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 hides a name unknown.

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 to sects unknown,

Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne;
To Him address thy trembling prayer:

He, who is merciful and just,

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.

1807. [First published 1832.]

TO A VAIN LADY.

Aн, 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 ling'ring woes are nigh,
If thou believ'st what striplings say:
Oh, from the deep temptation 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 tales 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 conceit-
Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,
Yet cannot see the slight deceit ?

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 15, 1807. [First published 1832.]

TO ANNE.

Он, 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 you-
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong.

I swore, in a transport of young indignation,
With fervent contempt evermore 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 contention!
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ;-

At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension,
Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!
January 16, 1807. [First published 1832.]

TO THE SAME.

Он say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed
The heart which adores you should wish to dissever;
Such Fates were to me most unkind ones 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 decreed
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.

1807. [First published 1832.]

TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET

BEGINNING "SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, 'AND YET NO TEAR.'

THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for thee we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more;

And much, alas! I think 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 complain—
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.

March 8, 1807. [First published 1832.]

ON FINDING A FAN.

IN one who felt as once he felt,

This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame;
But now his heart no more will melt,
Because that heart is not the same.

As when the ebbing flames 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 remembers-
While 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 ne'er survive;

No touch 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.

1807. [First published 1832.]