TO CAROLINE.

OH! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?

[glance,

no curses,

I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss ;

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,

Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage,

On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, [rage. With transport my tongue give a loose to its

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight: Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, [cheer, Life beams not for us with one ray that can Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation;

In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Ol! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, [fled? Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.

STANZAS TO A LADY.
WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOËNS.
THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou''t 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?
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 vain, fictitious flame:
Like his, may love be thy reward,

But not thy hapless fate the same.

From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,

[love! Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to

ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. WHERE are those honours, Ida! once your own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne? As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, Hail'd a barbarian in her Cæsar's place, So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, Pomposus holds you in his harsh control; Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; With noisy nonsense and new-fangled rules, Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools, Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,

He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause;

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught

To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, If these but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,

Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

FRAGMENT.

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF
MISS CHAWORTH.

HILLS of Annesley! bleak and barren,
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd,
How the northern tempests, warring,

Howl above thy tufted shade !
Now no more, the hours beguiling,
Former favourite haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling

Makes ye seem a heaven to me.

GRANTA: A MEDLEY.
Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα Κρατήσεις.
OH! Could Le Sage's demon's gift*
Be realized at my desire,
This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St Mary's spire.

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,

The price of venal votes to pay.

Then would I view each rival wight,

Petty and Palmerston survey;

Who canvass there with all their might,
Against the next elective day.

Lo! candidates and voters lie

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number: A race renown'd for piety,

[ber.

Whose conscience won't disturb their slum. Lord H, indeed, may not demur; Fellows are sage reflecting men: They know preferment can occur But very seldom-now and then. They know the Chancellor has got Some pretty livings in disposal: Each hopes that one may be his lot, And therefore smiles on his proposal. Now from the soporific scene

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,

The studious sons of Alma Mater.
There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.

The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the emon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unefs the houses for inspection.

He surely well deserves to gain them,
With all the honours of his college,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:
Who sacrifices hours of rest

Or agitates his anxious breast
To scan precisely metres Attic;

In solving problems mathematic:
Who reads false quantities in Seale,*
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle: +
Renouncing every pleasing page
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage,

The square of the hypothenuse.‡
Still, harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent;
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When drunkenness and dice invite,
As every sense is steep'd in wine.
Not so the methodistic crew,

Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,

And for the sins of others pray:
Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial,
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.
'Tis morn-from these I turn my sight.
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,
Across the green in numbers fly.

Loud rings in air the chapel bell;

'Tis hush'd-what sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell

Rolls deeply on the list ning ear.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excused,
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused

To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne'er descended-

In furious mood he would have tore 'em.

*Seale's publication on Greck Metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy.

The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and is not very intelligible.

The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a rightangled triangle.

The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.

Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.

But if I scribble longer now,

The deuce a soul will stay to read: My pen is blunt, my ink is low;

'Tis almost time to stop, indeed. Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires! No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; No more thy theme my muse inspires; The reader's tired, and so am I.

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROWON-THE-HILL.

VIRGIL

'Oh ! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos." YE scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection [past; Embitters the present, compared with the Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,

fast;

And friendships were form'd, too romantic to Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, [denied!

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is]

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,

The streams where we swam, and the fields
where we fought;
[resorted.

The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay; Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,

[ray. To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,

I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.* Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, By my daughters of kingdom and reason deprived;

Till fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his per formance of Zanga.

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 control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

Here I behold its beauteous hue;

But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.

O Memory! thou choicest blessing
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion's over!
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
'Woman! thy vows are traced in sand.'*

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely
Extend not your anger to sleep; [forgive;
For in visions alone your affection can live-
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
Shed o'er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the
What rapture celestial is mine!
[last,

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

Mortality's emblem is given:

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of heaven!

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.
THIS faint resemblance of thy charms,
Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarms,

Revives thy hopes, and bids me live.

Here I can trace the locks of gold,

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould,

The lips which made me beauty's slave. Here I can trace-ah, no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

Must all the painter's art defy,

And bid him from the task retire.

This line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish, proverb.

But where's the beam so sweetly straying, Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? Sweet copy! far more dear to me,

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

Than all the living forms could be,

Save her who placed thee next my heart

She placed it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there

Held every sense in fast control.

Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer;

My hope in gloomy moments raise;
In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
And meet my fond expiring gaze.

TO LESBIA.

LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 'tis I, not you, have changed,

I'd tell you why-but yet I know not.
Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;
And, Lesbia! we are not much older
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,

Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! And now new thoughts our minds engage, At least I feel disposed to stray, love! "Tis I that am alone to blame,

I that am guilty of love's treason; Since your sweet breast is still the same, Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth,

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; Warm was the passion of my youth,

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended;
For, oh! I loved you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended-
My bosom still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Absence has made me prone to roving!
But older, firmer hearts than ours

Have found monotony in loving.
Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
New beauties still are daily bright'ning;
Your eye for conquest beams prepared,

The forge of love's resistless lightning.
Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
Fonder, alas! they ne'er can be, love!