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Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish
By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me
For torture repay me too well? (cherish, Now sad is the garden of roses,
Beloved but false Haidée !
Then manfully despising
The Turkish tyrant's yoke,
And all her chains are broke.
Behold the coming strife !
Oh, start again to life!
Your sleep, oh, join with me!
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!
In old Thermopylæ,
To keep his country free;
The battle, long he stood,
Sons of Greeks, &c.
The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Untainted back to thine.
An equal love may see:
Can weep no change in me.
In gazing when alone;
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
My pen were doubly weak: Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak ?
That heart, no longer free,
TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,
Μπενω μες τσ’ περιβόλι
'Ωραιότατη Χάηδή,” &c. I ENTIR thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
For surely I see her in thee.
Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Yet trembles for what it has sung ;
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Shines the soul of the young Haidée.
When Love has abandon'd the bowers;
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
Will deeply embitter the bowl ;
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
My heart from these horrors to save:
Then open the gates of the grave.
Secure of his conquest before,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT,
LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER.
Malta, May 16, 1811.
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!)
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose ! But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.
1811. [First published, 1832.)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE,
OR FARCICAL OPERA.
So Moore writes farce:
We knew before
That Little's Moore,
September 14, 1811.
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,
Farewell to these, but not adieu,
IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO
And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
“ OH! banish care"-such ever be
And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us,
May 26, 1811. [First published, 1832.)
'T were 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 'T would 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.
UNHAPPY DIVES! in an evil hour
But let this pass—I'll whine no more,
The pledge we wore-I wear it still, Nor seek again an eastern shore;
But where is thine?-Ah! where art thou? The world befits a busy brain,
Oft have I borne the weight of ill, I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But never bent beneath till now! But if, in some succeeding year,
Well hast thou left in life's best bloom When Britain's "May is in the sere,"
The cup of woe for me to drain. Thou hear'st of one whose decpening crimes
If rest alone be in the tomb, Suit with the sablest of the times,
I would not wish thee here again. of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise;
But if in worlds more blest than this One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Perchance not blood shall turn aside;
Impart some portion of thy bliss, One rank'd in some recording page
To wean me from mine anguish here. With the worst anarchs of the age,
Teach me--too early taught by thee! Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause,
To bear, forgiving and forgiven: Nor with the effect forget the cause.
On earth thy love was such to me; Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811, It fain would form my hope in heaven! (First published, 1830.)
October 11, 1811
AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE!
Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
I dare not trust those sounds again.
But lull the chords, for now, alas!
On what I am-on what I was.
WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid? By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain; The past, the future fled to thee,
To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! Could this have been a word, a look,
That softly said, “We part in peace," Nad taught my bosom how to brook,
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,
Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
'Twas thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow. Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers, Ere call'd but for a time away,
Affection's mingling tears were ours? Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand, The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss, so guiltless and refined,
That Love each warmer wish forbore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even Passion blush'd to plead for more.
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
Is worse than discord to my heart!
The well remember'd echoes thrill;
A voice that now might well be stil:
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
To listen, though the dream be flown.
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath,
December 6, 1811.
ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.
From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
Then back to busy life again.
No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow : No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.
But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives, and him who dies.
'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last
Thy features still serene to see : Forgetful of its struggles past,
E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.
But vain the wish-for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And women's tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.
It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,
What future grief can touch me more ? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone: I'll be that light, unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou 'rt nothing-all are nothing now. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Dispel awhile the sense of ill:
The heart,--the heart is lonely still!
It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, “Now Thyrza gazes on that moon"
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave! When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 'Tis comfort still," I faintly said,
“That Thyrza cannot know my pains :" Like freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 't is idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gaye
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent-ah, were mine as still !
It feels, it sickens with the chill.
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Or break the heart to which thou 'rt press'd. Time tempers love, but not removes,
More hallow'd when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead?
I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot ;
So I behold them not:
Like common earth can rot;
WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!
Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
And canst not alter now.
Nor falsehood disavow:
The worst can be but mine:
Shall never more be thine.
Nor need I to repine,
Must fall the earliest prey;
The leaves must drop away:
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
To see thy beauties fade;
Had worn a deeper shade:
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;
My tears might well be shed,
gaze, how fondly! on thy face, To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
Though thou hast left me free,
Than thus remember thee!
Returns again to me,
And now that sad and silent hour
Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved inay pour
The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile
I waste one thought I owe to thee,
Unfaithful to thy memory:
That then I seem not repine;
One sigh that should be wholly thine.
It is not drain'd to banish care ;
That brings a Lethe for despair.
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 vanish'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,
"T is 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 14, 1812,
FROM THE FRENCH.
ÆGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes;
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH
ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be,
That thou should'st thus be rent in twain ?
Alike been all employ'd in vain ?
And every fragment dearer grown,
March 16, 1812.
IP SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF
Thine image from my breast may fade,
The semblance of thy gentle shade :
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!