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My eyes refuse the cheering light, Their orbs are veil'd in starless night: Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, And feels a temporary death.





Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts,
From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts,
Exist but in imagination,-
Mere phantoms of thine own creation ;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance,
Thou 'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises :
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah ! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,-'tis truth.

July, 1804.

HE who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,

And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand alike controllid,

Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!


“Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. iv. CRUEL Cerinthus ! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for love and you again ; But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate: By death alone I can avoid your hate.



(ANIMULAI vagula, blandula,
Hospes comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca-
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?]


An! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.


(Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.)
YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread;
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved :
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom moved:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen checks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her woe,

Receptacle of life's decay.


EQUAL to Jove that youth must be-
Greater than Jove he seems to me-
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah ! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly;
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;



OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss:

Ncr then my soul should sated be;
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;
Still would we kiss and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exoeed
The yellow harvest's countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist?-ah! never--never!


(Justum et tenacem propositi virum, &c.]

The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow

Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,

By Auster on the billows spent, To curb the Adriatic main, Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain.

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Ilurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,

He would unmoved, unawed, behold.
The flames of an expiring world,

Again in crashing chaos rollid, In vast promiscuous ruin hurlid, Might light his glorious funeral pile: (smile. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd

FROM ANACREON. [Μεσονυκτιαις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ.λ.) 'T WAS now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Boötes, only, seem'd to roll His arctic charge around the pole; While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or ccased to weep: At this lone hour the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, Quick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force. My visions fled, alarm'd I rose, What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" Alas!” replies the wily child, In faltering accents sweetly mild, A hapless infant here I roam, Far from my dear maternal home. Oh! shield me from the wintry blast! The nightly storm is pouring fast. No prowling robber lingers here. A wandlering baby who can fear?" I heard his seeming artless tale, I heard his sighs upon the gale: My breast was never pity's foe, But felt for all the baby's woe. I drew the bar, and by the light Young Love, the infant, met my sight; His bow across his shoulders flung, And thence his fatal quiver hung (Ah! little did I think the dart Would rankle soon within my heart). With care I tend my weary guest, His little fingers chill my breast; His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring, His shivering limbs the embers warm; And now reviving from the storm, Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, Than swift he seized his slender bow:“I fain would know, my gentle host," He cried, “if this its strength has lost; I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, The strings their former aid refuse." With poison tipt, his arrow flies, Deep in my tortured heart it lies; Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :“My bow can still impel the shaft: 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"


(θέλω λεγείν Ατρείδας, κ.τ.λ.) I wish to tune my quivering lyre To deeds of fame and notes of fire; To echo, from its rising swell, How heroes fought and nations fell, When Atreus' sons advanced to war, Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to love alone. Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's name; The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due: With glowing strings, the epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. All, all in vain; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of war's alarms! To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel; Love, love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.


OF ÆSCHYLUS. [Μηδαμ’ ο πάντα νέμων, κ. τ.λ.) GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne

Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;

My voice shall raise no impious strain 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

How different now thy joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride,
When placed aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled;

The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.

HARROW, Dec. 1, 1804.

TO EMMA. SINCE now the hour is come at last,

When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now our dream of bliss is past,

One pang, my girl, and all is over. Alas! that pang will be severe,

Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,

Departing for a distant shore.
Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,

And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,

The shelter of our infant years; Where from th Gothic casement's height,

We view'd the lake, the park, the dell, And still, though tears obstruct our sight,

We lingering look a last farewell, O'er fields through which we used to run,

And spend the hours in childish play; O'er shades where, when our race was done,

Reposing on my breast you lay; Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,

Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes: See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,

The elm I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past-our joys are gone,

You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone:

Without thee what will they avail? Who can conceive, who has not proved,

The anguish of a last embrace? When, torn from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace. This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close,

Oh, God! the fondest, last adicu!

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,

How could I dwell upon its snows! Yet is the daring wish represt,

For that-would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye

Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet I conceal my love,-and why?

I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou

Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? No! for thou never canst be mine,

United by the priest's decree: By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom,

Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortured heart

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave

More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,-

I bid thee now a last farewell.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair,

And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain my soul would dare

All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. At least from guilt shalt thou be free,

No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me,

No martyr shalt thou be to love.


THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,

Suffused in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,

Which said far more than words can say ? Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,

When love and hope lay both o'erthrown, Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,

When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd

Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek,

Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,

In signs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we wecp in vain,

In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain,

But that will make us wcep the more.

TO M. S. G.

WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,

Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine,

Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.


Again, thou best beloved, adieu!

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret;


(could assuage, Nor let thy mind past joys review,

Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream Our only hope is to forget!

On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,

(rage. With transport my tongue give a loose to its

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, WHEN I hear you express an affection so warm,

Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignaAnd your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.



Life beams not for us with one ray that can Yet still this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, Love and hope upon earth bring no more consola

That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sere ; That age will come on, when remembrance, de- In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. ploring,

Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear;


(fled? That the time must arrive, when, no longer retain

Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are ing

[breeze, If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the

Perhaps they will leave in molested the dead. When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,

1805. Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my



POEMS OF CAMOËNS. Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the This votive pledge of fond esteem, Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his crea

Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou 'lt prize ; tures,

(me. It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
In the death which one day will deprive you of A theme we never can despise.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, Who blames it but the envious fool,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;

The old and disappointed maid;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion, Or pupil of the prudish school,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

In single sorrow doom'd to fade ?
But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'er-

Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; (glow,

To thee in vain I shall not plead
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy

In pity for the poet's woes.
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid He was in sooth a genuine bard;

His was no faint, fictitious flame :

Like his, may love be thy reward,
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of But not thy hapless fate the same.

Which from passion like ours may unceasingly
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. measure, And qualf the contents as our nectar below.

“A Βαρβιτος δε χορδαίς 1805.

'Ερωτα μουνον ηχεί.-ANACREON. AWAY with your fictions of flimsy romance;

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! TO CAROLINE.

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

[love. Os! when shall the grave hide for ever my sor- Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of row ?

[this clay? | Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow From what blest inspiration your sonnets would

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. flow, From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no

Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love! curses,

[bliss; If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, [rove, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from Or the Nine be disposed from your service to For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, Ils querulous grief, when in anguish like this. And try the effect of the first kiss of love.

take us,



I hate you, ye cold compositions of art! (prove, When youthful parasites, who bend the knce

Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots re- To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,I court the effusions that spring from the heart, And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,love.

When these declare," that pomp alone should wait Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical

On one by birth predestined to be great; themes,

That books were only meant for drudging fools, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:

That gallant spirits scorn the common rules ;" Arcadia displays but a region of dreams : (love? Believe them not;--they point the path to shame, What are visions like these to the first kiss of And seek to blast the honours of thy name.

Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,

Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; From Adam till now, has with wretchedness

Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, strove,

None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Some portion of paradise still is on earth,

Ask thine own heart; 't will bid thee, boy, forbear; And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.

For well I know that virtue lingers there. When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are

Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, past

But now new scenes invite me far away;
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove-Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind
The dearest remembrance will still be the last, A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love, Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,

Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,

And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;

Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.

I love the virtucs which I cannot claim. WHERE are those honours, Ida! once your own,

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne?

To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,

To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, Hail'd a barbarian in her Cæsar's place,

With long-drawn names that grace no page beside; So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,

Then share with titled crowds the common lotAnd seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot; Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul,

While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Pomposus holds you in his harsh control;

Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd,

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find Such as were ne'er before en forced in schools.

One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,

There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause; That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, With him the same dire fate attending Rome, A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, Il-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom; In records destined never to be read. Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, Fain would view thee, with prophetic eyes, No trace of science left you, but the name. Exalted more among the good and wise,

July, 1805.

A glorious and a long career pursue,

As first in rank, the first in talent too:

Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. DORSET! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Turn to the annals of a foriner day; Exploring every path of Ida's glade;

Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. Whom still affection taught me to defend,

One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, And made me less a tyrant than a friend,

And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth. Though the harsh custom of our youthful band Another view, not less renown'd for wit; Bade thee obcy, and gave me to command;

Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine; The gift of riches and the pride of power;

In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,

Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, Renown'd in rank, nor far beneath the throne. The pride of princes, and the boast of song. Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul

Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name; To shun fair science, or evade control,

Not heir to titles only, but to fame. Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, The titled child, whose future breath may raise, To me, this little scene of joys and woes; View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 'mine: And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were

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