Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none like thee his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image what new friendship can efface?
Ah none! a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.

1803.

A FRAGMENT.

WHEN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice:
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthened scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone ;*
My epitaph shall be my name alone :

If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh may no other fame my deeds repay !
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.†

1803.

REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS.

WHY, Pigot, complain

Of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret ?
For months you may try,

Yet, believe me, a sigh

Will never obtain a coquette.

* "No lengthen'd scroll of virtue and renown."

Private volume, and first edition of Hours of Idleness.

+"By that remember'd, or for e'er forgot."- Private volume.

↑ Printed in the private volume only.

Would you teach her to love?
For a time seem to rove;
At first she may frown in a pet;
But leave her awhile,

She shortly will smile,

And then you may kiss your coquette.

For such are the airs

Of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt;
Yet a partial neglect

Soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.

Dissemble your pain,
And lengthen your chain,

And seem her hauteur to regret;
If again you shall sigh,
She no more will deny
That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride,
Your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;
Some other admire,

Who will melt with your fire,

And laugh at the little coquette.

For me, I adore

Some twenty or more,

And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral,

I'd abandon them all,

Did they act like your blooming coquette.

No longer repine,

Adopt this design,

And break through her slight-woven net;

Away with despair,

No longer forbear,

To fly from the captious coquette.

Then quit her, my friend!

Your bosom defend,

Ere quite with her snares you're beset.
Lest your deep-wounded heart,
When incensed by the smart,

Should lead you to curse the coquette.

October 27th, 1806.

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. *

YOUR pardon, my friend,

If my rhymes did offend,
Your pardon, a thousand times o'er ;
From friendship I strove

Your pangs to remove,
But I swear I will do so no more.

Since your beautiful maid
Your flame has repaid,

No more I your folly regret ;
She's now the most divine
And I bow at the shrine
Of this quickly reformed coquette.

Yet still, I must own,

I should never have known From your verses, what else she deserved; Your pain seem'd so great,

I pitied your fate,

As your fair was so devilish reserved.

Since the balm-breathing kiss,
Of this magical miss

Can such wonderful transports produce;
Since the "world you forget,

When your lips once have met,"

My counsel will get but abuse.

You say, when "I rove,
I know nothing of love;"
"Tis true, I am given to range:
If I rightly remember,

I've loved a good number,

Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.

I will not advance,

By the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair ;
Though a smile may delight,
Yet a frown won't affright,

Or drive me to dreadful despair.

* These stanzas were only printed in the private volume.

While my blood is thus warm
I ne'er shall reform,

To mix in the Platonists' school;
Of this I am sure,

Was my passion so pure,

Thy mistress would think me a fool.

And if I should shun
Every woman for one,

Whose image must fill my whole breast
Whom I must prefer,

And sigh but for her

What an insult 't would be to the rest!

* This motto was inserted in the first edition of Hours of Idleness.

Mild Charity's glow,
To us mortals below,

Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt

Where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave
Which may soon be his grave
The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The soldier braves death,

For a fanciful wreath

In Glory's romantic career;
But he raises the foe

When in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride
He return to his bride,
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,
All his toils are repaid

When, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth!

Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year,
Loath to leave thee, I mourned,

For a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I can pour

To my Mary no more,

My Mary to Love once so dear,
In the shade of her bower

I remember the hour

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest,

May she live ever blest!

Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign

What I once thought was mine,

And forgive her deceit with a Tear.