Sidor som bilder

Each hopes that one may be his lot. And, therefore, smiles on his proposal.


Now from the soporific scene
I'D turn mine eye, as night grows

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.


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,
To scan precisely metres Attic;

Or agitates his anxious breast,
In solving problems mathematic:


Who reads false quantities in Seale,1
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;

Depriv'd of many a wholesome meal;
In barbarous Latin 1 doom'd to wran-


Renouncing every pleasing page,
From authors of historic use;

Preferring to the letter'd sage,
The square of the hypothenuse.'

1 Scale's publication on Greek Metres disrbjff considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as ■aaffct be expected in so difficult a work, is not mrartable lor accuracy. [An Analysis of the Griet Uetrts; lor the use oj Students at the I'nkvsity of Cambridge. By John Barlow Seale (1764). Svo.l

'The Latin of the schools is of the canine 'pmu. and not very intelligible.

1 The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled triangle.


Still, harmless are these occupations, That hurt none but the hapless student,

Compar'd 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

A numerous crowd array'd in white,1
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 listening 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.

• On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.

Our choir would scarcely lie excus'd
E'en as a band of raw beginners;

All mercy, now, must be refus'd
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

The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,

Were ask'd to sing, by jov forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.


Oh! had they sung in notes like these,

Inspir'd by stratagem or fear, They might have set their hearts at ease,

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 24.

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 tir'd, and so am I.

October 28, 1806. [First printed, December, 1S06.]


Your pardon, my friend,

If my rhymes did offend, Your pardon, a thousand times o'er;

From friendship I strove,

Your pangs to remove, But, I swear, I will do so no more.

Since your beautiful maid,
Your flame has repaid,

No more I your folly regret;
She's now most divine,
And I bow at the shrine,

Of this quickly reformed coquette.

Yet still, I must own,

I should never have known, From your iwrscs, what else she deserv'd;

Your pain seem'd so great,

I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so dev'lish reseiVd.

Since the balm-breathing kiss

Of this magical Miss, Can such wonderful transports product-:

Since the "world you forget,

Wlun your lips once have met," My counsel will get but abuse.

You say, "When I rove,"
"I know nothing of love;"

'Tis true, I am given to range;
If I rightly remember,
I've lov'd a good number;

Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change


I will not advance,

By the rules of romance, To humour a whimsical fair;

Though a smile may delight,

Yet a frown will affright,
Or drive mc to dreadful despair.

While my blood is thus warm,

I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists' school;

Of this I am sure,

Was my Passion so pure, Thy Mistress would think me & fool.


And if I should shun,
Every woman for one,

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These might the boldest Sylph appall, 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 would'st so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now controul, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.1

Friday, November 7, 1806.
[First printed, December, 1806.]


[as The Author Was Discharging His Pistols In A Garden, Two Ladies Passing Near The Spot Were Alarmed By The Sound Of A Bullet Hissing Near Them, To One Of Whom The Following Stanzas Were Addressed The Next Morning.] 2

Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms

And hurtling' o'er thy lovely head,
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.

'"Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres tilt they return."

Shakespeare. 1 [The lady to whom the lines were addressed, is also eommemorated in the verses "To a Vain Lady" and "To Anne." She was the daughter of the Rev. Henry Houson of Southwell, and married the Rev. Luke Jackson. She died on Christmas Day. i8ai, and her monument may be seen in Hucknnll Torkard Church.]

s This word is used by Gny in his poem to the Fatal Sisters: —

"Imn-sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darken'd air."

Surely some envious Demon's force, Vex'd to behold such beauty here,

ImpelPd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour,

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; But Heaven, with interposing power,

In pity turn'd the death aside.


Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;

Which /, th' unconscious cause of fear,
Extracted from its glistening cell; —


Say, what dire penance can atone
For such an outrage, done to thee?

Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,
What punishment wilt thou decree?

Might I perform the Judge's part,
The sentence I should scarce deplore;

It only would restore a heart,

Which but belong'd to thee before.

The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;

Henceforth, I breathe but for thy sake
Thou shalt be all in all to me.


But thou, perhaps, may'St now reject Such expiation of my guilt;

Come then — some other mode elect; Let it be death — or what thou wilt

Choose, then, relentless! and I swear Nought shall thy dread decree pre vent;

Yet hold — one little word forbear! Let it be ought but banishment. [First printed, December, 1806.]



Equal to Jove that youth must be —
Greater than Jove he seems to me —
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely -views thy matchless charms;
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music

To him, alike, are always known,
Reserv'd for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly,
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand

Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,

My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,

My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

[First printed, December, 1806.]



He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of Love,

By Death's unequal1 hand alike controul'd,

Fit comrades in Elysian regions move! [First printed, December, 1806.]

1 The hand 0/ Death is said to be unjust or unenuij. as Virgil was considerably older than Titjolhis at his decease.



Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?

Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercomc the pain,
That I might live for love and you again;
But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By death alone I can avoid your hate.
[First printed, December, 1806.]



Ye cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she lov'd:
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom mov'd:

And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
He chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tun'd to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia's grief 1 mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.

Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her woe,

Receptacle of life's decay.

[First printed, December, 1806.]



On! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:

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