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And woman, lovely woman! thou,
This busy scene of splendid woe,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, To flee away, and be at rest.
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear: Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas centred in you?
Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: One image alone on my bosom impress'd,
I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd;
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide, From mountain to mountain I bounded along; I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song: At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to iny view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
I left my bleak home, and my visions were gone; The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no
You knew that my soul, that my heart, my
If danger demanded, were wholly your own; You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
You knew, but away with the vain retrospec
The bond of affection no longer endures: Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.
For the present we part- I will hope not for ever; For time and regret will restore you at last : To forget our dissension we both should endea
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.
TO THE EARL OF CLARE.
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago."
FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved,
With friendship's purest glow,
The bliss which winged those rosy hours
The recollection seems alone
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
My pensive memory lingers o'er
And we may meet-ah! never!
How soon, diverging from their source,
Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
And shine in fashion's annals:
"Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Without the aid of reason:
Nor left a thought to seize on.
Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard! *
That he, who sang before all-
And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
And critics are forgot.
Still I must yield those worthies merit, Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who write them;
I really will not fight them.*
Now, Clare, I must return to you;
Accept, then, my concession.
I think I said 'twould be your fate
May regal smiles attend you!
From snares may saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care,
But those who best deserve you! Not for a moment may you stray From truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your tears be tears of joy!
Oh if you wish that happiness
And though some trifling share of praise,
To me were doubly dear:
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. SPOT of my youth whose hoary branches sigh, Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod: With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore, Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill, Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay.
And frequent mused the twilight hours away: Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, But ah! without the thoughts which then were
⚫ Little was a nom de plume of Tom Moore's. Moore and Jeffrey at Chalk Farm.
*Alluding to a hostile meeting between
ODE TO NAPOLEON.
"Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo Invenies?" JUVENAL, Sat. X.
"The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues and military talents were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till- ."-GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220.
'Tis done-but yesterday a King!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
To use that worshipp'd thee;
That led them to adore
The rapture of the strife-
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The Victor overthrown!
A Suppliant for his own!
To die a prince-or live a slave-
And darker fate hast found:
A strict accountant of his beads,
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
Too late thou leav'st the high command
To think that God's fair world hath been
And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
Nor written thus in vain-
To shame the world again-
But yet methought the living great
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.
How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Must she, too, bend: must she, too, share,
Thou throneless Homicide?
If still she loves thee, hold that gem,—
That Earth is now as free!
* Dionysius of Sicily.
The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane.
When that immeasurable power
Had been an act of purer fame,
Through the long twilight of all time,
As if that foolish robe could wring
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Yes-one-the first-the last-the best-
Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one!
ODE FROM THE FRENCH.
We do not curse thee, Waterloo! Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew: There 'twas shed, but is not sunkRising from each gory trunk, Like the waterspout from ocean, With a strong and growing motion: It soars and mingles in the air, With that of lost LabedoyèreWith that of him whose honour'd grave Contains the "bravest of the brave.' A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose; When 'tis full 'twill burst asunderNever yet was heard such thunder As then shall shake the world with wonder- Never yet was seen such lightning As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Like the Wormwood Star foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Showering down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.