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What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave,and head long as thy speed?

What do I say-a mirror of my heart?
Are not thy waters sweeping, dark and
strong?

Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;
And such as thou art, were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them, not
for ever:

Thou overflowst thy banks, and not for aye;
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside; and mine have sunk

away

But left long wrecks behind them, and again
Borne on our old unchanged career, we move;
Thou tendest wildly onward to the main,
And I to loving one I should not love.

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Fill the goblet again, for I never before Felt the glow that now gladdens my heart to its core:

Let us drink-who would not? since, thro' life's varied round,

In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye;

I have lov'd-who has not? but what tongue will declare

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; In the days of our youth, when the heart's
Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall

breathe
The twilight-air, unharm'd by summer's
heat.

She will look on thee: I have look'd on thee,
Full of that thought, and from that

moment ne'er

Thy waters could I dream of, name or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her.
Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy

stream;

Yes, they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,
That happy wave repass me in its flow.
The wave that bears my tears returns no

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in its spring,

And dreams that affection can never take
wing,

I had friends,-who has not? but what
tongue will avow
That friends, rosy wine, are so faithful as

thou?

The breast of a mistress some boy may
estrange;

Friendship shifts with the sun-beam,-thou
Thou growst
Whose virtues,

never canst change.
old-who does not? but on
earth what appears,
like thine, but increase
with our years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can
bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous-who 's not? thou hast no
such alloy,
For the more that enjoy thee, the more they
enjoy.

When, the season of youth and its jollities
past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last,
Then we find-who does not? in the flow
of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confin'd to the bowl.

When the box of Pandora was opened on
earth,

And Memory's triumph commenced over
Mirth,

Hope was left

And care not

was she not? but the goblet

we kiss,

for hope, who are certain of

bliss.

is flown,

Long life to the grape! and when summer | Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the
dead,

The age of our nectar shall gladden my own.
We must die-who does not? may our sins
be forgiven!
And Hebe shall never be idle in Heaven.

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And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we heap'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread
o'er his head
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's good,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him
sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him

But half of our heavy task was done, When the clock told the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gu, That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.

EL

F

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My Fathers! the tears of your country re- | No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,

dress ye;

How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.

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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,
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
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.

A FRAGMENT.

1803.

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No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd
stone;

My epitaph shall be, my name alone:
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay;
That, only that, shall single out the spot,
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

1803.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

Αστερ πριν μεν ελαμπες ενι ζωοισιν έωος. LAERTIUS.

On! Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!

What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!

Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst lived, to bless my aching sight,

Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight.

If, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes

lie,

Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.

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For a last look I turn'd,

Which the children of vanity rear;

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name,

All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX

The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning-Paper.

"OUR Nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when PITT resign'd his breath; These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, We give the palm where Justice points it due. "

To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following Reply.

OH! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;

What, though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,

With generous feeling, of the good and great;

Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the

name

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame!

Though my vows I can pour,

To my Mary no more,

My Mary, to Love once so dear;

In the shade of her bower,

I remember the hour,

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest, May she live ever blest, Her name still my heart must revere; With a sigh I resign,

What I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart,
Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near;
If again we shall meet,
In this rural retreat,

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight, To the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier; As ye pass by the tomb, Where my ashes consume,

Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow The splendour of woe,

When PITT expired, in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread.
For noble spirits "war not with the dead."
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state:
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appeard.
Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric reard:
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied.
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died:
Not one great people only raise his ura,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth
unclue,

To give the palm where Justice points it due;"

Yet let not canker'd calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,

Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep,

For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes alike his talents own, Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine, Nor e'en to PITT the patriot's palm resign, Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask. For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to asi

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

delivered previous to the performance of "The Wheel of Fortune," at a private theatre.

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;
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 debut,
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.
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;
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female
shield,

The sternest Censor to the fair must yield. Yet should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, after all, our best endeavours fail; Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live, And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

Then read, dear Girl, with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead,
In pity for the Poet's woes.

He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;

His was no faint fictitious flame; Like his, may love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the same.

TO M • •

OH! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair :

That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd, that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, Lest angels might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk

Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest sylph appal, When gleaming with meridian blaze; Thy beauty must enrapture all,

But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

'Tis said, that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven; But, they would ne'er permit thee there, Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For, did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now controul, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

1

STANZAS TO A LADY.

With the Poems of Camoens.
THIS votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear Girl! for me thou'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.

Who blames it, but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid?
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom'd to fade.

TO WOMAN.

WOMAN! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee;
| Surely, experience might have taught,
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh! Memory ! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope,when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover,
When hope is filed, and passion's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,

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