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THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse. (1

(1) [At Orchomenus, where stood the Temple of the Graces, I w tempted to exclaim, 'Whither have the Graces fled?' Little did I expect find them here; yet here comes one of them with golden cups and coffee, a another with a book. The book is a register of names, some of which a far sounded by the voice of fame. Among them is Lord Byron's, co nected with some lines which I here send you.-H. W. WILLIAMS.]

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Malta, May 16. 1811

September 14. 1811. (

(1) [Some notice of this poetaster has been given, antè, Vol. VII. p. 26 He died in 1810, and his works have followed him.-E.]

(2) [The farce in question was called "M. P.; or, the Blue Stocking and came out at the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September.-E.]

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, (1)

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE."

"OH! banish care -such ever be

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The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care.”
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought—but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of any thing but love.

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'T would suit philosophy to tell.

(1) [i. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See Vol. VII. p. 305.-E.]

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Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,

And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave ;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,

The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress

Time had not made me love the less. (1)

But let this pass-I'll whine no more,

Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain, -

I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,

When Britain's "May is in the sere,"

Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crime

Suit with the sablest of the times,

Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise,
One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside,

(1) [These lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while un the pressure of recent sorrow, the poet reverted to the disappointmen his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and er present and to come. — MOORE.]

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