EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE STRANGER! behold, interr'd together, His works were neat, and often found And if he did, 'twere shame to "Black-it." Malta, May 16. 1811. ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA. GOOD plays are scarce, So Moore writes farce: The poet's fame grows brittle We knew before That Little's Moore, But now 'tis Moore that's little. September 14. 1811. (2) (1) [Some notice of this poetaster has been given, antè, Vol. VII. p. 269. He died in 1810, and his works have followed him. — E.] (2) [The farce in question was called "M. P.; or, the Blue Stocking," and came out at the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September.-E.] EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, (1) IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE "OH! banish care"-such ever be Perchance of mine, when wassail nights 'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear, (1) [i. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend), See Vol. VII. p. 305.-E.] I've seen my bride another's bride,- Have seen the infant, which she bore, The babe which ought to have been mine, But let this pass-I'll whine no more, I'll hie me to its haunts again. When Britain's " May is in the sere," Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times, Of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, Perchance not blood shall turn aside, (1) [These lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while under the pressure of recent sorrow, the poet reverted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to come. - - MOORE.] One rank'd in some recording page Him wilt thou know- and knowing pause, Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11. 1811. (2) TO THYRZA. WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot, And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot, Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid? By many a shore and many a sea To bid us meet- no - ne'er again! (1) [The anticipations of his own future career in these concluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at any lengths to which the spirit of selflibelling would carry him. It seemed as if, with the power of painting fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition to be, himself, the dark sublime he drew,' and that, in his fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endeavoured to fancy, where he could not find in his own character, fit subjects for his pencil.- MOORE.] - I (2) [Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, the poet says,— "I am growing nervous (how you will laugh!) but it is true, really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervous. Your climate kills me; can neither read, write, nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights restless: I have seldom any society, and, when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity; for I find a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely." E.] Could this have been a word, a look That softly said, "We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook, With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thee Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here? Till all was past? But when no more Shall they not flow, when many a day Affection's mingling tears were ours? Ours too the glance none saw beside; The smile none else might understand; The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss, so guiltless and refined That Love each warmer wish forebore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, Even passion blush'd to plead for more. |