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say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapours move, To flit along from dame to dame, An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?
What friend for thee, howe'er inclined,
In time forbear; amidst the throng
Be something, any thing, but-mean.
To death even hours like these must roll; Ah! then repeat those accents never; Or change « my life !» into « my soul!»> Which, like my love, exists for ever.
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
WHEN from the heart where Sorrow sits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the
WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
Thy husband's blest-and 't will impart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!
When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break;
I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine.
I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
My heart in all, save hope, the same.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime
We met, and not a nerve was shook.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling couldst thou traceThe sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break.
SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE,
In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd,
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Friends of the stage! to whom both players and plays
And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to dieHail thou! who on my birth bestow'd
Those boons to all that know thee known;
Yet better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share
Thy future ills shall press in vain ;
Retards, but never counts the hour.
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
That beam hath sunk; and now thou art
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: And I can smile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone!
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.
An! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net,
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.
A bird of free and careless wing
Was I, through many a smiling spring;
I burn, and feebly flutter there.
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain;
The cold repulse, the look askance,
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
My light of life! ah, tell me why
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
My curdling blood, my maddening brain,
And still thy heart, without partaking
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
I've lived to curse my natal day,
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
That joy is harbinger of woe.
Quaff while thou canst-another race,
Our heads such sad effects produce;
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
For them is sorrow's purest sigh
O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent: In vain their bones unburied lieAll 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,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
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
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 grief's 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 each drop, in future years, Repaid thee by thy people's smiles! March, 1812.
FROM THE TURKISH.
THE chain I gave was fair to view,
Thy truth in absence to divine;
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 adieuFalse heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
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 thought— I 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 mornSuch seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought remorse can claim-nor virtue scorn.