Μπένω μεσ ̓ τὸ περιβόλι,
Ωραιοτάτη Χαηδή, κ. τ. λ.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,

Receive this fond truth from my tongue, Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung; As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, Through her eyes, through her every feature, Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish

By pangs which a smile would dispel? Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish,

For torture repay me too well? Now sad is the garden of roses,

Beloved but false Haidée !

There Flora all wither'd reposes,

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. [First published, 1812.]

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ON PARTING

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
l'oor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only leather and prunella?'
For character - he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to 'Black-it.'
MALTA, May 16, 1811. [First published,
1832.1

Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets without letters !
Adieu, ye fools - who ape your betters! 10
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen !
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn,
sirs,

Adieu his Excellency's dancers!

Adieu to Peter - whom no fault 's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!
Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!
Adieu, the supercilious air

Of all that struten militaire !'
I go- but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad but in a different way.

Farewell to these, but not adieu, Triumphant sons of truest blue ! While either Adriatic shore,

2C

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners. 30
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme because 't is 'gratis.'

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her -
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line
-or two. were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,

Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods- I've got a fever!
May 26, 1811. [First published, 1816.]

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52

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING
THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND
TO BANISH CARE'

'OH! banish care'- such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and banish care.'
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought — but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak - speak of anything but love.

'T were long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail;
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'T would suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,
Have seen her seated by his side,
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave; -
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.

I'll whine no more,

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But let this pass Nor seek again an eastern shore; The world befits a busy brain, I'll hie me to its haunts again. But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain's May is in the sere,' Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, "T is comfort still,' I faintly said, 'That Thyrza cannot know my pains: ' Like freedom to the time-worn slave, A boon 't is idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new!
How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!
The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent-ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.

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