A SONG. Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, To those thyself so fondly sought; The tears that thou hast forced to trickle Are doubly bitter from that thought: 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest. The wholly false the heart despises, And spurns deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises, Whose love is as sincere as sweet,When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly. To dream of joy and wake to sorrow What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition, As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming! ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE?" THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why And shouldst thou seek his end to know: But live-until I cease to be. Think that, whate'er to others, thou Even now, in midnight solitude. Oh, God! that we nad met in time, Far may thy days, as heretofore, This heart, alas! perverted long, Itself destroy'd might there destroy, To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be, The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree, And almost déem the sentence sweet. Still, had I loved thee less, my heart Had then less sacrificed to thiné; It felt not half so much to part, As if its guilt had made thee mine. LINES REMEMBER HIM, ETC. REMEMBER him, whom passion's power That yielding breast, that melting eye, Oh! let me feel that all I lost, But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name. Quaff while thou canst-another race, When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. Newstead Abbey, 1808. ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. THERE IS a tear for all that die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave; O'er ocean's heaving bosom sent: All earth becomes their monument! A tomb is theirs on every page, An epitaph on every tongue. Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep remembrance pours to worth. The goblet's tributary round. A theme to crowds that knew them not, Who would not share their glorious lot? Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find A model in thy memory. But there are breasts that bleed with thee Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? When cease to hear thy cherish'd,name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness, While grief's full heart is fed by fame. Alas! for them, though not for thee, They cannot choose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 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 tearsAuspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop, in future years, Repaid thee by thy people's smiles! March, 1812, FROM THE TURKISH. The lute I added sweet in sound, But not to bear a stranger's touch; SONNET. TO GENEVRA. THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought remorse can claim-hor virtue scorn SONNET. TO GENEVRA. THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, Not what he was, but what he should have been: Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. I never knew but one, and here he lies. FAREWELL. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,'. Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell! BRIGHT be the place of thy soul! In the orbs of the blessed to shine.. As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest? WHEN We two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Who knew thee too well:Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met In silence I grieve, After long years, That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice appears. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis tract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; "Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath Oh could I feel as 1 nave felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene: As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet-all brackish though they be, Do, 'midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. While that placid sleep came o'er thee Founded on another's woe- Love may sink by slow decay, Than the wail above the dead; When our child's first accents flow, When her lip to thine is prest, Those thou never more may'st see, Pride, which not a world could bow, Even my soul forsakes me now; But 't is done-all words are idleWords from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.- Torn from every nearer tie, TO*** WHEN all around grew drear and dark, When fortune changed-and love fled far, And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star Which rose and set not to the last. Oh! blest be thine unbroken light! That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night, For ever shining sweetly nigh. And when the cloud upon us came, Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame, And dash'd the darkness all away. Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, And teach it what to brave or brook- Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, Its boughs above a monument. The winds might rend, the skies might pour, But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. But thou and thine shall know no blight, Then let the ties of baffled love Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move; Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. And these, when all was lost beside, Were found, and still are fixed, in thee— And bearing still a breast so tried, Earth is no desert-oven to me. ODE. [FROM THE FRENCH.] We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! As then shall shake the world with wonder Never yet was seen such lightning, Showering down a fiery food, The chief has fallen, but not by you, Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men Save in deeds that led them on Where glory smiled on freedom's sonWho, of all the despots banded, With that youthful chief competed? And thou too of the snow-white plume! On thy war-horse through the ranks, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quickest, Of the eagle's burning crest (There with thunder-clouds to fan her 1 See Rev. chap. viii. verse 7, etc. "The first angel sounded and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," etc. Verso 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," etc. Verso 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon a third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters. Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood; and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter." 2 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt. |