I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee; 3. Better to hold the sparkling grape, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 4, Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, And when, alas! our brains are gone, 5. Quaff while thou canst another race, 8. Why not? since through life's little day POEMS. Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER 1. THERE is a tear for all that die, A mourner o'er the humblest grave; For them in Sorrow's purest sigh In vain their bones unburied lie, All earth becomes their monument! 3. A tomb is theirs on every page, For them bewail, to them belong. 193 4. For them the voice of festal mirth Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round. 5. A theme to crowds that knew them not, Who would not share their glorious lot? 6. And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early valour, glowing, find A model in thy memory. 7. But there are breasts that bleed with thee In wo, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory, Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 8. Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness, While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 9. Alas! for them, though not for thee, They cannot choose but weep the Deep for the dead the grief must be, more; Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. TO A LADY WEEPING. 1. WEEP, daughter of a royal line, Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears- March, 1812. FROM THE TURKISH. 1. THE Chain I gave was fair to view, 2. These gifts were charm'd by secret spell And they have done their duty well, 3. That chain was firm in every link, But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such. 4. Let him, who from thy neck unbound Restring the chords, renew the clasp. |