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This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; This is of love the final close,

O God! the fondest, last adieu !

TO M. S. G.

WHENEVER 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 shal! I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosoin'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 beloved, 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 tortured heart,
By driving dove-eyed peace from .hine;
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.


THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears, implore to stay,
And heard unmoved 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 breathed 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 beloved, adieu !

Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ;
Nor let thy mind past joys review-
Our only hope is to forget!


WHEN I hear 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 sere ; That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, [tear;

Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining [the breeze, Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to 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,

[decree, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of His


[of me. In the death which one day will deprive you

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 [sympathy glow, alive with such

o'ertake us, And our breasts, which Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake [low,When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, [flow: Which from passion like ours may unceasingly Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full


And quaff the contents as our nectar below.


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 today.

no curses,

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 'Α Βαρβιτος δε χορδαίς

Ερωτα μουνον ἠχει. -ANACREON.

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

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove ;

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, [rage. With transport my tongue give a loose to its

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, [cheer, Life beams not for us with one ray that can 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, [fled? Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.

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 disappointed 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 vain, fictitious flame:
Like his, may love be thy reward,

But not thy hapless fate the same.


From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, [love! Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,


Or the Nine be disposed from your service to


Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, And try the effect of the first kiss of love!


hate you, ye cold compositions of art!

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots


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

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ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. WHERE are those honours, Ida! once your 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 ;

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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 display.
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama

The gift of riches, and the pride of
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-Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,
When these declare, that pomp alone should

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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

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, for-

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
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. [tame,
'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page be-

At every public school, the junior boys are completely subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the gher classes. From this state of probation very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed.


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:

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 hail their native shore,
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
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

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 no more again 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 are not breathed in vain, The guardian seraph who directs thy fate

Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.



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.

Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα Κρατήσεις.
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 Palmerston 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 slum-

Lord H, indeed, may 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.

The Diable Eoiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection.

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

Or agitates his anxious breast
To scan precisely metres Attic;

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 scarcely be 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.

• Seale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy.

The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and is not very intelligible.

The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a rightangled triangle.

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.


'Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.'


YE scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection [past; Embitters the present, compared with the Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,


And friendships were form'd, too romantic to Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, [denied!

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is

Again I revisit the hills where we sported, The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; [resorted,

The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we 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 wander'd,


To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting I once more view the room, with spectators


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 deprived;

Till fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga.

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! [me, Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. But if, through the course of the years which await me, [view, Some new scene of pleasure should open to I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,

'Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew!'


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 appal, 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,
Thou 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.*


WOMAN! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return


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