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A SONG.

THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought: "T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.

The wholly false the heart despises,

And spurns deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises,'

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow

Is doom'd to all who love or live; And if, when conscious on the morrow, We scarce our fancy can forgive, That cheated us in slumber only, To leave the waking soul more lonely,

What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition,

As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming!

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE ORIGIN
OF LOVE?»

THE «Origin of Love!»-Ah why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou mayst read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?

And shouldst thou seek his end to know My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He'll linger long in silent woe;

But live-until I cease to be.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,
Even now, in midnight solitude.

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee!

Far may thy days, as heretofore,
From this our gaudy world be past!
And, that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh!
may such trial be thy last!

This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy, To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake presumption's hope of joy.

Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign-such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure,
From what even here hath past, may guess,
What there thy bosom must endure.
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by virtue shed in vain,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weep again.

Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine;

It felt not half so much to part,

As if its guilt had made thee mine.

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Quaff while thou canst-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 PARKER, BART.
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!

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 share their glorious lot?
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 woe, 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 griefs full heart is fed by fame. Alas! for them, though not for thee,

They cannot chuse 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 cach 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.
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
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute:
'Tis past-to them and thee adieu-
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

THINE 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 scorn.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

Tay cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
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,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;

At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.

WHEN Some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd fails, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man,
vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise-
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.

FAREWELL.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,

Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky. "T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;

But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine,

When we know that thy God is with thee.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest?

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While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
'T was not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,

Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,
To inflict a cureless wound?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not,
Love
may sink by slow decay,

But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat, And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet, These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say « Father!» Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall

་་

press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee.
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither-yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now.
But 't is done-all words are idle-
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.-
Fare thee well!-thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,

Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted-
More than this I scarce can die.

TO ***.

WHEN all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray,
And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way:

In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When, dreading to be deem'd too kind,
The weak despair-the cold depart;

When fortune, changed-and love fled far, And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose and set not to the last.

Oh blest be thine unbroken light!

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night, For ever shining sweetly nigh.

And when the cloud upon us came,

Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame,

And dash'd the darkness all away.

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,

And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine, Than in the world's defied rebuke.

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent,

Still waves with fond fidelity

Its boughs above a monument.

The winds might rend-the skies might pour, But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.

But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For heaven in sunshine will requite

The kind-and thee the most of all.

Then let the ties of baffled love

Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.

And these, when all was lost beside,

Were found, and still are fixed, in theeAnd bearing still a breast so tried,

Earth is no desert-even to me.

ODE.

[FROM THE FRENCH.]

WE do not curse thee, Waterloo!
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;
There't was shed, but is not sunk-
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion:
It soars and mingles in the air,
With that of lost LABEDOYERE—
With that of him whose honour'd
Contains the « bravest of the brave.>>
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 't is fuli 't will burst asunder-
Never yet was heard such thunder

grave

As then shall shake the world with wonder

Never yet was seen such lightning,
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood star foretold
By the sainted seer of old,

Showering down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.'

The chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!

When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow men-
Save in deeds that led them on
Where glory smiled on freedom's son-
Who, of all the despots banded,
With that youthful chief competed?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,

Till lone tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The hero sunk into the king?
Then he fell-so perish all,
Who would men by man enthral!

And thou too of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee even a tomb;'
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee-
Of the fate at last which found thee.
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?
Once-as the moon sways o'er the tide,
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendancy,—
And as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.

There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest

(There, with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest-
Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain:
There be sure was MURAT charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

See Rev. chap. viii, verse 7, etc. The first angel sounded, and there followed bail and fire mingled with blood, etc.

Verse 8. And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood, etc.

Verse 10. And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon a third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters."

Verse 11.

And the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood, and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.

2 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and

burnt.

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