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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.
But 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?
Will deign to own a kindred care?
share? In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen; No more so idly pass along :
Be something, any thing, but-mean.
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. Wben froin the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high, And o'er the changing aspect flits,
And clouds the brow, or fills the eye: Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink :
My thoughts their dungeon know too well; Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.
SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE TIEATRE,
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.
Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
Warmly, as it was wont to do,
Some pangs to view bis happier lot:
Would hate him, if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it, for its mother's sake.
Its father in its face to see ;
And they were all to love and me.
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
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
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 trace
The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my carly dream
Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heari, be still, or break.
In one dread niglit our city saw, and sigh'd,
your last tcars retiring Roscius drew,
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
That beam hath sunk; and now thou art
A blank-a thing to count and curse Through each dull tedious trilling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
The limit of thy sloth or speed,
Which we shall sleep loo 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!
Friends of the stage! to whom both players and plays
This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,
TO TIME. Time! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, flecting spring,
But drag or drive us ou 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.
The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare,
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them be joy or rest, on me
Thy future ills shall press in vain ;
A debt already paid in pain.
It felt, but still forgot thy power :
Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy I've sigh d to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift lo slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to woe; For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee--not Eternity.
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.
Au! Love was never yel without
pang, exults--wliile mine is breaking.
Quaff while thou canst-another race,
When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce ; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use.
Newstead Abbey, 1808.
FROM THE TURKISH. Tue chain I gave was fair to view,
The lule I added sweet in sound, The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found. These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine ; And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine. That chain was firm in every liak,
But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet - vill 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 100;
The chain is broke, the music mule : "T is past-to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
And triumph weeps above the brave.
O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent:
All earth becomes their monument !
An epitaph on every tongue;
For them bewail, to them belong.
Grows hush'd, their name the only sound;
The goblet's tributary round.
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not die the death they chose ?
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;
A model in thy memory.
that glory cannot quell;
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name?
While griefs full heart is fed by fame.
They cannot chuse but weep the more;
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
Taine 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 despairllave thrown such speakiug saduess in thine air,
That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blept,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the moruSuch seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!
With nought remorse can claim-nor virtue scora.
Tuy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow:And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but oh!
While yazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy box, For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy gentleness
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
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!
ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEW FOUNDLAND DOG. When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,