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.

TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

HE who sublime in epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death's unequal hand alike controll'd,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. "Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. iv. CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? Alas! I wish but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for love and you again: But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate; By death alone I can avoid your hate.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. YE Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved: For he was gentle, and so true, Obedient to her call he flew, No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom moved: And softly fluttering here and there, He never sought to cleave the air, But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne From whence he never can return, His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes overflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay.

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.
TO ELLEN.

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!

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.
THE man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
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.
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,

He would unmoved, unawed behold
The flames of an expiring world,

Again in crushing chaos roll'd, In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, Might light his glorious funeral pile. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.

FROM ANACREON.

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone:
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name:
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of war's alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel:
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

FROM ANACREON.

'TWAS now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Bootes, only, seem'd to roll

His arctic charge around the pole:
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,

And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose-
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child,
In faltering accents sweetly mild,
"A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here.
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light,
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies;
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd:
"My bow can still impel the shaft:
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF
ÆSCHYLUS.

GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne
Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ;
My voice shall raise no impious strain,

'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When placed aloft in godlike state,
The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled,
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless
frown'd.

TO EMMA.

SINCE now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,

Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;
Where from this Gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell;
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,
O'er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,

Forget to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes: See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park, The elm I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past-our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone:

Without thee, what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace,
When, torn from all you fondly loved,
You bid a long adieu to peace?

This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; This is of love the final close,

O God! the fondest, last adieu!

TO M. S. G.

WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet I forego that bliss divine,

Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.
Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet is the daring wish represt :

For that would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet I conceal my love-and why?
I would not force a painful tear.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well:
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree:
By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom,

Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortured heart,
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save-
I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair,
And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare
All, all reproach-but thy disgrace.
At least from guilt shalt thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shalt thou be to love.

TO CAROLINE.

THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears, implore to stay,
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd

Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,

In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,

In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain

But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu!

Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; Nor let thy mind past joys review-Our only hope is to forget!

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight: Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,

Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer,

Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation;

In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me,

Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?

If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.

STANZAS TO A LADY,

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS.

THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid:
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade?

With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense and new-fangled rules,
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools.
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause;
With him the same dire fate attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name.

TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. DORSET! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,

Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom still affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will
shower

The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, nor far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade control,
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee-
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn-
When these declare, "that pomp alone should
wait

On one by birth predestined to be great;
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;"
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
Believe them not;-they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honour of thy name.
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, for-
bear:

For well I know that virtue lingers there.

Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child: Though every error stamps me for her own, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; Though my proud heart no precept now can

tame,

I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;

Then share with titled crowds the common lotIn life just gazed at, in the grave forgot: While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find

One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.

Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes:
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all

were mine:

Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions as the moments flew ;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same
sphere,

Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by,
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe, With thee no more again I hope to trace The recollection of our early race; No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice: Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, If these but let me cease the lengthen'd strain: Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, The guardian seraph who directs thy fate Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

FRAGMENT.

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH.

HILLS of Annesley! bleak and barren,

Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, How the northern tempests, warring, Howl above thy tufted shade!

Now no more the hours beguiling, Former favourite haunts I see; Now no more my Mary smiling Makes ye seem a heaven to me.

GRANTA: A MEDLEY.

̓Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα
Κρατήσαις.

OH! Could Le Sage's demon's gift*
Be realized at my desire,

This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St Mary's spire.

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's half
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,
The price of venal votes to pay.
Then would I view each rival wight,
Petty and Palmerston survey;
Who canvass there with all their might,
Against the next elective day.

Lo! candidates and voters lie

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number: A race renown'd for piety,

Whose conscience won't disturb their slum-
ber.

Lord H, indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur
But very seldom-now and then.
They know the Chancellor has got
Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that one may be his lot,
And therefore smiles on his proposal.
Now from the soporific scene

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,

The studious sons of Alma Mater.
There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
With all the honours of his college,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:
Who sacrifices hours of rest

To scan precisely metres Attic:
Or agitates his anxious breast

In solving problems mathematic:
Who reads false quantities in Seale,
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle:
Renouncing every pleasing page
From authors of historic use:
Preferring to the letter'd sage,
The square of the hypothenuse.,
Still, harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent:

The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where As. modeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection.