Each carriage was announced, and ladies rose, And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, Retired; with most unfashionable bows, Their docile esquires also did the same; Delighted with their dinner and their host, But with the Lady Adeline the most. CII. Some praised her beauty; others her great grace, The warmth of her politeness whose sincerity Was obvious in each feature of her face, Whose traits were radiant with the rays of verity. Yes, she was truly worthy her high place! No one could envy her deserved prosperity; And then her dress-what beautiful simplicity Draperied her form with curious felicity!' CIII. Meanwhile sweet Adeline deserved their praises, By an impartial indemnification For all her past exertion and soft phrases, Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and faces, And families, even to the last relation; And full of sentiments, sublime as billows, Heaving between this world and worlds be yond, Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows Arrived, retired to his; but to despond Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows Waved o'er his couch; he meditated, fond Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. CXI. The night was as before: he was undress'd, Saving his night-gown, which is an undress, Completely sans culotte, and without vest; In short, he hardly could be clothed with less: But, apprehensive of his spectral guest, He sate, with feelings awkward to express (By those who have not had such visitations), Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. CXII. And not in vain he listen'd-Hush! what's that? I see I see-Ah, no!-'tis not-yet 'tisYe powers! it is the-the-the-Pooh! the cat! The devil may take that stealthy pace of his, So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, Or tip-toe of an amatory Miss, "Tis true he saw Aurora look as though took Its motive for that charity we owe, But seldom pay, the absent, nor would look Further it might or it might not be so: But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, Observing little in his reverie, Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. CVII. And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. CXIII. Again-what is't? The wind? No, no,-this time It is the sable Friar, as before, With awful footsteps, regular as rhyme, Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more: The ghost at least had done him this much Again, through shadows of the night sublime, good, In making him as silent as a ghost, If, in the circumstances which ensued, When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore The starry darkness round her like a girdle, He gain'd esteem where it was worth the Spangled with gems-the monk made his blood Like showers which on the midnight gust will | But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated: Resolved to thrust the mystery, carte and tierce, At whatsoever risk of being defeated: The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired until He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still. CXX. Juan put forth one arm-Eternal Powers! It touched no soul nor body, but the wall, On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall. He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers, When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity. CXXI. But still the shade remain'd: the blue eyes glared, And rather variably for stony death: Yet one thing rather good the grave had sparedThe ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. A straggling curl show'd he had been fair hair'd: A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, Gleam'd forth as through the casement's ivy shroud The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey cloud. CXXII. And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust That he had made at first a silly blunder, CXXIH. The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul, Forth into something much like flesh and blood: Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, And they reveal'd (alas, that e'er they should!) In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace-Fitz-Fulke! HOURS OF IDLENESS: A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED. "Virginibus puerisque canto."-HORACE, lib. iii. Ode 1. 66 • Μήτ' ἄρ με μάλ' αἴνεε, μήτε τι νείκει.”—HOMER, Iliad, x. 249. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. IN submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the difficul ties that writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed. These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is perhaps unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depres sion of spirits: under the former influence, "CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS," in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated: yet, "to do greatly," we must "dare greatly:" and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. "I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand or fall by the "cast of the die." In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, "it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no connection, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can." To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe: on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed: their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favour which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability. I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation: some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to 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 "virum 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 voluminous 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 comm. ture 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 loth 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. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, ́ t COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM. HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey: Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day: And weeping angels lead her to those bowers Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, And, madly, godlike Providence accuse? Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ;I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place. TO E LET Folly smile, to view the names Of thee and me in friendship twined; Yet Virtue will have greater claims To love, than rank with vice combined. *The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applause, to which by their intrinsic worth they were well entitled. † Admiral Parker's daughter. And though unequal is thy fate, Since title deck'd my higher birth, Thine is the pride of modest worth. IN thee I fondly hoped to clasp A friend, whom death alone could sever; Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. "Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court."-OSSIAN. THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle: Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay: In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame and that memory still will he cherish; He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN: BY J. J. ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS." Away, away, your flattering arts DEAR, simple girl, those flattering arts Mere phantoms of thine own creation: ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, To what unknown region borne, EQUAL to Jove that youth must be- |