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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.


With silly wliims 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.


Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,

Why thus in despair do you fret ?
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh

Will never obtain a coquette.
Would you teach her to love ? For a time seem to

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 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 ;
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.

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.

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;
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 breastWhom I must prefer, and sigh but for her

What an insult 'twould be to the rest !


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.

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


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


Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. ADVISING THE AUTUOR TO MIX MORE WITH

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;

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,

Still mantles unseen in its secret recess :
At length in a volume terrific reveal’d,
No torrent can quench it, no bonds can repress.

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.
Could I soar with the phenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul:
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, I still am unpractised to varnish the truth :
What censure, what danger, what woe would I Then why should I live in a hateful control?
brave !

Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ?

Occasional pieces.

FROM 1807 TO 1816.


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.


Deeply she cut-but not erased,
The characters were still so plain,

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
Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;

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.
But, ah! in spite of Hope's endeavour, Severe the fate of modern fools, alas !
Or Friendship’s tears, Pride rush'd between, When vice and folly mark them as they pass,
And blotted out the line for ever.

Like noxious reptiles o’er the whiten'd wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they


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
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, A thornless pillow for the widow's head;
Were those hours—can their joy or their bitterness May lighten well her heart's maternal care,

And wean from penury the soldier's heir.
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our
We will part, we will fly to-unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn,
Forgive me, adored one !--forsake if thou wilt ;

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ;
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,

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
Wuo hath not glow'd above the page where fame

Lament that ever thou hadst birth-
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name;
The mountain land which spurn'd the Roman chain,

Unfit to govern, live, or die.
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane;
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No foe could tame-no tyrant could command !

That race is gone—but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : Could I remount the river of my years,
O’er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, To the first fountain of our smiles and tears,
And, England! add their stubborn strength to I would not trace again the stream of hours

Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, But bid it flow as now—until it glides
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee!

Into the number of the nameless tides.
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support—the world hath given him fame!

What is this Death ?-a quiet of the heart ?
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled, The whole of that of which we are a part ?
Wbile cheerly following where the mighty led- For life is but a vision-what I see
Who sleep beneath the undistinguished sod, Of all that lives alone is life to me;
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, And being so—the absent are the dead,
To us bequeath—'tis all their fate allows-

Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse : A dreary shroud around us, and invest
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise

With sad remembrances our hours of rest.
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze ;
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose,

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
But mingled millions decomposed to clay?
The ashes of a thousand ages spread
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ?
Or do they in their silent cities dwell
Each in his incommunicative cell ?
Or have they their own language ? and a sense
Of breathless being ?-darken'd and intense
As midnight in her solitude ?-0 Earth!
Where are the past ?--and wherefore had they

The dead are thine inheritors—and we
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key
Of thy profundity is in the grave,
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold
Our elements resolved to things untold,
And fathom-hidden wonders, and explore
The essence of great bosoms now no more.

“Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know
Of a most disastrous blow;
That the Christians, stern and bold,
Have obtain'd Alhama's hold."

Woe is me, Alhama !
Out then spake old Alfaqui,
With bis beard so white to see :
“Good King ! thou art justly served,
Good King ! this thou hast deserved.

Woe is me, Albama!
"By thee were slain, in evil hour,
The Abencerrage, Granada's flower;
And strangers were received by thee
Of Cordova the Chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama !
“And for this, O King! is sent
On thee a double chastisement:
Thee and thine, thy crown and realm,
One last wreck shall overwhelm.

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.

Alhama !

Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following

The Moorish King rides up and down
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gates to those
Of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is me, Alhama !
Letters to the nonarch tell
How Alhama's city fell;
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger he slew.

Woe is me, Alhama !
He quits his inule, and mounts his horse,
And through the streets directs his course ;
Through the street of Zacatin
To the Alhambra spurring in

Alhama !
When the Alhambra's walls he gain'd,
On the moment he ordain'd
That the trumpet straight should sound
With the silver clarion round.

Woe is me, Alhama !
And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,
That the Moors of town and plain
Might answer to the martial strain.

Woe is me, Albama!
Then the Moors, by this aware
That bloody Mars recall’d them there,
One by one, and two by two,
To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama !
Out then spake an aged Moor
In these words the King before,
“Wberefore call on us, o King ?
What may mean this gathering ?”

Woe is me, Alliana!

Woe is me,

Woe is me,

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