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Like showers which on the midnight gust will | But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce,

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It opened with a most infernal creak,

Like that of hell. "Lasciate ogni speranza Voi che entrate!" The hinge seem'd to speak, Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza; Or-but all words upon such themes are weak: A single shade's sufficient to entrance a Hero-for what is substance to a spirit? Or how is't matter trembles to come near it? CXVII.

The door flew wide, not swiftly-but as fly The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flightAnd then swung back; nor close-but stood awry,

Half letting in long shadows on the light, Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, For he had two both tolerably bright; And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood The sable Friar, in his solemn hood.

CXVIII.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken The night before; but, being sick of shaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken, And then to be ashamed of such mistaking: His own internal ghost began to awaken

Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking: Hinting that soul and body, on the whole, Were odds against a disembodied soul.

CXIX.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce :

And he arose, advanced-the shade retreated;

Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated: Resolved to thrust the mystery, carte and tierce, At whatsoever risk of being defeated: The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired until He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone still.

CXX.

Juan put forth one arm-Eternal Powers!

It touched no soul nor body, but the wall, On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall. He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers, When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity Should cause more fear than a whole host's identity.

CXXI.

But still the shade remain'd: the blue eyes glared,

And rather variably for stony death: Yet one thing rather good the grave had sparedThe ghost had a remarkably sweet breath. A straggling curl show'd he had been fair hair'd: A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, Gleam'd forth as through the casement's ivy shroud

The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey cloud.

CXXII.

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust
His other arm forth-Wonder upon wonder!
It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust,
Which beat as if there was a warm heart under.
He found, as people on most trials must,

That he had made at first a silly blunder,
And that, in his confusion, he had caught
Only the wall, instead of what he sought.

CXXIII.

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul,
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood:
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole

Forth into something much like flesh and blood:

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl,

And they reveal'd (alas, that e'er they should!) In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, The phantom of her frolic Grace-Fitz-Fulke!

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HOURS OF IDLENESS:

A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED.
[WRITTEN FROM 1802 TO 1807.-FIRST PUBLISHED IN 1807.]

"Virginibus puerisque canto."-HORACE, lib. iii. Ode 1.

“ Μήτ' ἄρ με μάλ' αἴνεε, μήτε τι νείκει.”—HOMER, Iliad, x. 249.
"He whistled as he went, for want of thought."-DRYDEN.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE,
KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC. ETC.,

THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED

BY HIS

OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,

THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

IN submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the difficul ties that writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed.

These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is perhaps unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depres sion of spirits: under the former influence, "CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS," in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated: yet, "to do greatly," we must "dare greatly;" and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. "I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand or fall by the "cast of the die." In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, "it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no connection, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can.' To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe: on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed: their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favour which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability.

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation : some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me "to this sin:" little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive

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from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not of late years had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others "virum volitare per ora." I look to the few who will hear with patience" dulce est desipere in loco." To the former worthies I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst "the mob of gentlemen who write "-my readers must determine whether I dare say "with ease"-or the honour of a posthumous page in The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors, a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers.

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age, the contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor, even in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to comm:. ture trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine," "that when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed," can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical censors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honours granted solely to a title.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,+

COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO

HIM.

HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom,

Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey: Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,

Not here the muse her virtues would relate. But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,

And, madly, godlike Providence accuse? Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ;I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face: Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

TO E

LET Folly smile, to view the names

Of thee and me in friendship twined; Yet Virtue will have greater claims

To love, than rank with vice combined. *The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applause, to which by their intrinsic worth they were well entitled.

† Admiral Parker's daughter.

And though unequal is thy fate,

Since title deck'd my higher birth,
Yet envy not this gaudy state;

Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.

TO D

IN thee I fondly hoped to clasp

A friend, whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp,

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.
True, she has forced thee from my breast,
Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat;
There, there thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
And when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head--
Without thee, where would be my heaven?

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No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will
cheer,

Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah! none!-a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.

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ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. "Why dost thou build the hall, son of the

winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court."-OSSIAN.

THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay:

In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle

Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way.

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more doth old Robert, with heart-stringing numbers,

Raise a flame in the breast for the warlaurell'd wreath;

Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan slumbers:

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy;

For the safety of Edward and England they fell:

My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending,

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field;

For the rights of a monarch their country defending,

Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance impart. ing

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. That fame and that memory still will he cherish : He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your

renown:

Like you will he live, or like you will he perish: When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with

your own.

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LINES

WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN
AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN: BY J. J.
ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS."

"Away, away, your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts:
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving."

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED
TO MISS-.

DEAR, simple girl, those flattering arts
From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts
Exist but in imagination-

Mere phantoms of thine own creation :
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish'd mirror glance,
Thou'lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises:
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery-'tis truth.

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL
WHEN DYING.

Ан! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight. No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. AD LESBIAM.

EQUAL to Jove that youth must beGreater than Jove he seems to meWho, free from Jealousy's alarms, Securely views thy matchless charms.

That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him alike are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah, Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But at the sight my senses fly;

I needs nust gaze, but, gazing, die:
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,

My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head.
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

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TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
YE Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved :
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom moved:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,
Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta'en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia's eyes overflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life's decay.

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.
TO ELLEN.

OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:

Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss:
Nor then my soul should sated be;
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist?-ah! never-never!

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.
THE man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,

Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain.
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,

He would unmoved, unawed behold
The flames of an expiring world,

Again in crushing chaos roll'd, In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, Might light his glorious funeral pile. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.

FROM ANACREON.

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone:
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name:
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of war's alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel:
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

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 :
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,

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