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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,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
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, 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,
Deep for the dead the grief must be,
TO A LADY WEEPING.
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-
FROM THE TURKISH.
THE Chain I gave was fair to view,
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such.
Let him, who from thy neck unbound
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
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 despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI 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 morn→
Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue
THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo, 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,
ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.
WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,