Oh then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow:
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
OH! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow 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
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
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 heart would rejoice at the sight.
Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled ?
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'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?
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.17
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.
'Α Βαρβιτος δε χορδαίς
Ερωτα μουνον ἠχεῖ.—ANACREON.
AWAY with your fictions of flimsy romance;
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love.
If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art:
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove, Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past-
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove-
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC
SCHOOL.18
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 no'er before enforced in schools.
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause,
With him the same dire fate attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom:
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name.
DORSET! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom still affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;20
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade control,
Though passive tutors,21 fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,—
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,-
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;'
Believe them not;--they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name.
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong,
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear; For well I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child; Though every error stamps me for her own, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; Though my proud heart no precept now cinta 1, I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
"Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dea 1,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the gcod and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth.22
Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
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