! [cheer,
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah! none!-a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.

A FRAGMENT.

WHEN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice:
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd
My epitaph shall be my name alone : [stone;
If that with honour fail to crown iny clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 'Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court.'-OSSIAN. THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle [in the way. Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, [blast rattle, The escutcheon and shield, which with every Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more doth old Robert, with heart-stringing numbers, [wreath;

Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy;

[fell:

For the safety of Edward and England they My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; How you fought, how you died, still her annals

can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending,*

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; [ing, For the rights of a monarch their country defendTill death their attachment to royalty seal'd.

• Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated.-Prince Rupert, son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II.

Shades of heroes, farewell; your descendant, departing

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame and that memory still will he cherish He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your

renown:

Like you will he live, or like you will he perish : When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own.

LINES

WRITTEN IN 'LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN
AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN BY J. J.
ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS."

Away, away, your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts:
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving.'

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED
TO MISS-

DEAR, simple girl, those flattering arts
From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,
Exist but in imagination-

Mere phantoms of thine own creation :
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance,
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demand such praises,
But envy in the other raises :
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery-'tis truth.

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL
WHEN DYING.*

AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay !

To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
AD LESBIAM..

EQUAL to Jove that youth must be-
Greater than Jove he seems to me--

Animula vagula, blandula,
Hospes comesque corporis,
Que nunc abibis in loca-
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?'

Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him alike are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah, Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But at the sight my senses fly;

I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die :
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,

My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

HE who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's unequal hand alike controll'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 'Sulpicia ad Cerinthum.'-Lib. 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, no 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 endeavour :
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; [smile. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd

FROM ANACREON. [Θέλω λεγεῖν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.] I WISH to tune my quivering lyre To deeds 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. [Μεσονυκτίαις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ. λ.] "TWAS now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Boötes, only, seem'd to rolle

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 ESCHYLUS.

[Μηδαμ' ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.]

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 thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. The Nymphs and Tritons danced 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 ur 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,
The shelter of our infant years;

Where from this Gothic casement's height,
We view'd 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?

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