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Limpid and lasting the streams of thy fountains ! For no patriot vigour was there,
No arın to support the weak flower;
Destruction pursued its dark berald-Despair, Whose shrine shall be hail'd by the prayers of man And wither'd its grace in an hour.
kind Thy rock-beach the rage of the tempest repelling
Yet there were who pretended to grieve, The wide-wasting contest of wave and of wind There were who pretended to save; Aloft on thy battlements long be unfurld
Mere shallow empyrics who came to deceiveThe eagle that decks thee-the pride of the world!
To revel and sport on its grave.
Oh! thou land cf the lily! in vain
Thou strugglest to raise its pale head!
The violet will bloom in its stead!
As thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind--
False emblem of innocence, stayTo chaunt forth its authems on tyranny's tomb), And yield as thou fadest, for the use of mankind, Wide Europe shall fear lest thy star should break fortlı, This lesson to mark thy decay! Eclipsing the pestilent orbs of the north!
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flowerOh! breathe on it softly-it dies in au hour.
Adieu, thou damn'dest quarantine,
Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is,
And now, oh Malta! since thou'st got us,
THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE. lo Pæan! lo! sing To the finny people's kingNot a mightier whale than this In the vast Atlantic is; Not a fatter fish than he Flounders round the Polar sea; See his blubber--at his gills What a world of drink he swills! From his trunk as from a spout, Which next moment de pours out. Such his person : Dext declare, Muse! who his companions are. Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside or slinks behind, But about his person keep All the monsters of the deep; Mermaids, with their tales and singing, His delighted fancy stinging ;Crooked dolphins, they surround him; Dog-like seals, they fawn around him : Following hard, the progress mark of the intolerant salt sea sharkFor his solace and relief Flat fish arc his courtiers chief;Last and lowest of his train, lok-fish, libellers of the main, Their black liquor shed in spite(Such on earth the things that write.) In his stomach, some do say, No good thing can ever stay; Had it been the fortune of it To have swallow'd the old prophet, Three days there he 'd not have dwella, But in one have been expell’d. Hapless mariners are they, Wlio, beguiled, as seamen say, Deeming it some rock or island, Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land, Anchor in his scaly rind; Soon the difference they find, Sudden, plump, he sipks beneath them Does to ruthless waves bequeath them. Name or title, what has he? Is be regent of the sea ? From the difficulty free us, Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnæus! With his wondrous attributes Say-what appellation suits ? By his bulk and by luis size, By his oily qualities, This, or else my eye-sight fails, This should be the- Prince of Whales!
ENIGMA. 'T was whisperd in heaven, 't was mutter'd in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell : On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confest. 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. "T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death; It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth : Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. in the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor c’en in the whirlwiud of passion be drown'd: 'T will not soften the heart, and, though deaf to the car, "T will make it acutely and instantly licar.
TO A LADY.
A father's heart shall daily bear
WHEN man, expellid from Eden's bower,
A moment linger'd near the gate, Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hour,
And bade him curse his future fate. But wandering on through distant climes,
He learn'd to bear his load of grief, And gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief. Thus, lady, will it be with me,
And I shall view thy charms no more; For whilst I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before. In flight I shall be surely wise,
Escaping from temptation's snare: I cannot view my paradise
Without a wish to enter there.
LINES Addressed by Lord Byron to Mr Hobhouse, on his
Election for Westminster.
Nors janna vitæ.
Would you get to the house through the true gate,
Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went Let Parliament send you to Newgate
And Newgate will send you to-Parliament.
TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. And say'st thou that I have not felt,
Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st how dearly 1 have dwelt
On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be,
And I will learn to prize thee less; As thou hast tled, so let me flee,
And change the heart thou mayst not bless. They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seemid,
Of late, another's charms to woo, Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd
That thou wert banish'd from my view. Clara! this struggle--10 undo
What thou hast done too well, for me
This treachery-was truth to thee!
Nor worn one look of sullen woe;
(Ah! need I name her ?) could bestow. It is a duty which I owe
To thine-to thee-to man-to God, To crush, to quench this guilty glow,
Ere yet the path of crime be trod. But, since my breast is not so pure
Since still the vulture tears my heart Let me this agony endure,
Not thee-oh! dearest as thou art! In mercy, Clara! let us part,
And I will seek, yet know not how, To shun, in time, the threatening dart;
Guilt must not aim at such as thou. But thou must aid me in the task,
And nobly thus exert thy power; Then spurn me hence-'t is all I ask
Ere time mature a guiltier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower
Remorse redoubled on my head; Ere fires unquencbably devour
A heart, whose hope has long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me,
Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee,
From woe like ours-from shame like thinc ? And, if there be a wrath divine,
A pang beyond this fleeting breath, Een now all future hope resign :
Such thoughts are guilt--such guilt is death.
TO A LADY.
Sweet lady! speak those words again :
I would not give that bosom pain. My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone
Wilt sigh above my place of rest.
And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shinc; And for a while my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine.
Oh, Lady! blessed be that tear,
It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear
To those whose eye no tear may steep. Sweet Lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine,
A wretch created to repine.
Sweet lady! speak those words again ; Yet if they grieve thee, say not so
I would not give that bosom pain.
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
Too loved of all to die.
The tears refuse to start; But every drop its lids deny
Falls dreary on my lieart.
Yes-deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink, and turn to care; As cavernd waters wear the stone,
Yet, dropping, harden there.They cannot petrify more fast
Than feelings sunk remain, Which, coldly fixd, regard the past,
But never melt again.
LINES, FOUND IN TUE TRAVELLER'S BOOK AT CHAMOUNT. llow many number'd are, low few agreed, In age, or clime, or character, or creed ! Here wandering genius leaves a deathless name, And Folly writes—for others do the same. Italian treachery, and English pride, Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side! The hardy Russian hails congenial snow; The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow. knew men the objects of this varied crew, To stare bow many, and to feel how few! Jere Nature's child, ecstatic from hier school; And travelling problems, that admirc by rule. The timorous poet woos luis modest muse, And thanks his stars he's safe from all reviews. The pedant drags from out his motley store A line some hundred bills have leard before. Here critics 100 (for where's the happy spot So blest by nature as to have them not?) Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase Of foolish wonder or of lionest praise; Some pompous liint, some comment on inine lost, Some direful failure, or some empty boast. Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men, if Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen. Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame, Joinil in one act of wonder when they came : Bere beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock, The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block, Sees the white giant in his robe of light, Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height; And stops, while hastening to the blest remains And calmer beauties of the classic plains. And liere, whom hope beguiling, bids to seck Ease for his breast, and colour for his chech, Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky, And views and wonders on his way to die.
But hic, the author of these idle lines, What passion leads him, and what tie confines? For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, What joy clates him, and what yrief consumes ?
Impassion'd, senseless, vigorous, or old,
but he lid his name.
A DRINKING SONG, Fill the goblet again, for I never before Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core ! Let us drink !--Who would not?-Since through life's
varied round In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling 'ye; I have loved !-Who has not ?- But what tongue will
declare, That pleasure existed whilst passion was there! In the bright days of youth-when the heart 's in its
spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing: I had friends ? Who has not ?- But what tongue will
That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as thou !
The breast of a mistress some boy may estrange; Friendship shifts with the sun-beam ; thou neser
can'st change! Thou grow'st old :-Who does not?-But on earth what
appears, Whose virtues like thine but increase with their years?
Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Then the season of youth and its jollities past,
is confined to the bowl. When the Box of Pandora was opeued on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, llope was left!- Was she not ?-But the goblet we kiss, And care pot for hope who are certain of bliss ! Long life to the grape! and when summer is flown, The of our nectar shall gladden our own; We must die ! - Who shall not ?--May our sins be for
Till Lethe quench Jife's burning stream,
And haunt thee like a feverish dream!
Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not.
Thy husband too shall think of thee:
... to me!