Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd: - Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF [Μηδαμ ̓ ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.] GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne My voice shall raise no impious strain How different now thy joyless fate, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, Harrow, Dec. 1. 1804. (1) Lord Byron in one of his diaries says, "My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as Exercises), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Eschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head master) but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subside into poesy."- E ΤΟ ΕΜΜΑ. 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, 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 1, admiring, too remiss, Forgot 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, This is the deepest of our woes, For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close, Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu ! TO M. S. G. WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine, 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 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, Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume, I will not ease my tortured heart,' Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, Which to obtain my soul would dare, 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, 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 signs alone it breath'd my name. |