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The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup

Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up;

Nor stop, but rattle over every word-
No matter what, so it can not be heard.
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the
best;

Who utters most within the shortest space
May safely hope to win the wordy race.

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid,

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Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade; Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for die: Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls,

They think all learning fix'd within their walls:

In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's
note,

More than the verse on which the critic wrote:

Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale; To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel

61

When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal.

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What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke.
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels;
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint and scorn disguise. 20
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt, rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, ''t was the spirit moved us.'
Though what they utter'd I repress,
Yet I conceive thou 'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through

day:

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Awake, with it my fancy teems;

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night:
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:

May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh, may the happy mortal, fated
To be by dearest ties related,

For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 't is to feel the restless woe
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!'
August, 1806.

THE CORNELIAN

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[This prologue was written by Byron, between stages, on his way from Harrowgate to Southwell, in 1806, where he took part in private theatricals.]

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;

Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,

Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;

Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.

Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect: 10
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new.
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we
try;

Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,

Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more. 20 Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise;

But all our dramatis personæ wait

In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;

For these, each Hero all his power displays, Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.

Surely the last will some protection find; None to the softer sex can prove unkind: While Youth and Beauty form the female

shield,

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REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ. 115

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