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REMEMBER him, whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour
When neither fell, though both were loved.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be bless'd:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost

Το spare the vain remorse of years.

Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:

I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even now, in midnight solitude.

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime,

And I been less unworthy thee !

Far may thy days, as heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be past!
And that too bitter moment o’er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last!

This heart, alas ! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.

Then to the things whose bliss or woe,
Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign- such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what even here hath pass'd, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weep again.

Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet;

Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part,

As if its guilt had made thee mine.

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. (1) WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent)

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise
Why would they let him print his lays?


To me, divine Apollo, grant-O!
Hermilda's first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ;

And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining-
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

(1) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. II. p. 198.-E]



"I lay my branch of laurel down,
Then thus to form Apollo's crown

Let every other bring his own."

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers.

"I lay my branch of laurel down." THOU❝lay thy branch of laurel down!" Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send it back to Doctor Donne:
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou-none.

"Then thus to form Apollo's crown."
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,

Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

"Let every other bring his own."

When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,

Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.




Он you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom


For hang me if I know of which you may most [Bag; Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post



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But now to my letter-to yours 'tis an answer— To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on (According to compact) the wit in the dungeonPray Phoebus at length our political malice


May not get us lodgings within the same palace! suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers: And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heath


But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. (2)

(1) [See antè, Vol. II. p. 206.]

(2) [The reader who wishes to understand the full force of this scanda lous insinuation is referred to Muretus's notes on a celebrated poem Catullus, entitled In Casarem; but consisting, in fact, of savagely scornf abuse of the favourite Mamurra :

"Quis hoc potest videre? quis potest pati,

Nisi impudicus et vorax et helluo ?

Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia

Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia ?" &c.-E.]

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