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I lived, I loved, I quaffd, like thee;
I died ; let earth my bones resign: Fill up—thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
What nobler substitute than wine !
Quaff while thou cạnst--another race,
When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce ;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use. Newstead Abbey, 1808.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER
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 in 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 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 bleed with thee
In wo, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory,
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fello
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.
9. 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 A LADY WEEPING.
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah, happy! if each tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away!
Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears
Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !
March, 1812. FROM THE TURKISH.
THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
In other hands its notes were such.
Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.