Which stings the soul with vain regret Of him who never can forget!"

THE CORNELIAN.

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. 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.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your
praise;

But all our dramatis persona wait
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward.

For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive

ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX.
THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU
APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER.

"Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath:
These feelings wide, let sense and truth uncle,
We give the palm where justice points it's due.'

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY.

O FACTIOUS Viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What though our "nation's foes" lament the
fate,

With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead."
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state;
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd;
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let sense and truth un-

clue,

To give the palm where justice points it's due;" Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation or fear;

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.
Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

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.

Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave,

The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath In Glory's romantic career;

But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride,

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,

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 enthral, I'd abandon
them all,

Did they act like your blooming coquette.

No longer repine, adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear
To fly from the captious coquette.

maid,

From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth,*

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more,

My Mary to love once so dear,

In the shade of her bower I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
By another possest, may she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere :
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was
mine,

And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions
of night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear ;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

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.

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 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 more I your folly regret ;

She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine Of this quickly reform'd coquette.

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 met,'

My counsel will get but abuse.

You when "I rove, I know nothing of love:" say, '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 am sure, was my passion so pure,
And if I should shun every woman for one,
Thy mistress would think me a fool.

Whose image must fill my whole breast-
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her-
What an insult 'twould be to the rest!
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.

war;

Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd;

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;

On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,

As daily i strode through the pine-cover'd glade;

I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. "Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale.

Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na Garr, towers proudly preeminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but he summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to these stanzas,

547

Years must elapse ere I tread you again : Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, England! thy beauties are tame and domestic Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar: The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr !

TO ROMANCE.
PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When virgins seem no longer vain,

And even woman's smiles are true.
And must we own thee but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pylades in every friend?
But leave at once thy realms of air

To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,

And friends have feeling for-themselves!
With shame I own I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er,
No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar.
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear!

* I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender.

Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir,

To mourn a swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,

But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and frenzy glow;
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant bard at least may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!

The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulph appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convulsed by gales you cannot weather;
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.

Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. For this wild error, which pervades my strain, I sue for pardon-must I sue in vain?

The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart:

Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind:
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of
love;

Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove:
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing

power

Their censures on the hapless victim shower. Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng

Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe -
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread:
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had
read.

For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.

I seek not glory from the senseless crowd:
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.

Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's pride!* Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb,

Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide, Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall

Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,

Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord, In grim array the crimson cross demand; Or gay assemble round the festive board

Their chief's retainers, an immortal band: Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime.
But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.
A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont
to prowl;

And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,

Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. * Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas à Becket.

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,

Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade,

The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.
Years rolled on years; to ages, ages yield;
Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed;
Religion's charter their protecting shield,
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another Henry the kind gift recalls,*

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world in deep despair-
No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.
Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,

High crested banners wave thy halls within. Of changing sentinels the distant hum, The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd

arms,

The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increased alarms.
An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers,
War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening
brow,

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. Not unavenged the raging baron yields;

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, And days of glory yet for him remain. Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew Self-gathered laurels on a self-sought grave; But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to

save.

Trembling, she snatch'd him from the unequal strife, t

In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here, reserved his life,

To lead the band where godlike Falkland fell. From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound,

Far different incense now ascends to heaven, Such victims wallow on the gory ground. There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,

Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.

* At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron.

Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands in the royal army. Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland.

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread,

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould; From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Raked from repose in search of buried gold. Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,

Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey, Retire the clamour of the fight is o'er; Silence again resumes her awful sway, And sable Horror guards the massy door. Here Desolation holds her dreary court:

What satellites declare her dismal reign! Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. With storms she welcomes his expiring groans; Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;

Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, Loathing the offering of so dark a death.

The legal ruler now resumes the helm,

He guides through gentle seas the prow of

state;

Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm,

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate.

The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
Howling, resign their violated nest;
Again the master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return;
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.
A thousand songs on tuneful echoes float,
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;
And hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,
The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the
breeze.

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake: What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the

chase!

The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake;

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah, happy days! too happy to endure ! Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure;

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed;

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay! The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway