I lace me among the rocks I love, Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; I ask but this-again to rove Through scenes my youth hath known before. Few are my years, and yet I feel The world was ne'er design'd for me: A visionary scene of bliss! I loved --but those I loved are gone; When all its former hopes are dead ! Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour. Give me again a faithful few, In years and feelings still the same, And I will fly the midnight crew, Where boisterous joy is but a name. And woman, lovely woman! thou, My hope, my comforter, my all! How cold must be my bosom now, When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! This busy scene of splendid woe, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, [snow,+ And climb'd thy steep summit, O Morven, of To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.'-Psalm lv. 6. This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem in our language. +Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. 'Gormal of snow is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian. This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, Cattaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perLive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd; [with you. And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along; I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view; And warm to the skies my devotions arose, For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone; The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow: [weather! In the spring of our life, how serene is the But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. No more with affection shall memory blending, The wonted delights of our childhood retrace: When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending, And what would be justice appears a disgrace. However, dear George, for I still must esteem you; The few whom I love I can never upbraid : The chance which is lost may in future redeem you, Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, With me no corroding resentment shall live : My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive. You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, If danger demanded, were wholly your own; You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, Devoted to love and to friendship alone. You knew, but away with the vain retrospection ! The bond of affection no longer endures; Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. For the present we part-I will hope not for ever; For time and regret will restore you at last : To forget our dissension we both should endea vour, I ask no atonement, but days like the past. TO THE EARL OF CLARE. Tu semper amoris Bis memor, et carl comitis ne abscedat imago.'-VAL, FLAC. FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved, Like striplings, mutually beloved, With friendship's purest glow, The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours My pensive memory lingers o'er 30 As when one parent spring supplies How soon, diverging from their source, Our vital streams of weal or woe, Nor mingle as before: Now swift or slow, now black or clear, And both shall quit the shore. Our souls, my friend! which once supplied And shine in fashion's annals: 'Tis mine to waste on love my time, Without the aid of reason; Nor left a thought to seize on. That he, who sang before all— And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Repine not at thy lot. Thy soothing lays may still be read, And critics are forgot. Still I must yield those worthies merit, Bad rhymes and those who write them; Little was a sum de plume of Tom Moore's. These lines were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique in a northern review on a new publication of the British Anacreon. And though myself may be the next I really will not fight them. A very harden'd sinner. Now, Clare, I must return to you; Accept, then, my concession. My muse admires digression. I think I said 'twould be your fate May regal smiles attend you! From snares may saints preserve you ; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care, But those who best deserve you ! O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your tears be tears of joy! And virtues crown your brow; Be still as you were wont to be, Spotless as you've been known to me,— Be still as you are now. And though some trifling share of praise, To cheer my last declining days, To me were doubly dear, Whilst blessing your beloved name, LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky. Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod. With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod: With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee stil!. Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay, And frequent mused the twilight hours away; Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But ah! without the thoughts which then were mine: ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; Alluding to a hostile meeting between Moore and Jeffrey And unremember'd by the world beside. it Chalk Farm. (EDIT.) OCCASIONAL PIECES. FROM 1807 TO 1824. ON REVISITING HARROW.* HERE once engaged the stranger's view, Young Friendship's record simply traced; Few were her words, but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defaced. Deeply she cut-but not erased, The characters were still so plain, That friendship once return'd, and gazed-Till Memory hail'd the words again, Repentance placed them as before; Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; So fair the inscription seem'd once more, That friendship thought it still the same. Thus might the record now have been; But, ah! in spite of Hope's endeavour, Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, And blotted out the line for ever. EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS OF A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well: He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more-so was carried at last; For the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off,-so he's now carri-on. THE ADIEU. WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE ADIEU, thou Hill! where early joy • Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1807. he wrote under it these stanzas. No more through Ida's paths we stray; Soon must I share the gloomy cell, Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell Unconscious of the day. Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes Ye comrades of the jovial hour, On Cama's verdant margin placed, Where grew my youthful years; Why did my childhood wander forth With sons of pride to roam? Hall of my Sires! a long farewell- Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: Forgets its wonted simple note- To retrospection dear. At noontide heat, their pliant course; And shall I here forget the scene, Rocks rise and rivers roll between And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love All, all is dark and cheerless now ! Not e'en the hope of future fame Or crown with fancied wreaths my head: Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; Where once my playful footsteps trod, By nightly skies, and storms alone; Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: To bigots and to sects unknown, Although his meanest care. Он, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed [dissever; The heart which adores you should wish to Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,[ever. To bear me from love and from beauty for Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone Could bid me from fond admiration refrain; By these, every hope, every wish were o'er thrown, Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu; Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you. |