Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, Full often has my infant Muse Attuned to love her languid lyre; And Mary's given to another; The aid which once improved their light, As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night Has thrice perform'd her stated round, And chased away the gloom profound, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; And then with those our childhood knew TO A LADY. OH! had my fate been join'd with thine, As once this pledge appear'd a token, These follies had not then been mine, For then my peace had not been broken. To thee these early faults I owe, To thee, the wise and old reproving : They know my sins, but do not know 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving For once my soul, like thine, was pure, And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure, Bestow'd by thee upon another; Perhaps his peace I could destroy, And spoil the blisses that await him ; Yet let my rival smile in joy, For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. Ah! since thy angel form is gone, My heart no more can rest with any ; But what it sought in thee alone, Attempts, alas! to find in many. Then fare thee well, deceitful maid! 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor hope nor memory yield their aid, But pride may teach me to forget thee. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures, These varied loves, these matrons' fears, These thoughtless strains to passion's mea sures If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd ;- Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, But now I seek for other joys: To think would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal In spite of every vain endeavourAnd fiends might pity what I feel— To know that thou art lost for ever. I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. I WOULD I were a careless child, Still dwelling in my Highland cave, Accords not with the free-born soul, I hate the touch of servile hands, I hate the slaves that cringe around. • Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English. Place 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: A visionary scene of bliss! I loved-but those I loved are gone; When all its former hopes are dead! Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, In years and feelings still the same, Where boisterous joy is but a name. When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! - Without a sigh would I resign This busy scene of splendid woe, Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. dark heath, WHEN I roved a young Highlander o'er the [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, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to per ceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, 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 No home in the forest shall shelter my head, Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you? TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. The love which you felt was the love of a brother, [fires. 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 retrospec tion! The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours The recollection seems alone My pensive memory lingers o'er As when one parent spring supplies How soon, diverging from their source, Our vital streams of weal or woe, Nor mingle as before : Now swift or slow, now black or clear, And both shall quit the shore. Our souls, my friend! which once supplied And shine in fashion's annals: 'Tis mine to waste on love my time, Without the aid of reason; Nor left a thought to seize on. Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard! That he, who sang before all- And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Repine not at thy lot. Thy soothing lays may still be read, And critics are forgot. Still I must yield those worthies merit, Bad rhymes and those who write them ; Little was a nom 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 I really will not fight them.* Now, Clare, I must return to you; Accept, then, my concession. My muse admires digression. I think I said 'twould be your fate May regal smiles attend you ! 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! O'er roses may your footsteps move, Your tears be tears of joy! 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, 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 still, 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: How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest. Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour, If aught may soothe when life resigns hei power, To know some humble grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell. With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet to die And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose ; Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd; Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthfu ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; Alluding to a hostile meeting between Moore and Jeffrey Deplored by those in early days allied, at Chalk Farm. (EDIT.) And unremember'd by the world beside. 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 gazedTill 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 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: THE ADIEU. WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE ADIEU, thou Hill! where early joy Where Science seeks each loitering boy • 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 comrades of the jovial hour, On Cama's verdant margin placed, Where grew my youthful years; Why did my childhood wander forth With sons of pride to roam? 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: Forgets its wonted simple note- To retrospection dear. At noontide heat, their pliant course; And shall I here forget the scene, |