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For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.
A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not die the death they chose ?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.
But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In wo, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory,
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ?
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.
9, Alas! for them, though not for thee, They cannot choose but
more; Deep for the dead the grief must be,
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
TO A LADY WEEPING.
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah, happy! if each tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away!
Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears
Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !
March, 1812, FROM THE TURKISH.
The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
2. These gifts were charm’d by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
In other hands its notes were such.
Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
5. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mutę: "Tis past-to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
THINE eyes blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features-caught
From contemplation-where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the mornSuch seem'st thou—but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue
Tay cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow : And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but oh!
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG,
When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,