Yet think of this when many a tongue,

Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even now, in midnight solitude.

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,
From this our gaudy world be past!
And that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last!
This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy;
To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or woe,
Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign- such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what even here hath pass'd, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure.
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.

1813.

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.1 WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent)

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise
Why would they let him print his lays?

1["Among the many gay hours we passed together in the spring of 1813, I remember particularly the wild flow of his spirits one evening, when we had accompanied Mr. Rogers home from some early assembly. It happened that our host had just received a presentation copy of a volume of poems, written professedly in imitation of the old English writers, and containing, like many of these models, a good deal that was striking and beautiful, mixed up with much that was trifling, fantastic, and absurd. In vain did Mr. Rogers, in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to some of the beauties of the work. In this sort of hunt through the volume, we at length lighted on the discovery that our host, in addition to his sincere approbation of some of its contents, had also the motive of gratitude for standing by its author, as one of the poems was a warm and, I need not add, welldeserved panegyric on himself. The opening line of the poem was, as well as I ean recollect, When Rogers o'er this labour bent; and Lord Byron undertook to read it aloud; - but he found it impossible to get beyond the first two words. Our laughter had now increased to such a pitch that nothing could restrain it.

To me, divine Apollo, grant-O!
Hermilda's first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;

And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining,
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

TO LORD THURLOW.

"I lay my branch of laurel down,
Then thus to form Apollo's crown,
Let every other bring his own."

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers.

"I lay my branch of laurel down."
THOU "lay thy branch of laurel down!"
Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow;
And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou

none.

Two or three times he began; but no sooner had the words When Rogers' passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh,- till even Mr. Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, found it impossible not to join us. A day or two after, Lord Byron sent me the following: My dear Moore, 'When Rogers' must not see the enclosed, which send for your perusal."'- MOORE.]

"Then thus to form Apollo's crown."
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,
Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phœbus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

"Let every other bring his own."

When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the Regent 's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,
And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH

HUNT IN HORSEMONGER LANE GAOL, MAY 19. 1813.

Oн you, who in all names can tickle the town,
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,—
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag;

But now to my letter to yours 't is an answer —
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-

Pray Phoebus at length our political malice

May not get us lodgings within the same palace! I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers; And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote ; But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. 1

[First published, in 1830.]

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.

WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits,

Her dusky shadow mounts too high,

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.2

September, 1813.

[The reader who wishes to understand the full force of this scandalous insinuation is referred to Muretus's notes on a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled In Cæsarem; but consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the favourite Mamurra: "Quis hoc potest videre? quis potest pati, Nisi impudicus et vorax et helluo?

Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia

Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia ?" &c.]

2 [These verses are said to have dropped from the poet's pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy which overclouded the general gaiety. It was impossible to observe his interesting