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read ; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me 'to this sin :' little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not of late years had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions : while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others virûm volitare per ora.' I look to the few who will hear with patience 'dulce est desipere in loco.' To the former worthies I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst 'the mob of gentlemen who write'-my readers must determine whether I dare say 'with ease'-or the honour of a posthumous page in The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, --a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluininous productions of their illustrious bearers.

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age, the contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public ; nor, even in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine, * that when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed,' can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical censors; but were it otherwise, I should be lothi to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honours granted solely to a title.

• Frederick Howard, fifth Earl of Carlisle, author of fugitive pieces and two tragedies, was born 1748, and died in 1825


WRITTEN FROM 1802 TO 1807.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, Yet envy not this gaudy state ;

Thine is the pride of modest worth.

Our souls at least congenial meet,
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening

Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ;

Our intercourse is not less sweet, gloom, Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,

Since worth of rank supplies the place. Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

TO DWithin this narrow cell reclines her clay,

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp That clay where once such animation beam'd ;

A friend, whom death alone could sever ; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey : Till envy, with malignant grasp,

Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, True, she has forced thee from my breast, Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate!

Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, There, there thine image still must rest,

Not here the muse her virtues would relate. Until that heart shall cease to beat. But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars

And when the grave restores her dead, Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;

When life again to dust is given, And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

On thy dear breast I'll lay my headWhere endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. Without thee, where would be my heaven? And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven ar

raign, And, madly, godlike Providence accuse ?

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ;

'Αστήρ πριν μεν έλαμπες ένι ζωοισιν έφος.

LAERTIUS I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

On Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face ;/What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd

Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of


Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ;

Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; LET Folly smile, to view the names

Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Of thee and me in friendship twined ; Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; Yet Virtue will have greater claims

Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, To love, than rank with vice combined,

Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. And though unequal is thy fate,

If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh Since title deck'd my higher birth, The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,

Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, • Admiral Parker's daughter.

A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, this piece than perhaps any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest being composed But living statues there are seen to weep; at the age of fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred sub. Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, mitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.

aking either addition or alteration.

What though thy sire lament his failing line, Shades of heroes, farewell; your descendant,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! (cheer, departing
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu !
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : Abroad, or at home, your remembrance impart-
But who with me shall hold thy former place? ing
Thine image, what new friendship can efface? New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
Ah! none !-a father's tears will cease to flow, Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ;

"Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; To all, save one, is consolation known,

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, While solitary friendship sighs alone.

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame and that memory still will he cherish A FRAGMENT.

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your

renown : When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice :

Like you will he live, or like you will he perish: When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ;

your own. Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns To mark the spot where earth to earth returns !

LINES No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd WRITTEN IN 'LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN My epitaph shall be my name alone : (stone; AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN : BY J. J. If that with honour fail to crown iny clay,

ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS.' Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay !

Away, away, your flattering arts That, only that, shall single out the spot ;

May now betray some simpler hearts:

And you will smile at their believing, By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

And they shall weep at your deceiving.'


TO MISS "Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days! Thou DEAR, simple girl, those flattering arts lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court,'—OSSIAN,

Exist but in imaginationTHROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow

Mere phantoms of thine own creation : winds whistle ;

For he who views that witching gract,
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; That perfect form, that lovely face,
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and

With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, thistle

in the way;

He never wishes to deceive thee : Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle

Thou'lt there descry that elegance Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's

Which from our sex demand such praises, plain,

[blast rattle, But envy in the other raises : The escutcheon and shield, which with every

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

Believe me, only does his duty :

Ah! fly not from the candid youth ; No more doth old Robert, with heart-stringing

It is not flattery-'tis truth. numbers,

(wreath ;
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd
Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan slumbers, ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Cressy ;

[fell : Friend and associate of this clay ! For the safety of Edward and England they To what unknown region borne, My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye; Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? How you fought, how you died, still her annals No more with wonted humour gay, can tell.

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending. *

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the

AD LESBIAM.' bleak field ;

[ing, For the rights of a monarch their country defend

EQUAL to Jove that youth must beTill death their attachment to royalty seal'd.

Greater than Jove he seems to me

• Animula ! vagula, blandula, • Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were

Hospes comesque corporis, defcated.-Prince Rupert, son of the Elector Palatine, and

Our nunc abibis in locanephew to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the fleet in

Pallidula, rigida, nudula, the reign of Charles II.

Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos ?'

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 cheeks with weeping glow Thou art the cause of all her woe,

Receptacle of life's decay.

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 ;
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.


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 :
Nor 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 exceed
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.] BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

The man of firm and noble soul He who sublime in epic numbers rollid,

No factious clamours can control; And he who struck the softer lyre of love, No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow By Death's unequal hand alike controllid,

Can swerve him from his just intent:
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 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. Sulpicia ad Cerinthum.'—Lib. iv. CRUEL Cerinthus ! does the fell disease

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?

Hurtling his lightnings from above, Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,

With all his terrors there unfurl'd, That I might live for love and you again :

He would unmoved, unawed behold. But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate;

The flames of an expiring world,
By death alone I can avoid your hate.

Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,

Might light his glorious funeral pile ; (smile. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd

(Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.] YE Cupids, droop each little head,

FROM ANACREON. Nor let your wings with joy be spread,

[Oέλω λεγείν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.] My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, Whom dearer than her eyes she loved :

I wish to tune my quivering lyre For he was gentle, and so true,

To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; Obedient to her call he flew,

To echo, from its rising swell,
No sear, no wild alarm he knew,

How heroes fought and nations fell,
But lightly o'er her bosom moved :

When Atreus' sons advanced to war,

Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; And softly fluttering here and there,

But still, to martial strains unknown, He never sought to cleave the air,

My lyre recurs to love alone :
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Fired with the hope of future fame,
Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.

I seek some nobler hero's name :
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne

The dying chords are strung anew,
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

To war, to war, my harp is due ;

With glowing strings, the epic strain
Who sighs, alas i but sighs in vain.

To Jove's great son I raise again ;
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave !

Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,

Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.

All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS Wakes silver notes of soft desire.

Adieu, ye chiess renown'd in arms !
Adieu the clang of war's alarms !

[Μηδαμο πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.] To other deeds my soul is strung,

GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne And sweeter notes shall now be sung ;

Both gods and mortals homage pay, My harp shall all its powers reveal,

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, To tell the tale my heart must feel :

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,

Oft shall the sacred victim fall In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ;

My voice shall raise no impious strain,

'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. FROM ANACREON.

How different now thy joyless fate, [Μεσονυκτιαις ποθ' ωραις, κ. τ. λ.)

Since first Hesione thy bride, 'Twas now the hour when Night had driven

When placed aloft in godlike state, Her car half round yon sable heaven ;

The blushing beauty by thy side, Boötes, only, seem'd to rollo

Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, His arctic charge around the pole :

And mirthful strains the hours beguiled. While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,

The Nymphs and Tritons danced around. Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep: Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,

frown'd. Descending from the realms of joy, iQuick to my gate directs his course, And knocks with all his little force.

TO EMMA. My visions fled, alarm'd I rose

SINCE now the hour is come at last, •What stranger breaks my blest repose ?' When yıu must quit your anxious lover ; · Alas !' replies the wily child,

Since now c ir dream of bliss is past, In faltering accents sweetly mild,

One pang, my girl, and all is over, * A hapless infant here I roam,

Alas! that pang will be severe, Far from my dear maternal home.

Which bids us part to meet no more ; Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast!

Which tears me far from one so dear,
The nightly storm is pouring fast.

Departing for a distant shore.
No prowling robber lingers here.
A wandering baby who can fear?'

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours, I heard his seeming artless tale,

And joy will mingle with our tears ; I heard his sighs upon the gale :

When thinking on these ancient towers,
My breast was never pity's foe,

The shelter of our infant years ;
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light,

Where from this Gothic casement's height, Young Love, the infant, met my sight;

We view'd the lake, the park, the dell ; His bow across his shoulders flung.

And still, though tears obstruct our sight, And thence his fatal quiver hung

We lingering look a last farewell, (Ah! little did I think the dart

O'er fields through which we used to run, Would rankle soon within my heart).

And spend the hours in childish play ; With care I tend my weary guest,

O'er shades where, when our race was done, His little fingers chill my breast;

Reposing on my breast you lay ; His glossy curls, his azure wing,

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, Which droop with nightiy showers, I wring;

Forgot to scare the hovering flies, His shivering limbs the embers warm ;

Yet envied every fly the kiss
And now reviving from the storm,

It dared to give your slumbering eyes :
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:

See still the little painted bark,
I fain would know, my gentle host,'

In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; He cried, 'if this its strength has lost;

See there, high waving o'er the park, I fear, relax d with midnight dews,

The elm I clamber'd for your sake. The strings their former aid refuse.'

These times are past--our joys are gone, With poison tipt, his arrow flies,

You leave me, leave this happy vale; Deep in my tortured heart it lies ;

These scenes I must retrace alone : Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :

Without thee, what will they avail ? My bow can still impel the shaft: 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ;

Who can conceive, who has not proved,
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?'

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

You bid a long adieu to peace?

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