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Like showers which on the midnight gust will | But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, pass,

Follow'd, his veins no longer cold, but heated: Sounding like very supernatural water, Resolved to thrust the mystery,carte and tierce, Came over Juan's ear, which throbb’d, alas ! At whatsoever risk of being defeated :

For immaterialism's a serious matter; The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired until So that even those whose faith is the most great He reach'd the ancient wall, then stood stone In souls immortal, shun them tête-à-tête.

still, CXV.

сxx. Were his eyes open ?-Yes! and his mouth too. Juan put forth one arm-Eternal Powers !

Surprise has this effect-to make one dumb, It touched no soul nor body, but the wall, Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers through

Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall. As wide as if a long speech were to come.

He shudder'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers, Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew,

When he can't tell what 'tis that doth appal. Tremendous to a mortal tympanum:

How odd, a single hobgoblin's nonentity His eyes were open, and (as was before

Should cause more fear than a whole host's Stated) his mouth. What opened next?-the


It opened with a most infernal creak,

But still the shade remain'd: the blue eyes Like that of hell. Lasciate ogni speranza

glared, Voi che entrate !The hinge seem'd to speak, And rather variably for stony death:

Dreadful as Dante's rima, or this stanza ; Yetonething rathergood the grave had spared-. Or-but all words upon such themes are weak : The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.

A single shade's sufficient to entrance a A straggling curl show'd he had been fair hair'd: Hero-for what is substance to a spirit ?

A red lip, with two rows of pearls beneath, Or how is't matter trembles to come near it? Gleam'd forth as through the casement's ivy

shroud CXVII. The door flew wide, not swiftly-hut as fly

The moon peep'd, just escaped from a grey The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober Alight

cloud. And then swung back; nor close—but stood

CXXII. awry,

And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thrust Half letting in long shadows on the light, His other arm forth-Wonder upon wonder ! Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd high, It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, For he had two both tolerably bright;

Which beat asif there was a warm heart under. And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood He found, as people on most trials must, The sable Friar, in his solemn hood.

That he had made at first a silly blunder, CXVIII.

And that, in his confusion, he had caught Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken Only the wall, instead of what he sought.

The night before ; but, being sick of shaking, He first inclined to think he had been mistaken,

And then to be ashamed of such mistaking: The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweet soul,
His own internal ghost began to awaken As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood :

Within him, and to quell his corporal quaking: A dimples chin, a neck of ivory, stole
Hinting that soul and body, on the whole, Forth into something much like flesh and
Were odds against a disembodied soul.

blood :

Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath And they reveald (alas, that e'er they should !) fierce ;

In full, voluptuous, but not o'ergrown bulk, And he arose, advanced-the shade retreated; | The phantom of her frolic Grace- Fitz-Fulke!



[WRITTEN FROM 1802 TO 1807.–First PUBLISHED IN 1807.)
Virginibus puerisque canto."-HORACE, lib. iii. Ode 1.
Μήτ' άρ με μάλ' αΐνεε, μήτε τι νείκει.”-HOMER, Iliad, x. 249.
“He whistled as he went, for want of thought.”—DRYDEN.

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PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. In submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the difficul. ties that writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed.

These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is perhaps unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depression of spirits : under the former influence, “Childish RECOLLECTIONS," in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated: yet," to do greatly,” we must “dare greatly ;” and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. “I have passed the Rubicon,” and must stand or fall by the “cast of the die. In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur ; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little ; for, in the words of Cowper, “it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no connection, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can.” To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe : on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed ; their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favour which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability.

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation : some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation ; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me "to this sin :" little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive

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from these productions ; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustoined, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not of late years had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions : while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others “virum volitare per ora." I look to the few who will hear with patience dulce est desipere in loco." To the former worthies I resign, without repining, the hype of immortality, and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst “the mob of gentlemen who write"-my readers must determine whether I dare say “with ease”-or the honour of a posthumous page in The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors,-a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers.

With slight hopes, and soine fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age, the contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the pi blic; nor, even in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to comm.:. ture trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine, * " that when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed,” can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical censors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,+ And though unequal is thy fate,.

Since title deck'd my higher birth, COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO

Yet envy, not this gaudy state ;

Thine is the pride of modest worth. Hush's are the winds, and still the evening

Our souls at least congenial meet, gloom,

Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,

Our intercourse is not less sweet, Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,

Since worth of rank supplies the place.
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay where once such animation beam'd;
The King of Terrors seized her as his

In thee I fondly hoped to clasp

prey : Not worth, nor beauty, have her life re

A friend, whom death alone could sever; deem'd.

Till envy, with malignant grasp,

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! True, she has forced thee from my breast, Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat; Not here the muse her virtues would relate. There, there thine image still must rest,

Until that heart shall cease to beat.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;

And when the grave restores her dead,
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

When life again to dust is given, Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.

On thy dear breast I'll lay my head

Without thee, where would be my heaven? And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven ar

raign, And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ;- Αστήρ πρίν μεν έλαμπες ενί ζωοίσιν έφος. I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

LAERTIUS. Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

On Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face: What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,

bier ! Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,

Whils thou wast struggling in the pangs of TO E

death! LET Folly smile, to view the names

Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; Of thee and me in friendship twined ; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ; Yet Virtue will have greater claims

Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, To love, than rank with vice combined.

Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;

Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, * The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have | Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. long received the meed of public applause, to If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh which by their intrinsic worth they were well The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, entitled

Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, † Admiral Parker's daughter.

A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.

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No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors conBut living statues there are seen to weep;

tending, Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.

bleak field; What though thy sire lament his failing line, For the rights of a monarch their country deA father's sorrows cannot equal mine!

fending, Though none, like thee, his dying hour will Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. cheer,

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:

departing But who with me shall hold thy former place ? From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Thine image, what new friendship can efface?

Abroad, or at home, your remembrance impartAh! none !-a father's tears will cease to flow,

ing Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ;

New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary friendship sighs alone.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. A FRAGMENT.

That fame and that memory still will he cherish; When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice :

renown: When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, Like you will he live, or like you will he perish: Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns

your own. To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumbered stone ;

LINES My epitaph shall be my name alone :



ETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN If that with honour fail to crown my clay,

AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN: BY J. J. Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay

That, only that, shall single out the spot ;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

* Away, away, your flattering arts
May now betray some simpler hearts:

will smile at their believing,

And they shall weep at your deceiving." ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED “Why dost thou build the hall, son of the

TO MISS winged days? Thou lookest from thy Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts tower to-day; yet a few years, and the From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts. blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy Exist but in imaginationempty court.”-Ossian.

Mere phantoms of thine own creation : THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the For he who views that witching grace, hollow winds whistle ;

That perfect form, that lovely face, Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, decay :

He never wishes to deceive thee: In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, thistle

Thou'lt there descry that elegance Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd | Which from our sex demands such praises,

But envy in the other raises: Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, battle

Believe me, only does his duty : Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's Ah! fly not from the candid youth; plain,

It is not flattery-'tis truth. The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

WHEN DYING. No more doth old Robert, with heart-stringing

AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, numbers,

Friend and associate of this clay! Raise a flame in the breast for the war

To what unknown region borne, laurell'd wreath ;

Wilt thou now wing tny distant flight. Near Askalon's towers John of Horistan slum

No more with wonted humour gay, bers;

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.
Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

For the safety of Edward and England they

fell :
My fathers ! the tears of your country redress ye;

Equal to Jove that youth must be

Greater than Jove he seems to me-
How you fought, how you died, still her
annals can tell.

Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.

in the way.


That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him alike are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah, Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But at the sight my senses fly ;
I needs niust gaze, but, gazing, die:
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head.
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss :
Nor then my soul should sated be ;
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thinc dissever;
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ;
E’en though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavour :
Could I desist ?-ah! never--never!

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 rollid, In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,

Might light his glorious funeral pile. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd




He who sublime in epic numbers rollid,

And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's unequal hand alike controll'd,

Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!


“Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. iv. CRUEL Cerinthus ! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? Alas! I wish but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for love and you again : But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate ; By death alone I can avoid



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : For he was gentle, and so true, Obedient to her call he flew, No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom moved :
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass’d the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave ! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes overflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her woe,

Receptacle of life's decay.

FROM ANACREON. I wish to tune my quivering lyre To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; To echo, from its rising swell, How heroes fought and nations fell, When Atreus' sons advanced to war, Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to love alone: Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's name: The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due : With glowing strings, the epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again ; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of war's alarms! To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal, To tell the tale my heart must feel : Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

FROM ANACREON. 'Twas now the hour when Night had driven Her car half round yon sable heaven; Boötes, only, seem'd to roll His arctic charge around the pole : While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, Descending from the realms of joy, Quick to my gate directs his course,


TO ELLEN. Ou! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would qucnch desire :

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