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TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.

THE man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,

Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain.

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd.
He would unmoved, unawed behold
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crushing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile.

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;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;

Where from this Gothic casement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell;
And still, though tears obstruct the sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,

O'er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play ;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forget to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the hiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes :

See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waving o'er the park,
The elm I clamber'd for your sake.

These times are past-our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes I must retrace alone:

Without thee, what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace,
When, torn from all you fondly loved,
You bid a long adieu to peace?

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,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet is the daring wish represt;

For that would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet I conceal my love-and why?

I would not force a painful tear.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree:
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.
Then let the secret fire consume,

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
By driving dove-eyed peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save-
I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair,
And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare
All, all reproach-but thy disgrace.
At least from guilt shalt thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove :
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shalt thou be to love.

TO CAROLINE.

THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears, implore to stay,
And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own.

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,

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Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

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.

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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,

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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.

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LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED
HIS
WHILE DISCHARGING
BY
AUTHOR
THE

PISTOLS IN A GARDEN.

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.

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;
But Heaven, with interposing power,
In pity turn'd the death aside.

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear
Upon that thrilling bosom fell;
Which I, 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 prevent;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.

TO A LADY,

LOCK OF
AUTHOR A
TO THE
WHO PRESENTED
HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED
A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE
GARDEN.

THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,

With silly whims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish ;
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half-frozen;
In leafless shades to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden ?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
Since Shakspeare set the precedent,
Since Juliet first declared her passion,
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;

Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain,
He surely, in commiseration,
Had changed the place of declaration.
In Italy I've no objection:

Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation;
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves
That ever witnessed rural loves;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after.

THE CORNELIAN.

No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have for my weakness oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure the giver loved me.
He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it;
I told him when the gift I took,
My only fear should be to lose 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.

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rove;

At first she may frown in a pet;
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,
And then you may kiss your coquette.

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt :
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.

Dissemble your pain and lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret;

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny
That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;

Some other admire, who will melt with your fire
And laugh at the little coquette.

For me, I adore some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them
all,

Did they act like your blooming coquette.

No longer repine, adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear

To fly from the captious coquette.

Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset:
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by
the smart,

Should lead you to curse the coquette.

TO THE SIGHING STREPIION.

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 verses what else she deserved;
Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so devilish reserved.

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss
Can such wonderful transports produce;
Since the "world you forget, when your lips once
have met,

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,
To humour a whimsical fair;

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,
To mix in the Platonist's school;
Of this I'm sure, was my passion so pure,
Thy mistress would think me a fool.

And if I should shun every woman for one,
Whose image must fill my whole breast-
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her-
What an insult 'twould be to the rest!

Now, Strephon, good-bye, I cannot deny
Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,
For it only consists in the word.

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

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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.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length a useless fane;
To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.,

What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'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.

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