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Remember thou that dangerous hour
When neither fell, though both were loved.
That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be blest:
The wilder wish reproved, represt.
Oh! let me feel that all I lost,
But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost
To spare the vain remorse of years.
Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,
And brand a nearly blighted name.
Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : I bless thy purer soul even now,
Even now, in midnight solitude.
Oh, God! that we had met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou had'st loved without a crime,
And I been less unworthy thee!
Far may thy days, as heretofore,
From this our gaudy world be past ! And, that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last!
This heart, alas! perverted long,
Itself destroy'd might there destroy i To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or wo,.
Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath past, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure,
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.
Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine; It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.
LINES, INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.
START not-nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.
I lived, I loved, I quaff?d, like thee;
I died ; let earth my bones resign: Fill up-thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine ;
What nobler substitute than wine!
Quaff while thou canst another race,
When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce ;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER
THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
For them in Sorrow's purest sigh
O’er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
All earth becomes their monument !
A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue.
For them bewail, to them belong.