Let your country see you rising,
And all her chains are broke.
Brave shades of chiefs and sages,
Behold the coming strife!
Hellénes of past ages,

Oh, start again to life!

At the sound of my trumpet, breaking
Your sleep, oh, join with me!

And the seven-hill'd city seeking,*
Fight, conquer, till we're free.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers
Lethargic dost thou lie?
Awake, and join thy numbers
With Athens, old ally!
Leonidas recalling,

That chief of ancient song,
Who saved ye once from falling,
The terrible! the strong!
Who made that bold diversion
In old Thermopylæ,
And warring with the Persian
To keep his country free;
With his three hundred waging
The battle, long he stood,
And like a lion raging,
Expired in seas of blood.

Sons of Greeks, &c.

TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,

* Μπενω μες τσ' περιβόλι
Ωραιότατη Χάηδή, σε

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung;
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Through her eyes, through her every feature,
Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandon'd the bowers;
Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,
Will deeply embitter the bowl;
But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save:
Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave.

As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,

Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul, must I perish

By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish,

For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses, Beloved but false Haidée ! There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me.

ON PARTING.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see :

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

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.

LINES 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!

• The Princess Charlotte. (EDIT.)

THE CHAIN GAVE.
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 adieuFalse heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT,
LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER.
STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only leather and prunella?'
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 'twere shame to 'Black it.

FAREWELL TO MALTA.

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!
Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventured!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!
(How surely he who mounts you swears!)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets-without letters!
Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters!

Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen

Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,
Adieu, his Excellency's dancers!
Adieu to Peter-whom no fault's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;

We knew before

Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!

Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!
Adieu, the supercilious air

Of all that strut 'en militaire !'

I go-but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad-but in a different way.
Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue!
While either Adriatic shore,

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and woman's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme-because 'tis 'gratis.'
And now I've got to Mrs Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her-
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods I've got a fever.

TO DIVES.

A FRAGMENT.

woes.

ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE,
OR FARCICAL OPERA.

GOOD plays are scarce,
So Moore writes farce :
The poet's fame grows brittle-

That Little's Moore,

But now 'tis Moore that's little.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE
AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO
'BANISH CARE.'

'OH! banish care'-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and banish care.'
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought--but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of anything but love.

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'Twould suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave,-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress.
Time had not made me love the less.

But let this pass-I'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,—
I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's May is in the sere,
Thou hear'st of one whose deepening crimes
Suit with the sablest of the times,
Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise
One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside;
One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,

Tis ours to look on you-you hold the prize,' Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise! A double blessing your rewards impart '— I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 'Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause,' Why son and I both beg for your applause.

quotation-thus '-'.

'A modest monologue you here survey,' Hiss'd from the theatre the 'other day,' As if Sir Fretful wrote the slumberous' verse, And gave his son 'the rubbish' to rehearse. 'Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,' Knew you the rumpus which the author raised, 'Nor even here your smiles would be represt,' Knew you these lines-the badness of the best, Flame! fire! and flame!' (words borrow'd from Lucretius,) [issues!

'Dread metaphors which open wounds' like And sleeping pangs awake-and-but away' (Confound me if I know what next to say). Lo, Hope reviving re-expands her wings,' And Master G-recites what Dr Busby sings !If mighty things with small we may compare,' (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) Dramatic 'spirit drives a conquering car,' And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of 'tar.' 'This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,' To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 'Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,'

And George and I will dramatise it for ye.

In arts and sciences our isle hath shone' (This deep discovery is mine alone).

Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire'
My verse or I'm a fool-and Fame's a liar,
Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore'
With smiles,' and 'lyres,' and 'pencils,' and
much more.

These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain
Disgraces, too! inseparable train !

Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid' [stupid):

(You all know what I mean, unless you're Harmonious throng' that I have kept in petto Now to produce in a divine sestetto"!! 'While Poesy,' with these delightful doxies, Sustains her part in all the 'upper' boxes! Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along,' Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song ; ⚫ Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play' (For this last line George had a holiday).

Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,' So says the manager, and so say I.

'But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast ;' Is this the poem which the public lost? True- -true-that lowers at once our mounting pride;

But lo-the papers print what you deride

you give!

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
Thy future ills shall press in vain :
I nothing owe but years to thee,

A debt already paid in pain.
Yet ev'n that pain was some relief,

It felt, but still forgot thy power:
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night to woe;
For them, however drear and dark.
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee-not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
A blank; a thing to count and curse,
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.

One scene ev'n thou canst not deform;
The limit of thy sloth or speed,
When future wanderers bear the storm

Which we shall sleep too 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.

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE
SONG.

AH! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,

Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.