In this life of probation for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu!

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight;

His cypress the garland of love's last adieu!

DAMÆETAS.

Ix law an infant,' and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;
In les an adept, in deceit a fiend;

Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin:
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.2

All I shall therefore say (whate'er

I think, is neither here nor there)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form'd for better things than sneering:
Of smoothing compliments divested,
Advice at least 's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of flattery free;
Counsel like mine is like a brother's:
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion
Concerning woman's soft dominion:
Howe'er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue or lips carnation,
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us,
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love:
It is not too severe a stricture
To say they form a pretty picture;
But wouldst thou see the secret chain
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION.

TO MARION.

MARION! why that pensive brow? What disgust to life hast thou? Change that discontented air; Frowns become not one so fair. 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, Love's a stranger to thy breast; He in dimpling smiles appears, Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, Or bends the languid eyelid down, But shuns the cold forbidding frown. Then resume thy former fire, Some will love, and all admire ; While that icy aspect chills us, Nanght but cool indifference thrills us. Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, Smile at least, or seem to smile. Eyes like thine were never meant To hide their orbs in dark restraint; Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, Still in truant beams they play. Thy lips-but here my modest Muse Her impulse chaste must needs refuse: She blushes, curt'sies, frowns-in short she Dreads lest the subject should transport me; And flying off in search of reason, Brings prudence back in proper season.

In law every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one.

When I went up to Trinity, in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a half, I was miserable and untoward to a Cegree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow-wretched at Being to Cambridge instead of Oxford-wretched from some vate domestic circumstances of different kinds; and, Consequently, about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop-Diary. Mr. Moore adds, "The sort of life which youag Byron led at this period, between the dissipations of Lordon and of Cambridge, without a home to welcome, or even the roof of a single relative to receive him, was but

WHO

TO A LADY

PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.3

THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,
With silly whims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish,
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene 's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
Since Shakspeare set the precedent,
Since Juliet first declared her passion
To form the place of assignation.*