But say, what nymph will prize the flame What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, For friendship every fool may share? In time forbear; amidst the throng Be something, any thing, but-mean. To death even hours like these must roll; Ah! then repeat those accents never; Or change « my life !» into « my soul!» Which, like my love, exists for ever. IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. WHEN from the heart where Sorrow sits, And o'er the changing aspect flits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye: Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : My thoughts their dungeon know too well; Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, And droop within their silent cell. TO ****** WELL! thou art happy, and I feel Thy husband's blest-and 't will impart Would hate him, if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child, I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kiss'd it, for its mother's sake. I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs Mary, adieu! I must away: While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride My heart in all, save hope, the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime We met, and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling couldst thou traceThe sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break. ADDRESS. SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Yes-it shall be the magic of that name Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Friends of the stage! to whom both players and plays And made us blush that you forbore to blame; This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Still may we please-long, long may you preside! TO TIME. TIME! on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to dieHail thou! who on my birth bestow'd Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load, For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare, Thy future ills shall press in vain ; Would soon subside from swift to slow; That beam hath sunk; and now thou art Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone! TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. AH! Love was never yet without Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, Without one friend to hear my woe, I faint, I die beneath the blow. Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. A bird of free and careless wing Was I, through many a smiling spring; I burn, and feebly flutter there. Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, Can neither feel nor pity pain; In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine; My light of life! ah, tell me why Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: My curdling blood, my maddening brain, Pour me the poison; fear not thou! My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, That joy is harbinger of woe. A SONG. THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, To those thyself so fondly sought; 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 Is doom'd to all who love or live; And if, when conscious on the morrow, We scarce our fancy can forgive, That cheated us in slumber only, To leave the waking soul more lonely, 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 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 Oh, God! that we had met in time, Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee! Far may thy days, as heretofore, Itself destroy'd might there destroy, Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 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 deem the sentence sweet. Still, had I loved thee less, my heart Had then less sacrificed to thine; It felt not half so much to part, As if its guilt had made thee mine. 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? And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined 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 chuse 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 tears— Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop, in future years, Repaid thee by thy people's smiles! March, 1812. FROM THE TURKISH. Alas! they could not teach thee thine. But not to bear a stranger's touch; Let him, who from thy neck unbound Restring the chords, renew the clasp. SONNET. TO GENEVRA. THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features-caught From contemplation-where serenely wrought, Seems sorrow's softness charm'd from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent, When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) The Magdalen of Guido saw the mornSuch seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought remorse can claim-nor virtue scorn. SONNET. TO GENEVRA. THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, At once such majesty with sweetness blending, INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. WHEN Some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, |