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The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, “Me, me,-your vengeance hurl on me alone;
He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword With brakes entangled, scarce a path between,
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored; Dreary and dark apr ars the sylvan scene :
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, Euryalus his heavy spoils impede,
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast: The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead;
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, But Nisus scours along the forest's maze
Languid in death, expires beneath the share; To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze,
Or crinison poppy, sinking with the shower, Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend,
Declining gently, falls a fading flower; On every side they seek his absent friend.
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, "O God! my boy," he cries, “of me bereft,
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. In what impending perils art thou left!” Listening he runs--above the waving trees,
But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze;
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide; The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground.
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise;
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe; The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys:
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow; The hapless boy a ruffian train surround,
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, While lengthening shades his weary way confound; Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies, Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew.
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies; What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, dare?
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. Ah! must he rush his comrade's fate to share? Thus Nisus all his fond affection provedWhat force, what aid, what stratagem essay, Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey?
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, His life a votive ransom nobly give,
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace! Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live? Poising with strength his lifted lance on high,
Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim, On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye:
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! "Goddess serene, transcending every star!
Ages on ages shall your fate admire,
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome!
TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ;
OF EURIPIDES. Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung;
C'Eρωτες υπερ μεν αγαν, κ.τ.λ.) The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay,
WHEN fierce conflicting passions urge Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay:
The breast where love is wont to glow, He sobs, he dies,-the troop in wild amaze,
What mind can stem the stormy surge Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze.
Which rolls the tide of human woe? While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples
The hope of praise, the dread of shame, riven,
Can rouse the tortured breast no more; A second shaft with equal force is driven:
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
Absorbs each wish felt before.
The soul by purer dreams possest,
In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise, Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals;
Fair Venus! from thy native heaven, Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise,
What heart unfeeling would despise And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies :
The sweetest boon the gods have given?
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid; Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name.
But never from thy golden bow
May I beneath the shaft expire!
Awakes an all-consuming fire:
With others wage internal war;
From me be ever distant far!
The holy calm of sacred love!
Which hover faithful hearts above!
May I with some fond lover sigh, Whose heart may mingle pure with mine
With me to live, with me to die! My native soil! beloved before,
Now dearer as my peaceful home, Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore,
A hapless banish'd wretch to roam! This very day, this very hour,
May I resign this fleeting breath! Nor quit my silent humble bower;
A doom to me far worse than death. Have I not heard the exile's sigh,
And seen the exile's silent tear, Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,
A pensive weary wanderer here? Ah! hapless dame! no sire bewails,
No friend thy wretched fate deplores, No kindred voice with rapture hails
Thy steps within a stranger's doors. Perish the fiend whose iron heart,
To fair affection's truth unknown, Bids her he fondly loved depart,
Unpitied, helpless, and alone; Who ne'er unlocks with silver key
The milder treasures of his soul, May such a friend be far from me,
And ocean's storms between us roll!
Such is the youth whose scientific pate Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await; Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. But lo! no common orator can hope The envied silver cup within his scope. Not that our heads much eloquence require, Th’ATHENIAN'S glowing style, or Tully's fire. A manner clear or warm is useless, since We do not try by speaking to convince. Be other orators of pleasing proud, We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd: Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, A proper mixture of the squeak and groan: No borrow'd grace of action must be seen; The slightest motion would displease the Dean; Whilst every staring graduate would prate Against what he could never imitate.
The man who hopes t'obtain the promised cup Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up; Nor stop, but rattle over every wordNo matter what, so it can not be heard. Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest: Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best; Who utters most within the shortest space May safely hope to win the wordy race.
The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade; Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live, un wept-for die: Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls: In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts affecting to despise; Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's note, More than the verse on which the critic wrote: Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale; To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. With eager haste they court the lord of power, Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour; To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. But should a storm o'erwhelun him with disgrace, They'd fly seek the next who fill'd his place. Such are the men who learning's treasures guard! Such is their practice, such is their reward ! This much, at least, we may presume to sayThe premium can't exceed the price they pay.
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE
EXAMINATION. High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, MAGNUS his ample front sublime uprears: Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome; Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.
Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little versed in any art beside; Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. What, though he knows not how his fathers bled, When civil discord piled the fields with dead, When Edward bade his conquering bandsadvance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France, Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta;
TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.
SWEET girl! though only once we met,
He offer'd it with downcast look,
As fearful that I might refuse it ; I told him, when the gift I took,
My only rear should be to lose it. This pledge attentively I view'd,
And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And ever since I've loved a tear. Still, to adorn his humble youth,
Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth
Must quit the garden for the fieid. 'T is not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
For once forgetting to be blind,
If well proportion'd to his mind.
His form had fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been,
And none remain'd to give the rest.
I would not say, "I love," but still My senses struggle with my will: In vain, to drive thee from my breast, My thoughts are more and more represt; In vain I check the rising sighs, Another to the last replies: Perhaps this is not love, but yet Our meeting I can ne'er forget. What though we never silence broke, Our eyes a sweeter language spoke; The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, And tells a tale it never feels : Deceit the guilty lips impart, And hush the mandates of the heart; But soul's interpreters, the eyes, Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. As thus our glances oft conversed, And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, No spirit, from within, reproved us, Say rather, "'t was the spirit moved us.” Though what they utter'd I repress, Yet I conceive thou 'lt partly guess ; For as on thee my memory ponders, Perchance to me thine also wanders. This for myself, at least, I'll say, Thy form appears through night, through day; Awake, with it my fancy teems; In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams; The vision charms the hours a way, And bids me curse Aurora's ray For breaking slumbers of delight Which make me wish for endless night. Since, oh! whate'er my future fate, Shall joy or woe my steps await, Tempted by love, by storms beset, Thine image 1 can ne'er forget. Alas! again no more we meet, No more our former looks repeat; Then let me breathe this parting prayer, The dictate of my bosom's care : "May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, That anguish never can o'ertake her; That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, But bliss be aye her heart's partaker! Oh! may the happy mortal, fated To be, by dearest ties, related, For her each hour new joys discover, And lose the husband in the lover! May that fair bosom never know What 't is to feel the restless woe Which stings the soul, with vain regret, of him who never can forget!"
AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A
PRIVATE THEATRE. SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; Since now to please with purer scenes we seck, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's check; Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. Still, not for her alone we wish respect, Others appear more conscious of defect: To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, In all the arts of scenic action old; No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear ; To-night you throng to witness the debut Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly: Failing in this our first attempt to soar, Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more. Not one poor trembler only fear betrays Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your But all our dramatis persona wait (praise, In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward. For these, each IIero all his power displays, Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. Surely the last will some protection find; None to the softer sex can prove unkind : While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
THE CORNELIAN. No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever ;
And blushes modest as the giver.
Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me; Yet still the simple gift I prize,
For I am sure the giver loved me.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation or fear;
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER.
Through billows Atlantic to steer, “ OUR nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. (grave, But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath: These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue, The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath We give the palm where Justice points its due." In Glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT And bathes every wound with a Tear. THE FOLLOWING REPLY.
If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride, O factious viper! whose en venom'd tooth
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth; All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid, What though our“ nation's foes " lament the fate, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Truth, Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd, Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits “ war not with the dead :"
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more, His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
My Mary to Love once so dear, As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
In the shade of her bower I remember the hour He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
She rewarded those vows with a Tear. Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state:
By another possest, may she live ever blest! When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear’d,
Her name still my heart must revere: Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, And forgive her deceit with a Tear, With him our fast reviving hopes have died; Not one great people only raise his urn,
Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
This hope to my breast is most near: "These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue, If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, To give the palm where Justice points its due;"
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
And my corse shall recline on its bier, (night, Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume, weep,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear. Nor e'en to PITT the patriot's palm resign;
October 26, 1806. Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.
REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B.
PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF THE TEAR.
HIS MISTRESS. “O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh
At first she may frown in a pet;
[rove; The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile, But the test of affection 's a Tear.
And then you may kiss your coquette.
For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, Now, Strephon, good bye; I cannot deny
Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed, And humbles the proudest coquette.
For it only consists in the word.
And seem her hauteur to regret;
ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect, If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride, Who to woman deny the soul's future existence! This whimsical virgin forget;
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, Some other admire, who will melt with your fire, And this doctrine would meet with a general And laugh at the little coquette.
resistance. For me, I adore some twenty or more,
Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, And love them most dearly; but yet,
He ne'er would have women from paradise driven; Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,
Did they act like your blooming coquette. (all, With women alone he had peopled his heaven. No longer repine, adopt this design,
Yet still, to increase your calamities more, And break through her slight-woven net;
Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, Away with despair, no longer forbear
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!To fy from the captious coquette.
With souls you 'd dispense; but this last, who Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend,
could bear it? Ere quite with her snares you 're beset:
His religion to please neither party is made; Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the
On husbands 't is hard, to the wives most uncivil Should lead you to curse the coquette. (smart, Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said,
October 27, 1806.
“Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the
TO THE SIGHING STREPHON.
LACHIN Y GAIR. YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend; AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses ! Your pardon, a thousand times o'er:
In you let the minions of luxury rove; From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, But I swear I will do so no more.
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid,
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, No more I your folly regret;
Round their white summits though elements war; She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine Though cataracts fcam 'stead of smooth-flowing of this quickly reformed coquette.
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
From your verses what else she deserved; Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd; Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; As your fair was so devilish reserved.
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponderd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade; Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss Can such wonderful transports produce;
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Since the “world you forget, when your lips once
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, My counsel will get but abuse. (have met,"
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. You say, when“I rove, I know nothing of love;” 'Tis true, I am given to range;
“Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number,
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
(vale. Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland I will not advance, by the rules of romance, Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, To humour a whimsical fair;
Winter presides in his cold icy car : Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
Or drive me to dreadful despair. Caffright, They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform, “Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding To mix in the Platonists' school;
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?” of this I am sure, was my passion so pure,
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, Thy mistress would think me a fool.
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: And if I should shun every woman for one,
Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber, Whose image must fill my whole breast
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, What an insult't would be to the rest!
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.