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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:
Ah! why do darkening shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss!
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved --but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead !
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart-is lonely still.
How dull to hear the voice of those

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!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.*

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,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in
you

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But still I perceive an emotion the same [wild:
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd
One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

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

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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
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.
The recollection seems alone
Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu !

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever:
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet-ah! never!

30

As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain ;

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course
Till mingled in the main !

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,

Nor mingle as before:

Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear,

And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,

And shine in fashion's annals:

'Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,

Without the aid of reason;
For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,

Nor left a thought to seize on.
Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard !*
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard,

That he, who sang before all—
He who the lore of love expanded-
By dire reviewers should be branded
As void of wit and moral.+

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine I

Repine not at thy lot.

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,

And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

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
By criticism to be vext,

I really will not fight them.
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner;
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,

A very harden'd sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:

Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right;

My muse admires digression.

I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;-

May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

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 !
Not for a moment may you stray
From truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!

O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,

Your tears be tears of joy!
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,

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,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,
To prove a prophet here.

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:

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ear,

Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplored by those in early days allied,

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
SOUTHWELL,

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
AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE.

ADIEU, thou Hill! where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;

• 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 spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,
And Melancholy pale.

Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,

On Cama's verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,
These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime

Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.

Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,

With sons of pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,
To seek a Sotheron home!

Hall of my Sires! a long farewell-
Yet why to thee adieu?

Thy vaults will echo back my knell,

Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall,

Forgets its wonted simple note-
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,
In dying strains may float.
Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,

To retrospection dear.
Streamlet along whose rippling surge
My youthful limbs were wont to urge,

At noontide heat, their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.

And shall I here forget the scene,
Still nearest to my breast?

Rocks rise and rivers roll between
The spot which passion blest;
Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,
To me in smiles display'd;
Till slow disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,
Thine image cannot fade.

And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words! .
Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn !

All, all is dark and cheerless now !
No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:

Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head:
Mine is a short inglorious race,—
To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.

Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;
On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,
Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream :
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,

Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay,
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,

By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.

Forget this world, my restless sprite,

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven:
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.

To bigots and to sects unknown,
Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne;
To Him address thy trembling prayer:
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,

Although his meanest care.
Father of Light! to Thee I call;
My soul is dark within:

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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,
The rage of the tempest united must weather;
My love and my life were by nature design'd
To flourish alike, or to perish together.

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.

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