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Had Fortune aided Nature's care,
For once forgetting to be blind, His would have been an ample share,
If well proportioned to his mind. But had the goddess clearly seen,
His form had fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been,
And none remain’d to give the rest.
REPLY TO SOME VERSES
With silly wliims and fancies frantic,
OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF
Why thus in despair do you fret ?
Will never obtain a coquette.
rove; At first she may frown in a pet; But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,
And then you may kiss your coquette.
They think all our homage a debt :
And humbles the proudest coquette.
And seem her hauteur to regret;
That yours is the rosy coquette.
This whimsical virgin forget;
And laugh at the little coquette.
And love them most dearly; but yet, Though my heart they entbral, I'd abandon them
all, Did they act like your blooming coquette. No longer repine, adopt this design,
And break through hier slight-woven net ;
To fly from the captious coquette.
Ere quite with her snares you're beset :
Endears it to my memory ever ;
And blushes modest as the giver.
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.
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 inore I your folly regret; She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine
Of this quickly reformed coquette.
His religion to please neither party is made,
On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, “Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the
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 niet,” 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;
Thy mistress would think me a fool.
And if I should shun every woman for one,
Whose image must fill my whole breastWhom I must prefer, and sigh but for her
What an insult 'twould be to the rest !
ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,
ENTITLED THE COMMON LOT.” 1 MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave. “Unknown the region of his birth,"
The hero rolls the tide of war;2 Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar. His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame Yet nations now unborn will know
The record of his deathless name. 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 Petrarchi's Laura still survives :
She died, but ne'er will die again. The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves bis 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.
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.
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
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 bad 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 ic ?
(1) Written by James Montgomery, author of The Wanderer in the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Switzerland, &c.
Charles of Sweden, &c., are familiar to every historical reader; (2) No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proNemours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more modern times portion of their adınirers.
Their lives did not end when they yielded their
breath; ADDRESSED TO THE REV, J. T. BECHER, ON HIS
Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. ADVISING THE AUTUOR TO MIX MORE WITH
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? I cannot deny such a precept is wise ;
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her
rules ? But retirement accords with the tone of
mind : I will not descend to a world I despise.
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ?
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools ? Did the senate or camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth ; I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love; When infancy's years of probation expire,
In friendship I early was taught to believe; Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. My passion the matrons of prudence reprove;
I have found that a friend may profess, yet The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd,
To me what is wealth P-it may pass in an hour,
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown; Oh! thus the desire in my bosom for fame, To me what is title ?--the phantom of power ;
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise. To me what is fashion ?-I seek but renown.
Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul:
Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ?
FROM 1807 TO 1816.
ON REVISITING HARROW.
For the liquor he drank, being too much for one,
He could not carry off, --so he's now carri-on. HERE once engaged the stranger's view
Young Friendship's record simply traced ; Few were her words, but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defaced.
VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE
WHEN Dryden's fool,1 “unknowing what he That friendship once return’d, and gazed
sought,". Till Memory hail'd the words again.
His hours in whistling spent, "for want of thought,” Repentance placed them as before,
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence.
Did modern swains, possessed of Cymon's powers, So fair the inscription seem'd once more,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, That Friendship thought it still the same.
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see Thus might the record now have been;
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Like noxious reptiles o’er the whiten'd wall,
STANZAS FOR MUSIC. A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the
I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name; A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well :
fame : He carried so much, and he carried so fast, He could carry no more-so was carried at last;
(1) See Dryden's “ Cymon and Iphigenia."
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may 'Tis heaven-not man-must charm away the woe, impart
Which bursts when nature's feelings newly flow, The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear heart.
Of half its bitterness, for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.
Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ;
Behold! while yet before thee burn And man shall not break it—whatever thou may'st.
The graven words, the glowing wall.
Many a despot men miscall And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
Crown'd and anointed from on high ; This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be ;
But thou, the weakest, worst of all And our days seem as swift, and our moments
Is it not written, thou must die ? more sweet, With thee by my side, than with worlds at my feet. Go! dash the roses from thy brow
Grey hairs but poorly wreath with them : One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
More than thy very diadem, And the heartless may wonder at all I resign
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem :Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.
Then throw the worthless bauble by, Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn;
And learn like better men to die !
Ob ! early in the balance weigh’d,
And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee inoves the scorner's mirth :
But tears in Hope's averted ege
Lament that ever thou hadst birth-
Unfit to govern, live, or die.
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,
Into the number of the nameless tides.
What is this Death ?-a quiet of the heart ?
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread
With sad remembrances our hours of rest.
The absent are the dead-for they are cold, The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
And ne'er can be what once we did behoid; The bleeding phantom of each martial form, And they are changed, and cheerless,-or if yet Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm; The unforgotten do not all forget, While sad she chants the solitary song,
Since thus divided-equal must it be The soft lament for him who tarries long
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
It may be both—but one day end it must, The cronach's wild requiem to the brave !
In the dark union of insensate dust.
The under-carth inhabitants—are they
“Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know
Woe is me, Alhama !
Woe is me, Albama!
Woe is me, Alhama !
Woe is me, Alhama ! “He who holds no laws in awe, He must perish by the law; And Granada must be won, And thyself with her undone.”
Woe is me, Alhama ! Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes, The monarch's wrath began to rise, Because he answered, and because He spake exceeding well of laws.
Woe is me, Alhama ! “There is no law to say such things As may disgust the ear of kings : Thus, snorting with his choler, said The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead.
Woe is me, Alhama ! Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui! Though thy beard so hoary be, The King hath sent to have thee seized, For Alhama's loss displeased.
Woe is me, Alhama ! And to fix thy head upon High Alhambra's loftiest stone; That this for thee should be the law, And others tremble when they saw.
Woe is me, Alhama “ Cavalier, and man of worth, Let these words of mine
forth! Let the Moorish Monarch know, That to him I nothing owe.
Woe is me, Alhama ! “But on my soul Alhama weighs, And on my inmost spirit preys; And if the King his land hath lost, Yet others may have lost the most.
Woe is me, Alhama “Sires have lost their children, wives Their lords, and valiant men their lives ; One what best his love might claim Hath lost, another wealth, or faine.
A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD
Woe is me, Alhama !
Woe is me, Alhama !
Woe is me, Alhama !
Woe is me, Albama!
Woe is me, Alhama !
Woe is me, Alliana!
Woe is me,
Woe is me,