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about them or their nonsense. But if they interfere of their manners from their verses. They may be howith the "little nightingale" of Twickenham, they nourable and gentlemanly men, for what I know; but may find others who will bear it-I won't. Neither the latter quality is studiously excluded from their pubtime, nor distance, nor grief, nor age, can ever dimi- | lications. They remind me of Mr. Smith and the Miss nish my veneration for him, who is the great moral | Broughtons at the Hampstead Assembly, in Evelina. poet of all times, of all climes, of all feelings, and of In these things in private life, at least,) I pretend all stages of existence. The delight of my boyhood, | to some small experience; because, in the course of the study of my manhood, perhaps (if allowed to me my youth, I have seen a little of all sorts of society, to attain it) he may be the consolation of my age. His from the Christian prince and the Mussulman sultan poetry is the Book of Life. Without canting, and and pacha, and the higher ranks of their countries, yet without neglecting religion, he has assembled all down to the London boxer, the “flash and the swell,that a good and great man can gather together of the Spanish muleteer, the wandering Turkish dervise, moral wisdom, clothed in consummate beauty. Sir the Scotch highlander, and the Albanian robber;-to William Temple observes," that of all the members say nothing of the curious varieties of Italian social of mankind that live within the compass of a thousand life. Far be it from me to presume that there ever was, years, for one man that is born capable of making a or can be, such a thing as an aristocracy of poets; but great poet, there may be a thousand born capable of there is a nobility of thought and of style, open to all making as great generals and ministers of state as stations, and derived partly from talent, and partly any in story." Here is a statesman's opinion of from education,-wbich is to be found in Shakspeare, poetry: it is honourable to him and to the art. Such and Pope, and Burns, no less than in Dante and Ala “poet of a thousand years” was Pope. A thousand fieri, but which is nowhere to be perceived in the mock years will roll away before such another can be hoped birds and bards of Mr. Hunt's little chorus. f I for in our literature. But it can want them-he were asked to define what this gentlemanliness is, I himself is a literature.

should say that it is only to be defined by examplesOne word upon his so brutally-abased translation of of those who have it, and those who have it not. In Homer. “Dr. Clarke, whose critical exactness is | life, I should say that most military men have it, and well known, has not been able to point out above three | few naval ;—that several men of rank have it, and few or four mistakes in the sense through the whole Iliad. lawyers ;—that it is more frequent among authors than The real faults of the translation are of a different divines (when they are not pedants); that fencing-maskind.” So says Warton, himself a scholar. It appears ters have more of it than dancing-masters, and singers by this, then, that he avoided the chief fault of a trans than players; and that (if it be not an Irishism to say lator. As to its other faults, they consist in his hav so) it is far more generally diffused among women than ing made a beautiful English poem of a sublime Greeh among men. In poetry, as well as writing in general, one. It will always hold. Cowper, and all the rest it will never make entirely a poet or a poem; but neiof the blank pretenders, may do their best and their ther poet nor poem will ever be good for any thing worst : they will never wrench Pope from the hands without it. It is the salt of society, and the seasoning of a single reader of sense and feeling.

of composition. Vulgarity is far worse than downright The grand distinction of the under forms of the new blackguardism; for the latter comprehends wit, huschool of poets is their vulgarity. By this I do not mour, and strong sense at times; while the former is a mean that they are coarse, but “shabby-genteel," as sad abortive attempt at all things, “signifying nothing." it is termed. A man may be coarse and yet not vul. It does not depend upon low themes, or even low gar, and the reverse. Burns is often coarse, but ne- language, for Fielding revels in both;—but is he ever ver vulgar. Chatterton is never vulgar, nor Words- vulgar? No. You see the man of education, the genworth, nor the higher of the Lake school, though they tleman, and the scholar, sporting with his subject, treat of low life in all its branches. It is in their its master, not its slave. Your vulgar writer is always finery that the new under school are most vulgar, and most vulgar, the higher his subject; as the man who they may be known by this at once; as what we called showed the menagerie at Pidcock's was wont to say,– at Harrow "a Sunday blood” might be easily distin- ' “ This, gentlemen, is the eagle of the sun, from Archanguished from a gentleman, although his clothes might gel, in Russia; the otlerer it is, the igherer he flies." — be the better cut, and his boots the best blackened, of Bat to the proofs. It is a thing to be felt more than the two ;-probably because he made the one, or clean explained. Let any man takeup a volume of Mr. Hunt's ed the other, with his own hands.

subordinate writers, read (if possible) a couple of pages, In the present case, I speak of writing, not of per and pronounce for himself, if they contain not the kind sons. Of the latter, I know nothing; of the former, I of writing which may be likened to “shabby-genteel" judge as it is found. Of my friend Hant, I have al- | in actual life. When he has done this, let him take up ready said, that he is any thing but vulgar in his map- | Pope;—and when he has laid him down, take up the ners; and of his disciples, therefore, I will not judge cockney again-if he can.

Miscellaneous Poems.

ON AN OLD LADY.(1) In Nottingham county there lives, at Swan Green, As curst an old lady as ever was seen; And when she does die, which I hope will be soon, She firmly believes she will go to the moon!

THE ADIEU.
WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR

WOULD SOON DIE.
Adieu, thou Hill!(2) where early joy

Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy

With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or woes,
Partners of former bliss or foes,

No more through Ida's paths we stray;
Soon must I share the gloomy cell,
Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell

Unconscious of the day.
Adieu, ye hoary regal fanes,

Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning, robed in sable, reigns,

And Melancholy pale.
Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,

On Cama's verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,

These scenes must be effaced.
Adieu, ye mountains of the clime

Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch-na-Garr in snows sublime

His giant summit rears.
Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,

With sons of pride to roam ? *
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,

To seek a Southeron home?
Hall of my Sires! a long farewell -

Yet why to thee adieu ?
Thy vaults will echo back my knell,

Thy towers my tomb will view:
The faltering tongue which sung thy fall,
And former glories of thy Hall, (3)

Forgets its wonted simple note
But yet the lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,

In dying strains may float.

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,

While yet I linger here, Adieu! you are not now forgot,

To retrospection dear. Streamlet!(4) along whose rippling surge, My youthful limbs were wont to urge,

At noontide heat, their pliant course;
Plunging with ardour from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,

Deprived of active force.
And shall I here forget the scene,

Still nearest to my breast?
Rocks rise, and rivers roll between

The spot which passion blest;
Yet, Mary,(5) all thy beauties seem
Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream,

To me in smiles display'd:
Till slow Disease resigns his prey
To Death, the parent of decay,

Thine image cannot fade.
And thou, my Friend !(6) whose gentle love

Yet thrills my bosom's chords, How much thy friendship was above

Description's power of words!
Still near my breast thy gift I wear,
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,

Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;

Let Pride alone condemn!
Au, all, is dark and cheerless now!

No smile of Love's deceit
Can warm my veins with wonted glow,

Can bid Life's pulses beat:
Not e'en the hope of future fame
Can wake my faint exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head.
Mine is a short inglorious race,-
To humble in the dust my face,

And mingle with the dead.
Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;

On him who gains thy praise
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,

Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,

My life a short and vulgar dream:
Lost in the dull ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,

My fate is Lethe's stream.

(1) These lines are said to have been written by Byron at ten years of age, and, as such, are not a little remarkable, as exhibiting his early talent for rhyming. The subject of them, an old dame, who, while on a visit to his mother, had drawn forth the satirical powers of the infantine poet by some expression that very much affronted him, entertained some curious notions respecting the soul, which, she imagined, took its flight to the moon after death.-P.E.

(2) Harrow.-L. E.
(3) See antè, pp. 3, 28.-P.E.
(1) The river Grete, at Southwell.-L. E.
(5) Mary Duff. See antė, p. 43, note.-P.E.

(6) Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. See ande, for -P. E.

For she who takes a soft delight

These amorous nothings in revealing, Must credit all we say or write,

While vanity prevents concealing. Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign!

No jealousy bids me reprove: One, who is thus from nature vain, I pity, but I cannot love.

January 15, 1807. (Now first published.)

When I repose beneath the sod,

Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,

Where now my head must lay;
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,

By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep

Which hides a name unknown.
Forget this world, my restless sprite,

Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven :
There must thou soon direct thy flight,

If errors are forgiven.
To bigots and to sects unknown,
Bow down beneath the Almighty's throne;

To Him address thy trembling prayer:
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,

Although his meanest care.
Father of Light! to Tbee I call,

My soul is dark within:
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,

Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die.

1807. (Now first published.)

TO ANNE. Or, Anne! your offences to me have been grievous;

I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you ; But woman is made to command and deceive us

I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,

Yet thought that a day's separation was long : When we met, I determined again to suspect you—

Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. I swore, in a transport of young indignation,

With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you: I saw you—my anger became admiration;

And now, all my wish, all my hope,’s to regain you. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention!

Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you;— At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!

January 16, 1807. (Now first published.]

TO A VAIN LADY.
An, heedless girl! why thus disclose

What ne'er was meant for other ears? Why thus destroy thine own repose,

And dig the source of future tears ? Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid !

While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou bast said

Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl! thy lingering woes are nigh,

If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly,

Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey ! Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,

The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,

If thou canst venture to believe. While now amongst thy female peers

Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sucers

Duplicity in vain would veil? These tales in secret silence hush,

Nor make thyself the public gaze: What modest maid without a blush

Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? Will not the laughing boy despise

Her who relates each fond conceitWho, thinking heaven is in her eyes,

Yet cannot see the slight deceit?

TO THE SAME. Oa say not, sweet Anne! that the Fates have decreed

The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,

To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. Your frowns, lovely girl! are the Fates which alone

Could bid me from fond admiration refrain; By these every hope, every wish, were o'erthrown,

Till smiles should restore me to rapture again. As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,

The rage of the tempest united must weather, My love and my life were by nature design'd

To flourish alike, or to perish together. Then say not, sweet Anne! that the Fates have de

Your lover'should bid you a lasting adieu; [creed Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you.

1807. (Now first published.]

TO THE
AUTHOR OF A SONNET, BEGINNING
« «Sad is my verse, you say, and yet no tear.
Tay verse is “sad” enough, no doubt :

A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,

Unless for thee we weep in pity.
Yet there is one I pity more;

And much, alas ! I think he needs it:
For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore

Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? May once be read--but never after :

Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Yet their effect's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to lore!

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! But would you make our bosoms bleed, But how can my numbers in sympathy move, And of no common pang complain

When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.

Can I sing of the deeds which my fathers have done, March 8, 1807. (Now first published.]

And raise my loud harp to the fame of my sires ? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!

For heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! ON FINDING A FAN.

Untouch'd, then, my lyre shall reply to the blastIn one who felt as once he felt,

'Tis hush’d; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, But now bis heart no more will melt,

When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate se Because that heart is not the same.

more. As when the ebbing flames are low,

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, The aid which once improved their light,

Since early affection and love is o'ercast: And bade them burn with fiercer glow,

Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, Now quenches all their blaze in night:

Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last Thus has it been with passion's fires-

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er med; As many a boy and girl remembers

If our songs have been languid, they surely are fr#: While every hope of love expires,

Let us hope that the present at least will be swert! Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

The present—which seals our eternal Adieu. The first, though not a spark survive,

1807. (Now first pablished Some careful hand may teach to burn; The last, alas! can ne'er survive; No touch can bid its warmth return.

TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.(1) Or, if it chance to wake again,

Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the group!! Not always doom'd its heat to smother,

I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)

That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around Its former warmth around another.

And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 1807. (Now first published.)

Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's year,

On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with parede: FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears Thou Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days,

Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hade. Young offspring of Fancy!'t is time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,

I left thee, my Oak! and, since that fatal bour, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart

1
,

A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;

| Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,

But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gendy

| But thou wert not fated affection to share Though simple the themes of my rude-flowing lyre,

local

For who could suppose that a stranger would het Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, | Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a wbile; My visions are flown, to return,-alas, never!

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl. | The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, How vain is the effort delight to prolong!

When Infancy's years of probation are done. When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Oh! live then, my Oak! tower aloft from the weeds

That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decas, Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,

Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? And still may thy branches their beauty display.

improper place

(1) Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper pl planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy that, -"I hope not, sir," replied the man; "for it's as the tree fionrisbed, so should he. On revisiting the abbey, that my Lord was so fond of, because he set it during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, be found The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed hence I It is already inquired after, by strangers, as "T these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present Oax," and promises to share, in after-times, the ce proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.la E to the servant wbo was with him, "Here is a fine young oak;

Se he set it himseil." every possible care of it strangers, as "THE B12

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,

Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine,

Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.
For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave

O'er the corse of thy lord, in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,

The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,

He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.
And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,

Perhaps he has pour’d forth his young simple lay,
And here must he sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

1807. (Now first published.)

ON REVISITING HARROW.(1) Here once engaged the stranger's view

Young Friendship’s record, simply traced; Few were her words,- but yet, though few,

Resentment's hand the line defaced.
Deeply she cnt—but not erased-

The characters were still so plain,
That Friendship once return'd, and gazed, -

Till Memory hail'd the words again.
Repentance placed them as before;

Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;
So fair the inscription seem'd once more,

That Friendship thought it still the same.
Thus might the Record now have been;

But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour,
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between,
And blotted out the line for ever!

September, 1807.

EPITAPH
ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL,

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS.
Joan Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well:
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more—so was carried at last;
For the liquor he drank, being too much for one,
He could not carry off, --so he's now carri-on.

September, 1807.

TO MY SON. (2)
Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the beart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!
And thou canst lisp a father's name-
Ah, William! were thine own the same,
No self-reproach- But, let me cease-
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!
Her lowly grave the turf has press'd,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast :
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!
Why, lest the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claim disown?
Ah, no—though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of love,
Fair cherub! pledge of youth and joy-
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
Oh,'t will be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!
Although so young thy beedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!

1807.

FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer

For others' weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,

Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

1) Some years ago, wben at Harrow, a friend of the mother from Harrow, to say that he had lately had a good author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, deal of uneasiness on account of a young woman, whom he with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, I knew to have been a favourite of his late friend Curzon, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author de. and who, finding herself after his death in a state of pro. stroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting gress towards maternity, had declared Lord Byron was the the place in 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas.

father of her child. This, he positively assured his mother, (2) “Fond as he was," says Moore, "of recording every | was not the case, but believing, as he did firmly, that the particular of his youth, such an event, or rather era, as is child belonged to Curzon, it was his wish that it should be here commemorated would have been, of all others, the brought up with all possible care, and he therefore en. least likely to pass unmentioned by him; and yet, neither treated that his mother would have the kindness to take in conversation nor in any of his writings, do I remember charge of it. Though such a request might well bave diseven an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was composed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she, not. all that he wrote (making allowance for the embellishments withstanding, answered her son in the kindest terms, saying of fancy) the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that that she would willingly receive the child as soon as it was it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tender. born, and bring it up in whatever manner he desired. ness, to have been indebted for its origin to imagination Happily, however, the child died in its infancy, and was thus

lone. The only circumstance I know that bears even re. | spared the being a tar on the good-nature of any body." motely on the subject of this poem, is the following. About We find, however, some allusion to this circumstance in a year or two before the date affixed to it, he wrote to his Don Juan, Canto XVI. Stanza 61.-P. E.

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