Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine;
I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,
It is not drain'd to banish care,
The cup must hold a deadlier draught
That brings a Lethe for despair.
And could oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free,
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee.

For wert thou banish'd from my mind, Where could my vacant bosom turn? And who would then remain behind

To honour thine abandon'd urn? No, no-it is my sorrow's pride That last dear duty to fulfil; Though all the world forget beside, 'Tis meet that I remember still.

For well I know, that such had been Thy gentle care for him, who now Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, Where none regarded him, but thou: And, oh! I feel in that was given

A blessing never meant for me; Thou wert too like a dream of heaven, For earthly love to merit thee.

March 14th, 1812.

:

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS

BROKEN.

ILL-FATED heart! and can it be

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?
Have years of care for thine and thee
Alike been all employ'd in vain?

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,
And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee feels thou art
A fitter emblem of his own.

TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND.

This poem and the following were written some years ago.]
Few years have pass'd since thou and I
Were firmest friends, at least in name,
And childhood's gay sincerity

Preserved our feelings long the same.

But now, like me, too well thou know'st
What trifles oft the heart recall ;
And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they loved at all.

And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship's reign,
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,
Will view thy mind estranged again.

It boots not that, together bred,

Our childish days were days of joy My spring of life has quickly fled ; Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. And when we bid adieu to youth, Slaves to the specious world's control We sigh a long farewell to truth;

That world corrupts the noblest soul.
Ah, joyous season! when the mind
Dares all things boldly but to lie;
When thought, ere spoke, is unconfined,
And sparkles in the placid eye.

Not so in man's maturer years,
When man himself is but a tool;
When interest sways our hopes and fears,
And all must love or hate by rule.

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest-and 't will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass-Oh! how my heart
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.

I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,

And they were all to love and me.

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
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.

To death even hours like these must rol. 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,
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.

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE

THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.
In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride:
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd,
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!)
Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames

Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome,
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home,
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies with lightnings awful as their own,
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall
Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you ?

Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama be where she hath been
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell-
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

:

As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart.
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse.
One tribute toive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's head!
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead '

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write..
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry, as they of theirs ;
While thus remembrance borrows Banquo's glass,
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line,
Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both players and plays
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!
Oh! since your fiat stamps the drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours!

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,
The Drama's homage by her herald paid,
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone

Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.

The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,

Still may we please-long, long may you preside!

TO TIME.

TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
The varying hours must flag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,
But drag or drive us on to die-
Hail 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
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

My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?

Mine
eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.

My curdling blood, my maddening brain,
In silent anguish I sustain!

And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults-while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not thou !
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And love, that thus can lingering slay.

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late I dearly know,

That joy is harbinger of woe.

A SONG.

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought:

"Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.

The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit ;
But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doom'd to all who love or live ;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely.

What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition,

As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming!

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE?"

THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou may'st read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?

And shouldst thou seek his end to know:
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent woe;
But live-until I cease to be.

Oh, God! that we nad met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ;
When thou hadst loved without a crime,
And I been less unworthy thee'

Far may thy days, as heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be past!
And, that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last!

This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy, To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake presumption's hope of joy.

Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign-such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure,
From what even here hath past, may guess,
What there thy bosom must endure.

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weep again.

Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine

It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.

LINES

REMEMBER HIM, ETC.
REMEMBER him, whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour
When neither fell, though both were loved.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be blest:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, represt.

Oh! let me feel that all I lost,

But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years.

Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name.

INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKUT L.

START not-nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
I died; let earth my bones resign:
Fill up-thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy broo
And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of gods, than reptiles' food.

Where once my wit, perchance, hatn shone
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

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,
Lamented by admiring foes,

Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?

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
In woe, that glory cannot quell;
And shuddering hear of victory,

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 choose 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 tearsAuspicious 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,

The lute 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 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 adieu-
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

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 despair-
Have 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 porn, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent)

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought remorse can claim-nor virtue scorn

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

THY 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 gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending
The soul of melancholy gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

INSCRIPTION

ON THE MONUMENT of a neWFOUNDLAND DOG

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,