6.

And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I 'm twining-
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

TO LORD THURLOW.

I lay my branch of laurel down,

Then thus to form Apollo's crown

Let every other bring his own.

LORD THURLOW's lines to Mr. Rogers.

1.

I lay my branch of laurel down.

THOU" lay thy branch of laurel down?
Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow;
And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne :
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou-none.

2.

Then thus to form Apollo's crown.

A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,
Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They 'll tell you Phœbus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

3.

Let every other bring his own.

When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,

;

From his spouse when the Regent 's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN COLD

BATH FIELDS PRISON, MAY 19, 1813.*

OH you, who in all names can tickle the town,
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,-

For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,

Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag;

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亭

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*

But now to my letter-to yours 't is an answer

To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,

All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on

(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon

Pray Phoebus at length our political malice

May not get us lodgings within the same palace!

I

suppose that to-night you 're engaged with some codgers,
And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote,
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,
And you 'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. †

*See MOORE's Notices, vol. 1. p. 292.

†The reader who wishes to understand the full force of this scandalous insinuation is referred to Muretus's notes on a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled In Casarem; but consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the favourite Ma

murra:

"Quis hoc potest videre? quis potest pati,

Nisi Impudicus et vorax et helluo?

Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia
Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia ?" &c.-E.

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.

WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink :
My thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,

And droop within their silent cell.

September, 1813.

SONNET, TO GENEVRA.

THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features-caught
From contemplation-where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair-
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That—but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-
I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn-

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.

December 17, 1813.

SONNET, TO THE SAME.

THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but, oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

December 17, 1813.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

"TU MI CHAMAS."

In moments to delight devoted,

"My life!" with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words! on which my heart had doted, If youth could neither fade nor die.

To death even hours like these must roll, Ah! then repeat those accents never ; my soul!

Or change "my life!" into "

Which, like my love, exists for ever.

ANOTHER VERSION..

You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word—
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:

Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my love can never die.

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE.

"Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo
Invenies."

JUVENAL, Sat. x,

"The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues and military talents were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity.

*

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*

*

*

*

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*

By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an emperor and an exile, till—”

GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220.

'T is done but yesterday a king!
And arm'd with kings to strive-
And now thou art a nameless thing

So abject-yet alive!

Is this the man of thousand thrones,

Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones?"

And can he thus survive?

Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star,

Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind,
Who bow'd so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught'st the rest to see.

With might unquestion'd,-power to save—
Thine only gift hath been the grave

To those that worshipp'd thee;
Nor, till thy fall, could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!

Thanks for that lesson-it will teach

To after-warriors more

Than high philosophy can preach
And vainly preach'd before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,

That led them to adore

Those pagod things of sabre-sway,

With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.