TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. THE man of firm and noble soul Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain. Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile. TO EMMA. SINCE now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover, Since now our dream of bliss is past, One pang, my girl, and all is over. Alas! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part to meet no more; Well! we have pass'd some happy hours, Where from this Gothic casement's height, O'er fields through which we used to run, Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, It dared to give your slumbering eyes : See still the little painted bark, In which I row'd you o'er the lake; These times are past-our joys are gone, Without thee, what will they avail? This is the deepest of our woes, For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close, O God! the fondest, last adieu! TO M. S. G. WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss. Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, For that would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom, Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortured heart Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, TO CAROLINE. THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, In vain our fate in sighs deplore; Remembrance only can remain But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu! Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ; Nor let thy mind past joys reviewOur only hope is to forget! TO CAROLINE. WHEN I hear you express an affection so warm, Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. Yet still this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sere: That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear; That the time must arrive, when no longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, When calling the dead in earth's bosom laid low, Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow; Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight: Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer, Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation; In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL. WHERE are those honours, Ida! once your own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne? As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, Hail'd a barbarian in her Cæsar's place, So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, Pomposus holds you in his harsh control; Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; With noisy nonsense and new-fangled rules, Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause; With him the same dire fate attending Rome, Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom: Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame, No trace of science left you, but the name. 348 FRAGMENT. LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED PISTOLS IN A GARDEN. DOUBTLESS, Sweet girl! the hissing lead, Surely some envious demon's force, Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, Diverted from its first career. Yes! in that nearly fatal hour The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 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; Which but belong'd to thee before. But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject Choose then, relentless! and I swear TO A LADY, LOCK OF THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine, With silly whims and fancies frantic, Or had the bard at Christmas written, Warm nights are proper for reflection; THE CORNELIAN. No specious splendour of this stone And blushes modest as the giver. For I am sure the giver loved me. As fearful that I might refuse it; This pledge attentively I view'd, And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, And ever since I've loved a tear. Still, to adorn his humble youth, Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth Must quit the garden for the field. 'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; The flowers which yield the most of both In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. rove; At first she may frown in a pet; For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, Dissemble your pain and lengthen your chain, If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride, Some other admire, who will melt with your fire For me, I adore some twenty or more, Did they act like your blooming coquette. No longer repine, adopt this design, To fly from the captious coquette. Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend, Should lead you to curse the coquette. TO THE SIGHING STREPIION. YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend, Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, Yet still, I must own, I should never have known Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss My counsel will get but abuse. You say, when "I rove, 1 know nothing of love;" 'Tis true, I am given to range: If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number, Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. I will not advance, by the rules of romance, Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright, Or drive me to dreadful despair. While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform, And if I should shun every woman for one, Now, Strephon, good-bye, I cannot deny TO ELIZA. ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to women deny the soul's future existence! Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, He ne'er would have women from paradise driven; Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, With women alone he had peopled his heaven. Yet still, to increase your calamities more, Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!With souls you'd dispense; but this last who could bear it ? (1) Written by James Montgomery, author of The Wanderer in Switzerland, &c. (2) No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more modern times The patriot's and the poet's frame Must share the common tomb of all: Their glory will not sleep the same; That will arise, though empires fall. The lustre of a beauty's eye Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath. Once more the speaking eye revives, Still beaming through the lover's strain; For Petrarch's Laura still survives: She died, but ne'er will die again. The rolling seasons pass away, And Time, untiring, waves his wing, Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay, But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. The mouldering marble lasts its day, The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain., What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, By those whose virtues claim reward. Then do not say the common lot Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave, Some few who ne'er will be forgot Shall burst the bondage of the grave. the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c., are familiar to every historical reader; but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small pro portion of their admirers. |