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.
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all

were 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.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same
sphere,

Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by,
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.

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 *
Be realized at my desire,

This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St Mary's spire.
Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,
The price of venal votes to pay.
Then would I view each rival wight,
Petty and Palmerston survey;.
Who canvass there with all their might,
Against the next elective day.

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 slum-
ber.

Lord H-, indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage reflecting men:
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 may 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,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;

Goes late to bed, yet early rises.
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:
Or agitates his anxious breast

In solving problems mathematic:
Who reads false quantities in Seale,

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle:
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,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent:

*The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection.

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.
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? The organ's soft celestial swell

Rolls deeply on the listening 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, 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 ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.

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 deuce a soul will stay to read:
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed.
Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires:
No more, like Cleofas, I fly:
No more thy theme my muse inspires:
The reader's tired, and so am I.

How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remem brance,

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied!

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;

The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay; Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,

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. To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before

OH! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright but mild affection shine,
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own:
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once celestial eyes.

Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga.

These might the boldest sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;

But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 'Tis said that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

TO WOMAN.

WOMAN! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee;
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are naught;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
O Memory! thou choicest blessing
When joined with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over!
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
"Woman! thy vows are traced in sand."*

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive :

Extend not your anger to sleep;

For in visions alone your affection can liveI rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast, Shed o'er me your languor benign;

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,

What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, Mortality's emblem is given:

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,

Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,

Oh! think not my penance deficient ! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,

To awake will be torture sufficient.

*This line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.

TO MARY,

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.

THIS faint resemblance of thy charms,
Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
Here I can trace the locks of gold,
Which round thy snowy forehead wave,
The cheeks which sprung from beauty's
mould,

The lips which made me beauty's slave.
Here I can trace-ah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter's art defy,

And bid him from the task retire.
Here I behold its beauteous hue;
But where's the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? Sweet copy! far more dear to me, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

Than all the living forms could be,

Save her who placed thee next my heart. She placed it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there Held every sense in fast control.

Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer;

My hope in gloomy moments raise; In life's last conflict 'twill appear, And meet my fond expiring gaze.

TO LESBIA.
LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed,

I'd tell you why-but yet I know not.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
And, Lesbia! we are not much older
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,

Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least I feel disposed to stray, love! 'Tis I that am alone to blame,

I that am guilty of love's treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth,
With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not
Warm was the passion of my youth,

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 bright'ning;
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!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED
BY THE AUTHOR WHILE DISCHARGING HIS
PISTOLS IN A GARDEN.

DOUBTLESS, Sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms,
And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,

Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.
Surely some envious demon's force,

Vex'd to behold such beauty here,
Impell'd 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.
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?
Might I perform the judge's part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore;
It only would restore a heart

Which but belong'd to thee before.
The least atonement I can make

Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be all in all to me.
But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject
Such expiation of my guilt:
Come, then, some other mode elect;
Let it be death, or what thou wilt.
Choose then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shalt thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!

Let it be aught but banishment.

Oh mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth

Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they grew;

They flourish awhile in the season of truth,

Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu! Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue?

Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,

Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu! Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind? From cities to caves of the forest he flew : There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;

The mountains reverberate love's last adieu! Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew,

Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu! 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!

IN law an infant, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd
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
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
school;

Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin;
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.

TO MARION.

MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast;

He in dimpling smiles appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears,
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold, forbidding frown.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire ;
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool indifference thrills us.
Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile,
Smile at least, or seem to smile.
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint :
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips-but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curt'sies, frowns-in short, she
Dreads lest the subject should transport me;
And flying off in search of reason,
Brings prudence back in proper season.
All I shall therefore say (whate'er
I think, is neither here nor there).
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form'd for better things than sneering:
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of flattery free;
Counsel like mine is like a brother's,
My heart is given to some others,
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing

To those who think remonstrance teasing,
At once I'll tell thee our opinion
Concerning woman's soft dominion:
Howe'er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue or lips carnation,
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties may distract us,
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love:
It is not too severe a stricture
To say they form a pretty picture;
But wouldst thou see the secret chain
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, 'tis ANIMATION.

TO A LADY,

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF
HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINT-
ED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN
THE GARDEN.

THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,
With silly whims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish ;
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half-frozen;

In leafless shades to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
Since Shakspeare set the precedent,
Since Juliet first declared her passion,
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain,
He surely, in commiseration,
Had changed the place of declaration.
In Italy I've no objection:
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself is rather frigid;
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation;
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves
That ever witnessed rural loves;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after.

How sweetly shines through azure skies,
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore;
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,

And hear the din of arms no more!
But often has yon rolling moon

On Alva's casques of silver play'd; And view'd at midnight's silent noon,

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd: And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,

She saw the gasping warrior low;
While many an eye which ne'er again
Could mark the rising orb of day,
Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,

Beheld in death her fading ray.
Once to those eyes the lamp of Love,
They blest her dear propitious light;
But now she glimmer'd from above,
A sad, funereal torch of night.
Faded is Alva's noble race,

And grey her towers are seen afar;
No more her heroes urge the chase,
Or roll the crimson tide of war.
But who was last of Alva's clan?
Why grows the moss on Alva's stone?
Her towers resound no steps of man,
They echo to the gale alone.

* The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of "Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schiller's Armenian; or, The Ghost-Seer. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of Macbeth