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Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And callid, proud boast I the British drama forth, Een now a name illustrious is thine own,
Another view, not less renown'd for wit; Renown'd in rank, nor far beneath the throne. Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine; To shun fair science, or evade control,
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine: Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, The titled child, whose future breath may raise. The pride of princes, and the boast of song. View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their naine ; And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To me, this little scene of joys and woes; To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee-
Each knell of Time now warns ms to resign And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were Some slaves are found to fatter and to fawn
mine : When these declare, 'that pomp alone should wait Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, On one by birth predestined to be great ;
And gild their pinions as the moments flew; That books were only meant for drudging fools, Peace, that reflection never frown d away, That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;'
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day : : Believe them not;—they point the path to shame, Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell; And seek to blast the honours of thy name.
Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, for
will bid thee. bov. for. Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part bear :
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; For well I know that virtue lingers there.
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, But now new scenes invite me far away;
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race; 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ;
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice: To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, Then share with titled crowds the common lot
If these--but let me cease the lengthen'd strain In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot:
Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
FRAGMENT. There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
MISS CHAWORTH. .. ., In records destined never to be read. Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
HILLS of Annesley ! bleak and barren, Exalted more among the good and wise,
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, A glorious and a long career pursue,
How the northern tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted shade!
Now no more, the hours beguiling,
Former favourite haunts I see ; Turn to the annals of a former day;
Now no more my Mary smiling Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.
Makes ye seem a heaven to me.
GRANTA: A MEDLEY
Renouncing every pleasing page
From authors of historic use; 'Αργυρέαις λόγχαισιμάχου και πάντα Κρατήσεις. Preferring to the letter'd sage,
The square of the hypothenuse.
Still, harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent.
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When drunkenness and dice invite,
As every sense is steep'd in wine.
Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
And for the sins of others pray:
Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial,
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.
'Tis morn from these I turn my sight. They know preferment can occur
What scene is this which meets the eye!
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,
Across the green in numbers fly.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell ;
'Tis hush'd-what sounds are these I hear? And therefore smiles on his proposal.
The organ's soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excused,
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused
To such a set of croaking sinners.
If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him, Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:
To us his psalms had ne'er descended
In furious mood he would have tore 'em.
The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border
Who reads false quantities in Seale,t
Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.
But if I scribble longer now, * The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus,
The deuce á soul will stay to read: the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situa My pen is blunt, my ink is low; tion, and unroofs the houses for inspection.
'Tis almost time to stop, indee + Seale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy:
* The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of 1. The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other and is not very intelligible,
two sides of a right-angled triangle,
Therefore, farewe!l, old Granta's spires: I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elato No more, like Cleofas, I fly :
me, No more thy theme my muse inspires:
Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew I The reader's tired, and so am I.
I once more view the room, with spectators sur
rounded, Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While, to swell my young pride, such applauses re
sounded, I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.* Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived ;) Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation, I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
WOMAN I experience might have told me,
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. But if, through the course of the years which await me, Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
Two of some their
Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga,
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
She placed it, sad, with needless fear, When lo ! she changes in a day.
Lest time might shake my wavering soul, This record will for ever stand,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast control.
My hope in gloomy moments raise;
And meet my fond expiring gaze.
LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged, Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast,
Our souls with fond affection glow not ; Shed o'er me your languor benign;
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
I'd tell you why-but yet I know not. What rapture celestial is mine!
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
And, Lesbia! we are not much older Mortality's emblem is given :
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. If this be a foretaste of heaven!
Sixteen was then our utmost age, Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,
Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! Nor deem me too happy in this;
And now new thoughts our minds engage, If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
At least I feel disposed to stray, love! Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.
'Tis I that am alone to blame, Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may
I that am guilty of love's treason; smile,
Since your sweet breast is still the same, Oh! think not iny penance deficient !
Caprice must be my only reason. When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
I do not, love ! suspect your truth, To awake will be torture sufficient.
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I loved you most sincerely ;
And-though our dream at last is ended
My bosom still esteems you dearly.
No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving!
But older, firmer hearts than ours
Have found monotony in loving.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
New beauties still are daily brightning ;
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
The forge of love's resistless lightning.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love!
But where's the beam so sweetly straying,
LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, Sweet copy ! far more dear to me,
WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
BY THE AUTHOR WHILE DISCHARGING HIS Than all the living fornis could be,
PISTOLS IN A GARDEN.
DOUBTLESS, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, * This line is almost a literal translation from a
And hurtling o'er thy lovely head, Spanish proverb.
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.
Surely some envious demon's force,
Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impellid the bullet's viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.
Yes! in that nearly fatal hour
The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turn'd the death aside.
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear stea its way
Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in huc Yet why do I ask?-to distraction a prey.
Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu !
From cities to caves of the forest he few :
The mountains reverberate love's last a dicu !
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew, Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins;
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu !
Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell; Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted from its glistening cell:
Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage done to thee? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?
How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel !
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, Who laughs at the pang which he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu!
Choose then, relentless I and I swear
IN law an infant, and in ycars a boy,*
In mind a slave to every vicious joy ;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school; THE roses of love glad the garden of life,
Damätas ran through all the maze of sin, Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent
And found the goal when others just begin ; dew,
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu.
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart,
| And what was once his bliss appears his bane. In vain do we vow for an age to be true; The chance of an hour may command us to part, Or death disunite us in love's last adieu !
MARION! why that pensive brow? Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen
What disgust to life hast thou ? breast,
Change that discontented air ; Will whisper, 'Our meeting we yet may renew :'
Frowns become not one so fair. With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt,
'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu !
Love's a stranger to thy breast; Oh ! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth
He in dimpling smiles appears, Love twined round their childhood his flowers as
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, they grew; They flourish awhile in the season of truth,
* In law, every person is an infant who has not at. Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adiey ! tained the age of twenty-one,