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To me in smiles display'd:
Till slow Disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,

Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend!(1) whose gentle love

Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above

Description's power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift I wear,
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;

Let Pride alone condemn!

Will not reject a child of dust,

Although his meanest care. Father of Light! to Thee I call,

My soul is dark within: Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,

Avert the death of sin, Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive; And, since I soon must cease to live,

Instruct me how to die.



All, all, is dark and cheerless now!

No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,

Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race.-
To humble in the dust my face,

And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;

On him who gains thy praise
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,

Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,

My life a short and vulgar dream:
Lost in the dull ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,

My fate is Lethe's stream.
When I repose beneath the sod,

Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,

Where now my head must lay;
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,

By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep

Which bides a name unknown.

Au, heedless girl! why thus disclose

What ne'er was meant for other ears? Why thus destroy thine own repose,

And dig the source of future tears? Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid!

While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said

Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh,

If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep templation fly,

Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey! Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,

The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,

If thou canst venture to believe. While now amongst thy female peers

Thou tell’st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sneers

Duplicity in vain would veil? These lales in secret silence hush,

Nor make thyself the public gaze: What modest maid without a blush

Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? Will not the laughing boy despise

Her who relates each fond conceitWho, thinking heaven is in her eyes,

Yet cannot see the slight deceit?

Forget this world, my restless sprite,

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight,

If errors are forgiven. To bigots and 10 sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's throne;

To him address thy trembling prayer: He, who is merciful and just,

For she who takes a soft delight

These amorous nothings in revealing, Must credit all we say or write,

While vanity prevents concealing. Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign!

No jealousy bids me reprove: One, who is thus from nature vain, I pity, but I cannot love.

January 18, 1807.

(1) Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister.-E.


Ou, Anne ! your offences to me have been grievous; I thought from my wrath no atonement could

save you; But woman is made to command and deceive us

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,

Yet thought that a day's separation was long: When we met, I determined again to suspect youYour smile soon convinced me suspicion was

wrong. I swore, in a transport of young indignation,

With fervent contempt everniore to disdain you: I saw you—my anger became admiration; And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain

you. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the conten

tion! Thus lowly I sine for forgiveness before you ;Al once lo conclude such a fruitless dissension, Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!

January 16, 1807.

Yet there is one I pity more;

And much, alas ! I ibink he needs it: For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,

May once be read-but never after : Yet their effect's by no means tragic,

Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed,

And of no common pang complainIf you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you 'll read them o'er again.

March 8, 1807.



Oh say not, sweet Anne! that the Fates have decreed The heart which adores you should wish to dis

sever; Such Fates were to me most unkind oncs indeed,

To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. Your frowns, lovely girl! are the Fates which alone

Could bid me from fond admiration refrain; By these every hope, every wish, were o'erthrown,

Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,

The rage of the tempest united must weather, My love and my life were by nature design'd

To flourish alike, or to perish together. Then say not, sweet Anne! that the Fates have de

creed Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu; Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you.


In one who felt as once he felt,

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the fame; But now his heart no more will melt,

Because that heart is not the same. As when the ebbing fames are low,

The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow,

Now quenches all their blaze in night: Thus has it been with passion's fires

As many a boy and girl remembersWhile every hope of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers. The first, though not a spark survive,

Some careful hand may teach to burn; The last, alas! can nc'er survive;

No louch can bid its warmth return.
Or, if it chance to wake again,

Not always doom'd its heat to smother;
It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)
Its former warmth around another.





Thou Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's

(part; Young offspring of Fancy! 't is time we should Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,

The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to raplure no more, (sing;

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,

Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude-flowing lyre,

Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could

inspire, My visions are flown, to return.-alas, never!

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no more.

When drain’d is thenectar which gladdens the bowl, I left thee, my Oak! and, since that fatal hour,
How vajn is the effort delight to prolong!

A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the Whal magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

power, Can the lips siug of Love in the desert alone,

But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? | Oh! hardy thou werl-even now little care Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

gently heal Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? | But thou wert not faled affection to shareAh, surely affection ennobles the strain!

For who could suppose that a stranger woulil feel? But how can my numbers in sympathy move, Ah, droop nol, my Oak! lift thy head for a while,

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, Can I sing of the deeds which my fathers have done, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my sires?

When Infancy's years of probation are done. For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! Oh! live then, my Oak!tower aloft fron the weeds

For heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decas, Untouch'd, then, my lyre shall reply to the blast- For still in thy bosom are lite's early seeds, 'T is hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er;

And still may thy branches their beauty display, And those who have heard it will pardon the past, Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,

On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,

Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. Since early affection and love is o'ercast : For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, O'er the corse of thy lord, in thy canopy laid; Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the while the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave. Jast.

The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot. meet;

[few : He will tell them in whispers more softly lo tread. If our songs have been languid, they surely are Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet- Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. The present--which seals our eternal Adieu.

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing


Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lar. TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. (1)

And here must be sleep, lill the moments of time

Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. YOUNG Oak! when I planled thee deep in the

1807. (Now first published: ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine, That thy dark-waving branches would flourish

And ivy thy trunk with jis mantle entwine. Here once engaged the stranger's view

Young Friendship's record, simply traced
Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years,
On the land of my fathers I reard thee with pride:

Few were ber words,-but yet, though few,

Resentment's hand the line defaced.
They are past, and I water thy slem with my tears,
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can Deeply she cul-but not erased-

The characters were still so plain,


u Lord Byron, on bis first arrival at Newslead, in 1708, sel it biinsell.” The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy that, as care of it It is already inquired after, by strangers, as "Tes the tree flourished, so should lie. On revisiting the abbey, during Byvos Onk," and promises to share, in after times, the celebris Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak

or Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.-E. choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ;-hence the lines. 2. Some years ago, when al Harrow, a friend of the atter Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, look pos- engraved on a particular spot the names of bou, with a len adsession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was ditional words, as a niemorial. Afterwards, on receiving some with him, “Here is a line young oak; but it must be cut down, as real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record it grows in an improper place."--"I hope not, sir," replied the before he left llarrow. On revisiting the place in 1807, he welt man; ** for it's the one that my Lord was so fond or, because he under in these stanzas,

That friendship once return’d, and gazed,

Till 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.
This 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!

Seplember, 1807.

Why, lest the world unfeeling frown
Must I fond Nature's claim disown?
Ah, no-though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of love,
Fair cherub! pledge of youth and joy-
A father guards thy birth, my Boy!
Oh, 't will be sweet in thee 10 trace,
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son ;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental lire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's forın revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert ils pledge, my Boy!

JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well:
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more-so was carried at last;
For the liquor he drank, being too much for one,
He could not carry off, -so he's now carri-on.

September, 1807.




Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!
And thou canst lisp a father's name-
Ah, William! were thine own the same,
No self reproach--But, let me cease-
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
Her lowly grave the turf has press'd,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast:
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet strall not these one hope destroy, -
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer

For others' weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
’T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh! more than lears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,

Are in that word-Farewell!--Farewell!
These lips are mule, these eyes are dry;

But in my breast and in my brain
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,

Though grief and passion there rebel: I only know we loved in vain

I only feel-Farewell!- Farewell!


Bright be the place of thy soul!

No lovelier spirit than thine

1, "Fond as he was of recording every particular of lis' been a favourile of his late friend Curzon, and who, finding youth, such an event, or rather era, as is liere commemorated herself after bis death in a state of progress towards maternily, wonid have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmen. i had declared Lord Byron was the father of her child. This, he lioned by him; and yet, neither in conversation nor in any of positively assured his mother, was not the case, but believing, his writings, do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other as he did firmly. that the child belonged to Curzon, it was his hand, so entirely was all that lie wrote making allowance for ' wish that it should be brought up with all possible care, and he the embellishments of lancy) the transcript of his habitual life therefore entreated that his mother would have the kiodness to and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of take charge of it. Though such a request might well have disnatural tenderness, to have been indebied for its origin to ima- composed a lemper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she, nolgination alone. The only circumstanie I know that bears even withstanding, answered her son in the kindest terms, saying remolely on the subject of this poem, is the following About a that she would willingly receive the child as soon as it was born, year or two before the date aflixed to it, he wrote to liis mother and bring it up in whatever manner be desired. Happily, how. from Harrow, to say that he had lately had a good deal of un- ever, the child died in its infancy, and was thus spared the being easiness on account of a young woman, whom he knew 10 have a tax on the good-nature of any body.”—Moore.

E’er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine,

When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom

In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree

May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest ?



When we two parted

In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss ;
Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me-

Why wert thou so dear?
They knew not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well; Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met-

In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee

After long years,
How should I greet thee?-

With silence and tears.

TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. (1) Few years have pass'd since thou and I

Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerily

Preserved our feelings long the same. But now, like me, too well thou know'st

What trifles oft the heart recall; And those who once have loved the most

Too soon forget they loved at all.
And such the change the heart displays,

So frail is early friendship's reign,
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,

Will view thy mind estranged again.
If so, it never shall be mine

To mourn the loss of such a heart; The fault was Nature's fault, not thine,

Which made theě fickle as thou art. As rolls the ocean's changing lide,

So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide

Where stormy passions ever glow? It boots not that, together bred,

Our childish days were days of joy: My spring of life has quickly fled;

Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. And when we bid adieu to youth,

Slaves to the specious world's control, We sigh a long farewell to truth;

That world corrupts the noblest soul. Ah, joyous season! when the mind

Dares all things boldly but to lie; When thought, ere spoke, is unconfined,

And sparkles in the placid eye. Not so in man's maturer years,

When man himself is but a tool! When interest sways our hopes and fears,

And all must love and hate by rule. With fools, in kindred vice the same,

We learn at length our faults to blend; And those, and ihose alone, may claim

The prostituted name of friend. Such is the common lot of man:

Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan,

Nor be what all in turn must be ? No! for myself, so dark my fate

Through every turn of life hath been; Man and the world so much I hate,

I care not when I quit the scene.


(1) This copy of verses, and that which follows, originally ap- Original Poems, and bearing the modest epigraph="Non hae pears in the volume published, in 1809, by Mr. (now Sir John) novimus esse nihil."-E. Hobbouse, under the title of Imitations and Translations, with

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