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To death even hours like these must roll,
Ali! then repeat those accents dever; Or change « my life !» into « my soul!»
Which, like my love, exists for ever.
say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapours move, To flit along from dame to dame,
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ?
Will deign to own a kindred care?
share? In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen; No more so idly pass along :
Be something, any thing, bui-mean.
IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. When from the heart where Sorrow sils,
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 kuow too well; Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.
SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANR THEATRE
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812,
Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
Warmly, as it was wont to do,
Some pangs to view bis happier lot:
heart Would hate liim, if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss d it, for its mother's sake.
Its father in its face to see ;
And they were all to love and me.
While thou art blest I 'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay;
My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at Jength my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all, save hope, the same. Yet was I calm : I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime
We met, and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there : One only feeling couldst thou trace-
The sullen calmness of despair. Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake : Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolisha beart, be still, or break.
In one dread night our city saw, and sighd, Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride : In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. Ye who beheld, (ola! sight admired and mourn'd, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Through clouds of fire, the massy fragments riven, Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven, Saw the long columu of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, While thousands, throny'd around the burning dome, Shrank back appalld, and trembled for their home, Las clared the volumed blaze, and ghasily shone The skies with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening asties and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd ber fall; Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Reard where once rose the mightiest in our isle, know the same favour which the former kuew, A shrinc for Shakspeare-worthy him and you? Yes-it shall be : the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame, On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been : This fabric's birth attests the potent spellIndulge our honest pride, and say, low well! As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; llere last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adicu: But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander's head! Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!
FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 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.
Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
That beam bath supk; and now thou art
A blank-a thing to count and curse
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
The limit of thy slotlı or speed,
Which we shall sleep too sound to beed: And I can sinile to think how weak
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak
Must fall upon-a nameless stone!
Friends of the stage! to whom both players and plays
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.
AN! Love was never yel without
agony, the doubt,
This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obrvil,
TIME! ou whose arbitrary wing
The varying liours must llg or fly,
Putdrag or drive us on to die-
Those boons to all that know thee known; You better I sustain thy load,
For now I bear the weight alone.
The bitter moments thon base given; And pardon thee, since thou couldst sparse,
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. To them br joy or rest, on me
Tly furre ills shall press in vain ; I nothing owe bul years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain. Yeteen that pain was some relief,
It felt, but still forgot the power : The active agony of yrief
Retards, but never count the hour. In joy I've sighid to think they thihat
Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light,
But could not add a night to Wor; For then, however drear and Jark,
Hly soul was uited to thiy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To
prove thap noi Eternity.
Birds, you in freedom, shun the net, Wheel Love around your haunts hath set; Or, circled by bis fatal fire, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. I birid of free and careless wing Wasi, trough many a smiling spriog; But caught within the subtle snare, I burn, and feebly flutter there. Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, Can neither feel vor pity pain ; The cold ropuise, the look a kance, The lizhening of love's angry glance. In tuntering; dreams I deem'd thee mine; Now liope, and be who hoped, decline; Like mchuing wax, or withering flower, I feel my passion, aud thy power. My light of life! izh, tell me why That pouting lip, and alter'd eye? My bird of love! my beauteous mate! Aud art thou changed, and canst thou hate! Wine oyes like wintry streams o'erllow : What wretch with me would barter woe My bird relent: one note could give
charm, to bid ihly lover Ine. My cuiding blood, my inaddeving brain. in silent indul sustain! And will they heart, without partaking parla,
exulis-while mine is breaking. l'our mi
the poison; fear not thou!
Quaff while thou canst-nother race,
When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earthi's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce ; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use.
Newstead Abbey, 1808.
FROM THE TURKISH. The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lule ladded sweet in sound, The leart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fale it found. These gifts were charm'd by sceret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine. That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch; Thücute was sweet-till thou couldst think
In oulier hands its notes were such. Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter d too ;
The chain is broke, the music mute : "T is past-to them and thee adieu
False lieart, frail chain, and sileni lute.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART.
THERE is a tear for all that dic,
() er ocean's heaving bosom sent:
All earth becomes their monument !
An epitaplı ou every tongue;
present hours, the future age,
Grows hush'd, their name the only sound;
The goblet's tributary round.
Lamented by adiniring foes,
Who would not die the death they chose ?
Thy life, thy fall, thy famne shall be;
A model in ily memory.
In woe, that glory cannot quell;
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
Whoo cerse to bear thy cherishid name?
While griefs full heart is fed by fame.
They cannot chuse but weep the more;
Who neer gave cause to mourn before.
Tuine eyes' blue tenderness, ily long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features-caught
From contemplation--where serenely wrought, Seems sorrow's softness charmd from its despairllave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraucht
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI should have deend thee doomd to earthly care. With such an inspect, by his colours blent,
Wheu froin his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou luzst nothing to repent)
The Mag lalen of Guido saw the mornSuch secus thou-but how much more excellent!
With noughe remorse can claim-nor virtue scoro.
Tey check is pels 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 awiry that rmer glow:And dazzle noi thy deep-blue eyes—but oh!
While pazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
An into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through they long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of mcuncholy gentleness
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
I worslup more, but cannot love thee less.
TO A LADY WEEPING.
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ali, happy! if cacli tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away! Worp--for thy tears are virtuc's tears
Anpirions to these suffering isles; And be cucli drop, in future years, Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !