To other deeds my soul is strung, FROM ANACREON. 'TWAS now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Boötes, only, seem'd to roll His arctic charge around the pole: His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS. GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne Both gods and mortals homage pay, Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain, The blushing beauty by thy side, TO EMMA. 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. 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 this Gothic casement's height, O'er fields through which we used to run, Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, Forget to scare the hovering 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, Who can conceive, who has not proved, 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, O God the fondest, last adieu ! TO M. S. G. Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were unhallow'd 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 I would not force a painful tear, I ne'er have told my love, yet thou To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? No! for thou never canst be mine, 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; Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, 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, Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids How'd Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, Again, thou best beloved, adieu! Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; Nor let thy mind past joys reviewOur only hope is to forget! TO CAROLINE. WHEN I hear you express an affection so warm, For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, Yet still this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my features, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree, Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of His crea tures, In the death which one day will deprive you of me. Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, 4 But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'erta ke us, And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low, Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow: Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full mea. sure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below. TO CAROLINE. OH! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay? The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love! curses, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss; If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could I assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight: Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer, Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation; In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS. THIS votive pledge of fond esteem, Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize; It sings of Love's enchanting dream, A theme we never can despise. Who blames it but the envious fool, The old and disappointed maid; Or pupil of the prudish school, In single sorrow doom'd to fade? Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, And try the effect of the first kiss of love! hate you, ye cold compositions of art! Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart, What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past For years fleet away with the wings of the doveThe dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT WHERE are those honours, Ida! once your own, THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. DORSET ! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Exploring every path of Ida's glade; Whom still affection taught me to defend, And made me less a tyrant than a friend, Though the harsh custom of our youthful band Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;* At every public school, the junior boys are com pletely subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed. Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To wealth, their golden idol, not to theeAnd even in simple boyhood's opening dawn Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawnWhen these declare, 'that pomp alone should wait On one by birth predestined to be great; That books were only meant for drudging fools, That gallant spirits scorn the common rules ;' Believe them not;-they point the path to shame, And seek to blast the honours of thy name. Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong; Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, bear; For well I know that virtue lingers there. One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, mine: Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, And gild their pinions as the moments flew; Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, By dreams of ill to cloud some future day; Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell; Alas! they love not long, who love so well. To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep. Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. for- Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child: Though every error stamps me for her own, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names that grace no page beside; Then share with titled crowds the common lotIn life just gazed at, in the grave forgot: While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 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. There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, In records destined never to be read. Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, Exalted more among the good and wise, A glorious and a long career pursue, As first in rank, the first in talent too: Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun; Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. Turn to the annals of a former day; Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe, With thee no more again I hope to trace The recollection of our early race; No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice: Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, If these-but let me cease the lengthen'd strain Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, The guardian seraph who directs thy fate Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. FRAGMENT. WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH. HILLS of Annesley! bleak and barren, Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, How the northern tempests, warring, Howl above thy tufted shade! Now no more, the hours beguiling, Former favourite haunts I see ; Now no more my Mary smiling Makes ye seem a heaven to me. GRANTA A MEDLEY Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα Κρατήσαις. OH! could Le Sage's demon's gift* This night my trembling form he'd lift Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls Then would I view each rival wight, Petty and Palmerston survey; Who canvass there with all their might, Lo! candidates and voters lie All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number: A race renown'd for piety, Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber. Lord H-, indeed, may not demur; Fellows are sage reflecting inen: They know preferment can occur But very seldom-now and then. They know the Chancellor has got Some pretty livings in disposal: Each hopes that one inay be his lot, And therefore smiles on his proposal. Now from the soporific scene I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, To view, unheeded and unseen, The studious sons of Alma Mater. There, in apartments small and damp, He surely well deserves to gain them, With all the honours of his college, Who, striving hardly to obtain them, Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge: Who sacrifices hours of rest To scan precisely metres Attic; Who reads false quantities in Seale,t In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection. + 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 Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and is not very intelligible. Renouncing every pleasing page From authors of historic use; Preferring to the letter'd sage, The square of the hypothenuse. Still, harmless are these occupations, Which bring together the imprudent. Whose daring revels shock the sight, 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. Loud rings in air the chapel bell; 'Tis hush'd-what sounds are these I hear? 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; Our choir would scarcely be excused, To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended, Had heard these blockheads sing before him, The luckless Israelites, when taken Oh! had they sung in notes like these, They might have set their hearts at ease, But if I scribble longer now, The deuce à soul will stay to read: My pen is blunt, my ink is low; 'Tis almost time to stop, indee The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled triangle, |