Where love chased each fast-fleeting year,

Loth 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.

Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,

This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet

In this rural retreat,

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight
To the regions of night,

*And my corse shall recline on its bier, As ye pass by the tomb

Where my ashes consume,

Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow
The splendor of wo

Which the children of vanity rear:

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name;

All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

DEAR simple girl, those flattering arts,
From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts.
Exist but in imagination-

Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polished mirror glance,
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises :

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:

Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery,-'tis truth.

July, 1804.

THE CORNELIAN.†

No specious splendor of this stone Endears it to my memory ever; With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, Have for my weakness oft reproved me; Yet still the simple gift I prize,—

For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it; I told him when the gift I took, My only fear should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I view'd,
And sparkling as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And ever since I've loved a tear.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth, Must quit the garden for the field.

"Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shows and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

• Only printed in the private volume.

To young Eddleston. This poem is only found in the private volume

Had Fortune aided Nature's care, For once forgetting to be blind, His would have been an ample share, If well-proportion'd to his mind.

But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form had fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remain'd to give the rest.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,* COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.†

HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate.

But wherefore weep? her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.

And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign,
And, madly, godlike providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain,
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

ΤΟ ΕΜΜΑ.Ι

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.

• Miss Parker.

To these stanzas, which are from the private volume, the following note

was attached: "The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of fourteen,) and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in

'ts present state, to making either addition or alteration." ⚫ This poem is inserted from the private volume.

Well: we have pass'd some happy hours, And joy will mingle with our tears; When thinking on these ancient towers, The shelter of our infant years;

Where from the gothic casement's height, We view'd the lake, the park, the dale, 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 I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hov'ring 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, The anguish of a last embrace? When, torn from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace.

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!

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE.

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE,

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No COOKE, no KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No SIDDONS draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the debut
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly :
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.

Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise;
But all our dramatis personae wait
In fond suspense this crisis of our* fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censort to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavors fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT

THE FOLLOWING REPLY. §

Он, factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth,

• What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feelings, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state:
When lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;"
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honor'd marble sleep:
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to PITT the patiot's palm resign;
Which Envy wearing Candor's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.

⚫ Our. In the private volume, their.

↑ Censor. In the private volume, critic.

"In the Morning post."-Private volume.

"For insertion in the Morning Chronicle," was here added in the rivate volume.

TO M. S. G.*

WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were unhallowed 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
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet I conceal my love, and why?

I would not force a painful tear.

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,
United by the priest's decree;
By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know;
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortured heart,
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine,
Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,—
I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes, yield that breast to seek despair,

And hope no more thy soft embrace, Which to obtain my soul would dare,

All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

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,
Suffused in tears implore to stay;
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?

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.

• Only printed in the private volume. ↑ Printed only in the private volume.