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For the present we part, I will hope not for ever; Still I must yield those worthies merit,

For time and regret will restore you at last : Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, To forget our dissension we both should endea- Bad rhymes, and those who write them; vour,

And though myself may be the next I ask no atonement, but days like the past. By criticism to be vext,

I really will not fighé them.*

Perhaps they would do quite as well

To break the rudely sounding shell
Tu semper amoris

Of such a young beginner ;
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago." He who offends at pert nineteen,

Val. FLAC.

Ere thirty may become, I ween, FRIEND Ofmy youth! when young we roved,

A very harden'd sinner.
Like striplings, mutually beloved,

Now, Clare, I must return to you ;
With friendship's purest glow,

And, sure, apologies are due:
The bliss which winged those rosy hours

Accept, then, my concession.
Was such as pleasure seldom showers

In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
On mortals here below.

I soar along from left to right;
The recollection seems alone

My muse admires digression.
Dearer than all the joys I've known,

I think I said 'twould be your fate
When distant far from you:

To add one star to royal state ;- .
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,

May regal smiles attend you!
To trace those days and hours again,

And should a noble monarch reign,
And sigh again, adieu !

You will not seek his smiles in vain,

If worth can recommend you.
My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,

Yet since in danger courts abound,
Those scenes regretted ever:

Where specious rivals glitter round,
The measure of our youth is full,

From snares may saints preserve you ; Life's evening dream is dark and dull,

And grant your love or friendship ne'er And we may meet-ah! never !

From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you!
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams which from one fountain rise, Not for a moment may you stray
Together join'd in vain ;

From truth's secure, unerring way!
How soon, diverging from their source,

May no delights decoy!
Each, murmuring, seeks another course, O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Till mingled in the main !

Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Our vital streams of weal or woe,

Your tears be tears of joy! Though near, alas ! distinctly flow,

Oh! if you wish that happiness Nor mingle as before :

Your coming days and years may bless, Now swift or slow, now black or clear,

And virtues crown your brow;
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear,

Be still as you were wont to be,
And both shall quit the shore.

Spotless as you've been known to me, Our souls, my friend! which once supplied

Be still as you are now. One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, And though some trifling share of praise, Now flow in different channels:

To cheer my last declining days, Disdaining humbler rural sports,

To me were doubly dear : 'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,

Whilst blessing your beloved name,
And shine in fashion's annals:

I'd waive at once a poet's fame, "Tis mine to waste on love my time,

To prove a prophet here. Or vent my reveries in rhyme,

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN Without the aid of reason : For sense and reason (critics know it)

THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. Have quitted every amorous poet, Spot of my youth' whose hoary branches sigh, Nor left a thought to seize on.

Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky; Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard!"

Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard, With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod: That he, who sang before all

With those who,scatter'd far, perchance deplore, He who the lore of love expanded

Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: By dire reviewers should be branded

Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
As void of wit and moral.

Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,

Thou drooping Elm!' beneath whose boughs 1 And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,

lay, Harmonious favourite of the Nine !

And frequent mused the twilight hours away: Repine not at thy lot.

Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline, Thy soothing lays may still be read, When Persecution's arm is dead,

But ah! without the thoughts which then were And critics are forgot.

mine : Little was a nom de plume of Tom Moore's.

Alluding to a hostile meeting between Moore and Jeffrey at Chalk Farm.

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How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet Invite the bosom to recall the past,

to die And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie : “Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last fare- Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose : well !”

Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ;

For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd Press'd by the turf where once my childhood breast,

play'd ; And calm its cares and passions into rest, Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps hour,-

moved ; If aught may soothe when life resigns her | Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful

power, To know some humble grave, some narrow Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; cell,

Deplored by those in early days allied, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell. ' And unremember'd by the world beside.


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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 - Gibson's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220.

'Tis done-but yesterday a King!

And arm'd with Kings to strive-
And now thou art a nameless thing:

So abject-yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones,

And can he thus survive ?
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind

Who bow'd so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,

Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestion'd, -power to save,
Thine only gift hath been the grave,

To use that worshipp'd thee ;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!
Thanks for that lesson-it will teach

To after-warriors more
Than high Philosophy can preach,

And vainly preach'd before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,

That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.
The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife
The earthquake voice of Victory,

To thee the breath of life;
The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,

Wherewith renown was rife

All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!
The Desolator desolate !

The Victor overthrown !
The Arbiter of others' fate

A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope ?

Or dread of death alone ?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave !
He who of old would rend the oak,*

Dream'd not of the rebound;
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-

Alone-how look'd he round!
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found :
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!
The Roman, † when his burning heart

Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,

In savage grandeur, home :
He dared depart, in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,

Yet left him such a doom !
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.
The Spaniard, I when the lust of sway,

Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,

An empire for a cell ;
A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,

His dotage trifled well :
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But thou-froin thy reluctant hand

The thunderbolt is wrung-
Too late thou leav'st the high command

To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart

To see thine own unstrung:
To think that God's fair world hath been

The footstool of a thing so mean! * Milo Crotoniensis. † Sylla, Charles V.


And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, When that immeasurable power
Who thus can hoard his own !

Unsated to resign,
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, Had been an act of purer fame,
And thank'd him for a throne!

Than gathers round Marengo's name, Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,

And gilded thy decline, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear Through the long twilight of all time, In humblest guise have shown.

Despite some passing clouds of crime. Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind

But thou, forsooth, must be a king, A brighter name to lure mankind !

And don the purple vest! Thine evil deeds are writ in


As if that foolish robe could wring
Nor written thus in vain-

Remembrance from thy breast.
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,

Where is that faded garment? where
Or deepen every stain:

The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, If thou hadst died as honour dies,

The star, the string, the crest?
Some new Napoleon might arise,

Vain froward child of empire ! say,
To shame the world again-

Are all thy playthings snatch'd away? But who would soar the solar height,

Where may the wearied eye repose, To set in such a starless night?

When gazing on the Great;
Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust

Where neither guilty glory glows,
Is vile as vulgar clay ;

Nor despicable state?
Thy scales, Mortality! are just

Yes--one---the first-the last-the bestTo all that pass away:

The Cincinnatus of the West, But yet methought the living great

Whom envy dared not hate,
Some higher sparks should animate.

Bequeath'd the name of Washington,
To dazzle and dismay:

To make man blush there was but one! Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth

ODE FROM THE FRENCH. Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.

I. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! Thy still imperial bride,

Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew: How bears her breast the torturing hour?

There 'twas shed, but is not sunkStill clings she to thy side ?

Rising from each gory trunk,
Must she, too, bend: must she, too, share, Like the waterspout from ocean,
Thy late repentance, long despair,

With a strong and growing motion:
Thou throneless Homicide ?
If still she loves thee, hold that gem,-

It soars and mingles in the air,

With that of lost Labedoyère'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem !

With that of him whose honour'd grave Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,

Contains the “bravest of the brave.And gaze upon the sea;

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, That element may meet thy smile

But shall return to whence it rose; It ne'er was ruled by thee!

When 'tis full 'twill burst asunderOr trace with thine all idle hand,

Never yet was heard such thunder In loitering mood upon the sand,

As then shall shake the world with wonder: That Earth is now as free!

Never yet was seen such lightning That Corinth's pedagogue * hath now

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Transferr’d his byword to thy brow.

Like the Wormwood Star foretold Thou Timour! in his captive's cage, t

By the sainted Seer of old, What thoughts will there be thine,

Showering down a fiery flood, While brooding in thy prison'd rage,,

Turning rivers into blood. But one-“The world was mine!

II. Unless, like he of Babylon,

The chief has fallen! but not by you, All sense is with thy sceptre gone,

Vanquishers of Waterloo ! Life will not long confine

When the soldier-citizen That spirit pour’d so widely forth

Sway'd not o'er his fellow-menSo long obey'd-so little worth!

Save in deeds that led them on Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,

Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son--Wilt thou withstand the shock?

Who, of all the despots banded, And share with him, the unforgiven,

With that youthful chief competed ?

Who could boast o'er France defeated,
His vulture and his rock?
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,

Till lone Tyranny commanded ?
And that last act, though not thy worst,

Till, goaded by ambition's sting, The very Fiend's arch mock;

The Hero sunk into the King ? He in his fall preserved his pride,

Then he fell :—so perish all, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died !

Who would men by man enthrall ! There was a day—there was an hour,

III. While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thine

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume,

Whose realm refused thee even a tomb; * Dionysius of Sicily.

Better hadst thou still been leading † The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,

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Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks,

Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shiver'd fast around theeOf the fate at last which found thee! Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow? Once--as the moon sways o'er the tide, Jt roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; Through the smoke-created night Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendancyAnd, as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was

quickest, And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest(There with thunder clouds to fan her,

Who could then her wing arrest -
Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

O'er glories gone the invader's march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell’d arch-
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored ;
France hath twice too well been taught
The "moral lesson" dearly bought-
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon !
But in equal rights and laws,
Hearts and hands in one great cause-
Freedom such as God hath given
Unto all beneath His heaven,
With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the

With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter !

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion-
And who shall resist that proud union ?
The time is past when swords subdued-
Man may dic—the soul's renew'd :
Even in this low world of carc
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit-
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe--and tremble :
Smile they at this idle threat ?
Crimson tears will follow yet.


FROM THE FRENCH. Must thou go, my glorious Chief,

Sever'd from thy faithful few ? Who can tell thy warriors' grief,

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? Woman's love, and friendship’s zeal,

Dear as both have been to meWhat are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith for thee? Idol of the soldier's soul!

First in fight, but mightiest now; Many could a world control ;

Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard,

Blessing him they served so well. Would that I were cold with those,

Since this hour I live to see ; When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free!

Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me,

Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share ? Were that world this hour his own,

All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine? My chief, my king, my friend, adieu !

Never did I droop before ; Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore : All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave ; Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

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FROM THE FRENCH. STAR of the brave !-whose beam hath shed Such glory o'er the quick and deadThou radiant and adored deceit, Which millions rush'd in arms to greet, Wild meteor of immortal birth; Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth? Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; Eternity flash'd through thy blaze; The music of thy martial sphere Was fame on high and honour here; And thy light broke on human eyes, Like a volcano of the skies. Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, And swept down empires with its flood; Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, As thou didst lighten through all space : And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, And set while thou wert dwelling there Before thee rose, and with thee grew, A rainbow of the loveliest hue,

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