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Ah! none !-a father's tears will cease to flow, | Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;


courage, he'll think upon glory and you. To all, save one, is consolation known,

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, While solitary friendship sighs alone.

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame and that memory still will he cherish; WHEN, to their airy hali, my fathers' voice

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown: Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice :

Like you will he live, or like you will he perish: When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;

Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns !

No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumbered stone;
My epitaph shall be iny naine alone:

TTE IN 'LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND If that with honour fail to crown my clay,

AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN: BY J. J. ROUSSEAU : Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay !

FOUNDED ON FACTS.' That, only that, shall single out the spot;

Away, away, your flattering arts
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

May now betray some simpler hearts :
And you will smile at their believing,

And they shall weep at your deceiving.


TO MISS Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a DEAR, simple girl, those flattering arts few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court.'-OSSIAN.

From which thou'dst guard srail female hearts.

Exist but in imaginationTHROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow

Mere phantoins of thine own creation : winds whistle;

For he who views that witching grace, Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay :

That perfect form, that lovely face, In thy once siniling garden, the hemlock and thistle

With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the

He never wishes to deceive thee : way.

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, Of the mail-cover'd Barons, wlio proudly to battle

Thou'lt there descry that elegance Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,

Which from our sex demands such praises,

But envy in the other raises : The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

Believe me, only does his duty:

Ah! fly not from the candid youth; No more doth old Robert, with heart-stringing It is not flattery-'tis truth.

numbers, Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath;

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan slumbers

DYING.* Unnerv'd is the land of his minstrel by death.

AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,

Friend and associate of this clay!
Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy;

To what unknown region borne,
For the safety of Edward and England they fell :
My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye;

Wilt thou now wing thy distant fight?

No more with wonted humour gay,
How you fought, how you died, still her annals can

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending, *
Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak




For the rights of a monarch their country defending,

Till death their attachinent to royalty seal'd.

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, depart

ing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu !

EQUAL to Jove that youth must be
Greater than Jove he seems to me
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charins.

* Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated.-Prince Rupert, son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the feet in the reign of Charles II.

* • Animula I vagula, blandula,

Hospes comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca-
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?

That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,

From thee my Lesbia's eyes overflow, That mouth, from whence such music flows,

Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow. To him alike are always known,

Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Reserved for him, and him alone.

Receptacle of life's decay.
Ah, Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But at the sight my senses fly;

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die :

TO ELLEN, Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,

OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire, Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,

A million scarce would quench desire : My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,

Still would I steep my lips in bliss, My limbs deny their slight support,

And dwell an age on every kiss : Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,

Nor then my soul should sated be ; With deadly languor droops my head,

Still would I kiss and cling to thee: My ears with tingling echoes ring,

Nought should my kiss from thine dissever; And life itself is on the wing;

Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever; My eyes refuse the cheering light,

E'en though the numbers did exceed Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:

The yellow harvest's countless seed. Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,

To part would be a vain endeavour: And feels a temporary death,

Could I desist?-ah! never--never!



He who sublime in epic numbers rollid,

And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's unequal hand alike controlla,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!


'Sulpicia ad Cerinthum.'-Lib. iv.
CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please ?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for love and you again :
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate;
By death alone I can avoid your hate.

The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow

Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,

By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain.

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,

He would unmoved, unawed behold
The flames of an expiring world,

Again in crushing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurld,

Might light his glorious funeral pile.
Still dauntless 'inidst the wreck of earth he'd smile.


YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved :
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he fiew,
No fear, no wild aların he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd :
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away :

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone :
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name:
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due :
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again ;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire,
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of war's alarms!

To other deeds my soul is strung,

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, And sweeter notes shall now be sung ;

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. My harp shall all its powers reveal,

Oft shall the sacred victim fall To tell the tale my heart must feel :

In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,

My voice shall raise no impious strain, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

How different now thy joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride,

When placed aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty by thy side, 'TWAS now the hour when Night had driven

Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, Her car half round yon sable heaven;

And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, Boötes, only, seem'd to roll

The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, His arctic charge around the pole : While inortals, lost in gentle sleep,

Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep :
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,

Quick to my gate directs his course,

SINCE now the hour is come at last, And knocks with all his little force.

When you must quit your anxious lover My visions fled, aları'd I rose

Since now our dream of bliss is past, •What stranger breaks my blest repose ?"

One pang, my girl, and all is over. 'Alas l' replies the wily child, In faltering accents sweetly mild,

Alas! that pang will be severe, A hapless infant here I roam,

Which bids us part to meet no more ; Far from my dear maternal home.

Which tears me far from one so dear,
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!

Departing for a distant shore.
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here.

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
A wandering baby who can fear?'

And joy will mingle with our tears; I heard his seeming artless tale,

When thinking on these ancient towers,
I heard his sighs upon the gale :

The shelter of our infant years;
My breast was never pity's foc,
But felt for all the baby's woe.

Where from this Gothic casement's height,

We view'd the lake, the park, the dell;
I drew the bar, and by the light,
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;

And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
His bow across his shoulders flung,

We lingering look a last farewell, And thence his fatal quiver hung

O'er fields through which we use i to run, (Ah ! little did I think the dart

And spend the hours in childish play; Would rankle soon within iny heart).

O'er shades where, when our race was done, With care I tend my weary guest,

Reposing on my breast you lay;
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Which droop with nightly slowers, I wring;

Forget to scare the hovering flies, His shivering limbs the embers warm;

Yet envied every fly the kiss
And now reviving from the storm,

It dared to give your slumbering eyes:
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:

See still the little painted bark,
I fain would know, my gentle host,'

In which I row'd you o'cr the lake; He cried, 'if this its strength has lost;

See there, high waving o'er the park, I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,

The elm I clamber'd for your sake. The strings their former aid refuse.'

These times are past-our joys are gone, With poison tipt, his arrow flies,

You leave me, leave this happy vale ; Deep in my tortured heart it lies;

These scenes I must retrace alone : Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd:

Without thee, what will they avail ? •My bow can still impel the shaft: 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;

Who can conceive, who has not proved,
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?'

The anguish of a last embrace,
When, torn from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace ?

This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew:
GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne

This is of love the final close, Both gods and mortals homage pay,

O God I the fondest, last adieu!

TO M. S. G.

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,

Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;

In sighs alone it breathed my name.
Yet I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,

In vain our fate in sighs deplore; How could I dwell upon its snows!

Remembrance only can remainYet is the daring wish represt ;

But that will make us weep the more. For that-would banish its repose.

Again, thou best beloved, adieu ! A glance from thy soul-searching eye

Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; Can raise with hope, depress with fear;

Nor let thy mind past joys reviewYet I conceal my love-and why?

Our only hope is to forget! I would not force a painful tear,


I ne'er have told my love, yet thou

Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ?

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.

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 thine; 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.

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,

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

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

tures, In the death which one day will deprive you of ine. 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.

THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,

Suftused in tears, implore to stay,
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,

Which said far more than words can say ?

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'erta ke

us, And our breasts, which alive with such sympat hy

glow, Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,

When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low,Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of

Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow:
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full mea.

And quaff the contents as our nectar below.


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 2ow'd

Were lost in those which fell from thine.

OH! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this

The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, curses,

Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love! I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this.

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes And try the effect of the first kiss of love!

bright ning, Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could I hate you, ye cold compositions of art! assuage,

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reOn our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its

prove, lightning,

I court the effusions that spring from the heart, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.

Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,

Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight: Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Arcadia displays but a region of dreams :

Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? Yet still, though we bend with a feign d resignation, Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,

Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer, From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove; Love and hope upon earth bring no more consola. Some portion of paradise still is on earth, tion;

And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear,

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are Oh I when, my adored, in the tomb will they place pastme,

For years fleet away with the wings of the doveSince, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? The dearest remembrance will still be the last, If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.



WHERE are those honours, Ida ! once your own,

When Probus fill d your magisterial throne ?
THIS votive pledge of fond esteem,

As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize;

Hail'd a barbarian in her Cæsar's place,
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,

So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
A theme we never can despise.

And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate.

of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, Who blames it but the envious fool,

Pomposus holds you in his harsh control;
The old and disappointed maid ;

Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd.
Or pupil of the prudish school,

With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?

With noisy nonsense and new-fangled rules,
Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read,

Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools.
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ;

Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,
To thee in vain I shall not plead

He governs, sanction d but by self-applause ;
In pity for the poet's woes.

With him the same dire fate attending Ronic,

IIl-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom:
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard:

Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
His was no vain, fictitious fame:

No trace of science left you, but the name.
Like his, may love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.


DORSET! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,

Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
A Βαρβιτος δε χορδαίς

Whoin still affection taught me to defend,
'Ερωτα μουνον ηχεί.-ANACREON.

And made me less a tyrant than a friend,

Though the harsh custom of our youthful band AWAY with your fictions of Aimsy romance;

Bade thce obey, and gave me to command;*
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of

• At every public school, the junior boys are com.

pletely subservient to the upper forins till they attain love.

a seat in the higher classes. From this state of pro.

bation, very properly, no rank is exempt; but after Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow,

a certain period, they command in turn those who Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; succeed.

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