Sidor som bilder

Nor then my soul shonld sated be,

(Ah! little did I think the dart Still would I kiss and cling to thee:

Would rankle soon within my heart).
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;

With care I tend my weary guest,
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;

His little fingers chill my breast;
E'en though the numbers did exceed

His glossy curls, his azure wing,
The yellow harvest's countless seed.

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring:
To part would be a vain endeavour:

His shivering limbs the embers warm.
Could I desist?-ah! never-never.

And now, reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,

Than swift he seized his slender bow:

“I fain would know, my gentle host," AESCHYLUS.

He cried, if this its strength has lost;

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, (Modám' ó révia vipwv, 4. . 6.]

The strings their former aid refuse."
Great Jove, to whose almighty throne

With poison tipt, bis arrow flies,
Both gods and mortals homage pay,

Deep in my tortured heart it lies;
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :-
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.

“My bow can still impel the shaft: Oft shall the sacred victim fall

"Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" My voice shall raise no impious strain 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,

[otda a tycuv Å spuídas, x. 7. 2] When placed aloft in godlike state,

I wish to tune my quivering lyre
The blushing beauty/by thy side,

To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
Thou satt'st, while reverend Ocean smiled,

To echo, from its rising swell,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled!

How heroes fought and nations fell,
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around,

When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Nor yet thy doom was fix’d, nor Jove relentless

Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
frown'd. (1)

But still, to martial strains unknown,
Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804.

My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,

I seek some nobler hero's name;

The dying chords are strung anew,
(Mosovxtio IS TO'spais, x. 7.2.]

To war, to war, my harp is due:
'Twas now the hour when Night had driven

With glowing strings, the epic strain
Her car half round yon sable heaven;

To Jove's great son I raise again;
Boötes, only, seem'd to roll

Alcides and his glorious deeds,
His arctic charge around the Pole;

Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,

All, all in vain! my wayward lyre
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:

Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,

Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Descending from the realms of joy,

Adieu the clang of war's alarms!
Quick to my gate directs his course,

To other deeds my soul is strung,
And knocks with all his little force,

And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,-

My harp shall all its powers reveal
“What stranger breaks my blest repose?”

To tell the tale my heart must feel;
“ Alas!" replies the wily child,

Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In faltering accents sweetly mild,

In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
“A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!

The nightly storm is pouring fast;

Since now the hour is come at last,
No prowling robber lingers here,

When you must quit your anxious lover;
A wandering baby who can fear?"

Since now our dream of bliss is past,
I heard his seeming artless tale,

One pang, my girl, and all is over.
I heard his sighs upon the gale:

Alas! that pang will be severe,
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.

Which bids us part to meet no more;

Which tears me far from one so dear,
I drew the bar, and by the light

Departing for a distant shore.
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And thence his fatal quiver hung

And joy will mingle with our tears (1) Lord Byron in one of his diaries says, “My first Har. Dr. Drary, my grand patron (our head master) but coolly. No row verses that is, English, as exercises), a translation of one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subside a chorus from the Prometheus of Æschylus, were received by | into poesy."-LE.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave

More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,

I bid thee now a last farewell.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair,

And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain my soul would dare

All, all reproach, bat thy disgrace. At least from guilt shalt thou be free,

No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me,

No martyr shalt thou be to love.

When thinking on these ancient towers,

The shelter of our infant years; Where, from this Gothic casement's beight,

We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,

We, lingering, look a last farewell
O'er fields through which we used to run,

And spend the hours in childish play,
O'er shades where, when our race was done,

Reposing on my breast you lay; Wbilst I, admiring, too remiss,

Forgot to scare the hovering Aies, Yet envied every fly the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes: See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,

The elm I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past-our joys are gone,

You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone:

Without thee what will they avail? Who can conceive, who has not proved,

The anguish of a last embrace, When, tors from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace? This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close,

Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!

Tarnk'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,

Suffused in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,

Which said far more than words can say? Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,

When love and hope lay both o’erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. Bat when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,

When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd

Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek,

Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,

In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,

In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain,

But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu !

Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret, Nor let thy mind past joys review,

Our only hope is to forget!

TO M. S. G. WHENL’ER I view those lips of thine,

Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine,

Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss. Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,

How could I dwell upon its snows! Yet is the daring wish represt,

For that—would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul searching eye

Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet I conceal my love—and why?

I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou

Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ? No! for thou never canst be mine,

United by the priest's decree: By any ties but those divine,

Mipe, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom,

Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortured heart,

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign.

TO CAROLINE. On! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? Oh! when sball 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 hurld 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

brightning, Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream

could assuage, On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its


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 hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation; Who blames it but the envious fool,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;

The old and disappointed maid ;
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation, Or pupil of the prudish school,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.

In single sorrow doom'd to fade?
Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me,

Then read, dear girl! with feeling read, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,

To thee in vain I shall not plead
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.

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.(2) WAEN I hear you express an affection so warm,

Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,

THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

“A βάρβιτος δε χορδαίς


Eputa pouvov ini.
Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear;

| Away with your fictions of flimsy romance; That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,

Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear; 16

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,

Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love. That the time must arrive when, no longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, breeze,

Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove; When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,

| From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, Proye nature a prey to decay and disease.

Could you ever bave tasted the first kiss of love! "T is this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse,

Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove, features, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures,

And try the effect of the first kiss of love. In the death which one day will deprive you of me.

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art! (prove,

| Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reMistake not, sweet sceptic! the cause of emotion,

I court the effusions that spring from the heart, No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;

Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love. He worships each look with such faithful devotion, A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

| Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,

Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move : But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;

And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low,- |

From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove;

Some portion of paradise still is on earth, Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. pleasure,

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow; ||

past Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full mea

For years fleet away with the wings of the dove sure,

The dearest remembrance will still be the last, And quaff the contents as our nectar below.

Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 1805.


STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMÖENS. (1) Tuis 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..


Hulls of Annesley, bleak and barren,

Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd,
How the northern tempests, warring,

Howl above thy tufted shade!

) Lord Strangford's translations of Camoëns' Amatory alone remained, to smooth his downward path, and guide his Poems are mentioned by Mr. Moore as having been at this steps to the grave with gentleness and consolation. It was period a favourite study of Lord Byron.-L. E.

Antonio, his slave, a native of Java, who had accompanied (2) The latter years of Camoens present a mournful pic. Camoëns to Europe, after having rescued him from the tare, not merely of individual calamity, but of national in: waves, when shipwrecked at the mouth of the Mecon. This gratitude. He whose best years had been devoted to the faithful attendant was wont to seek alms throughout Lisbon, service of his country, he who had taught her literary fame and at night shared the produce of the day with his poor to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, and wbo seemed and broken-hearted master. But his friendship was em bora to revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and ployed in vain. Camoëns sank beneath the pressure of Lusian heroism, was compelled to wander through the streets, penury and disease, and died in an alms-house, early in the & wretched dependant on casual contribution. One friendlycar 1579.--Strangford.

Now no more, the hours beguiling,

Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind Former favourite haunts I see;

A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Now no more my Mary smiling

Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Makes ye seem a heaven to me.(1)

Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
1803. | Though every error stamps me for her own,

And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;

Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,

I love the virtues which I cannot claim. Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, "T is not enough, with other sons of power, Exploring every path of Ida's glade;

To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; Wbom still affection taught me to defend,

To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, And made me less a tyrant than a friend,

With long-drawn names that grace no page beside; Though the harsh custom of our youthfal band Then share with titled crowds the common lotBade thee obey, and gave me to command;(3) In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot; Thce, on whose head a few short years will shower While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, The gift of riches and the pride of power;

Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne.

That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, Yet, Dorset ! let not this seduce thy soul

Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find To sbon fair science, or evade control;

One spot, to leave a worthless name behind; Though passive tutors,(4) fearful to dispraise

There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults The uted child, whose future breath may raise, That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,

A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. In records destined never to be read.

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,

Exalted more among the good and wise, Anderen in simple boyhood's opening dawn

A glorious and a long career pursue,
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,-

As first in rank, the first in talent too:
When these declare, “that pomp alone should wait Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
On me by birth predestined to be great;

Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
That books were only meant for drudging fools, Turn to the annals of a former day;
| That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;” Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.
Peliere them not;,they point the path to shame, One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name.

And callid, proud boast! the British drama forth.(5) Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,

Another view, not less renown'd for wit; Whose soals disdain not to condemn the wrong; Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,

Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine; Note dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, In every splendid part ordain'd to shine; Ask thine own heart; 't will bid thee, boy, forbear; | Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, Fer well I know that virtue lingers there.

The pride of princes, and the boast of song. (6) Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, Such were thy fathers : thus preserve their name; But now new scenes invite me far away;

Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

(1. The circumstances which lent so peculiar an interest the neighbouring country: however, he never saw the lines, to Lord Byron's introduction to the family of Chaworth are and most probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found eficientiy explained in Moore's Life. “The young lady them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I bersell combined,” says the writer, “with the many worldly | have now published them, for the first time, after a slight advantages that encircled her, much personal beauty, and a revision. disposition the most amiable and attaching. Though already (George-John-Frederick, fourth Duke of Dorset, born No. falls afive to her cbarms, it was at this period (1804) that vember 15, 1793. This amiable nobleman was killed by a the young poet seems to have drunk deepest of that fasci. fall from his horse, while hunting near Dublin, February 22, bution w bose effects were to be so lasting; six short weeks 1815, being on a visit at the time to his mother, the duchesswhich he passed in her company being sufficient to lay the dowager, and her second husband, Charles Earl of Whit. foundation of a feeling for all life. With the summer worth, then Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. -LE.] brodars ended this dream of his yonth. He saw Miss

(3) At every public school the junior boys are completely Chaworth once more in the succeeding year, and took his

subservient to the upper forms, till they attain a seat in the tart farewed of ber on that hill near Annesley, which, in higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, his poem of The Dream, he describes so happily as crowned

no rank is exempt; but, after a certain period, they command ith a peculiar diadem.'” In August, 1805, she was mar.

in turn those who succeed. ried to laba Masters, Esq.; and died at Wiverton Hall, in February. 1832, in consequence, it is believed, of the alarm

(4) Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the and danger to wbich she had been exposed during the sack

most distant. I merely mention generally what is too often ef Colwiek Hall by a party of rioters from Nottingham.

the weakness of preceptors. The wafortunate lady bad been in a feeble state of health

(5) “ Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, created Earl of for several years, and she and her daughter were obliged

Dorset by James J. was one of the earliest and brightest i to take shelter from the violence of the mob in a shrub.

ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who dery, where, partly from cold, partly from terror, her con produced a regular drama."-Anderson's Poets. stitutiog sustained a shock which it wanted vigour to resist. (6) « Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, esteemed the most

accomplished man of his day, was alike distingnished in the la looking over my papers to select a few additional voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William Dorms for this second edition, I found the above lines, which III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a the Dutch in 1665 ; on the day previous to which he com. short time previous to my departure from Harrow. They | posed his celebrated song, To all you ladies now at land.' vere addressed to a young schoolfellow of high rank, who His character has been drawn in the highest colours by af bera my frequent companion in some rambles through | Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreye."-Anderson's Poets.

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.
With him the same dire fate attending Rome,
III-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom :
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of Science lest you, but the name.

July 1805.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign [mine:
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long who love so well.
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes bail'd, as exiles bail their native shore,
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere;
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe,
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice.
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.(1)


GRANTA. A Medley.
“Αργυρίαις λόγχαισι μάχου και πάντα κρατήσαις;"
On! could Le Sage's(5) 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. (6)
Lo! candidates and voters lie (7)

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

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.
Lord H- ,(8) 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.


Where are those honours, Ida! once your own,
When Probus (3) 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 (4) where your Probus sate.

(1) "I have just been, or rather ought to be, very much The reconciliation which took place between him and Dr. shocked by the death of the Duke of Dorset. We were at Butler, before his departure for Greece, in 1909, is (says school together, and there I was passionately attached to Moore)“ one of those instances of placability and pliableness hiin. Since, we bave never met, but once, I think, since with which his life abounded. Not content with this private 1805- and it would be a paltry affectation to pretend that atonement to the Doctor, it was his intention, had he pub. I had any feeling for him worth the name. But there was a lished another edition of the Hours of Ideness, to substitute, time in my life when this event would have broken my heart; for the offensive verses against that gentleman, a frank and all I can say for it now is, ibat-it is not worth breaking. | avowal of the wrong he had been guilty of in giving vent The recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt to them."-L.E. now, but could not, set me pondering, and finally into tbe

(5) The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the train of thought which you have in your hands." - Byron's

demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and Letters, 1815.-(The verses referred to were those melan

unroofs the houses for inspection. choly ones, beginning,

(6) On the death of Mr. Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry "There's not a joy the world can give, like that it takes away."

Petty and Lord Palmerston were candidates to represent the -L, E.

University of Cambridge in Parliament.-L. E. (2) In March, 1805, Dr. Drury retired from his situation of head-master at Harrow, and was sueceeded by Dr. Butler.

G) The fourth and fifth stanzas ran, in the private vo-L. E.

lume, thus:(3) “Dr. Drury, whom I plagued sufficiently, was the best,

“One on his power and place depends, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I ever had; and I look

The other on the Lord knows what! upon him still as a father." -Diary.

Each to some eloquence pretends,

Though neither will convince by that, (6) "At Harrow I was a most unpopular boy, but led latterly, and have retained many of my school friendships, and all my

The first, indeed, may not demur; dislikes-- except to Dr. Butler, whom I treated rebelliously,

Fellows are sage reflecting men," etc.-L. E. and bave been sorry ever since." - Diary.

dward-Harvey Hawke, third Lord Hawke.-L. E.

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