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The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid :—
Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance,
And win-not Spain, but thine own freedom, France!
VIII.

But lo! a Congress! What! that hallow'd name
Which freed the Atlantic? May we hope the same
For outworn Europe? With the sound arise,
Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes,
The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd far
From climes of Washington and Bolivar;
Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes,
Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas;2
And stoic Franklin's energetic shade,
Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd;
And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake,
To bid us blush for these old chains, or break.
But who compose this senate of the few
That should redeem the many?
This consecrated name, till now assign'd
To councils held to benefit mankind?
Who now assemble at the holy call?

Who renew

The blest Alliance, which says three are all !
An earthly trinity! which wears the shape
Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape.
A pious unity! in purpose one-
To melt three fools to a Napoleon.
Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ;
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees,
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed,
Cared little, so that they were duly fed;
But these, more hungry, must have something more,
The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore.
Ah! how much happier were good Æsop's frogs
Than we! for ours are animated logs,
With ponderous malice swaying to and fro,
And crushing nations with a stupid blow;
All duly anxious to leave little work
Unto the revolutionary stork.

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1 [The Congress of the Sovereigns of Russia, Austria, Prussia, &c., &c., &c., which assembled at Verona, in the autumn of 1822.]

2 [Patrick Henry, of Virginia, a leading member of the American Congress, died in June, 1797. Lord Byron alludes to his famous speech in 1765, in which, on saying, "Cæsar had his Brutus-Charles the First had his Cromwell-and George the Third--" Henry was interrupted with a shout of "Treason! treason!!"-but coolly finished the sentence with "George the Third may profit by their example."]

3 ["I have been over Verona. The amphitheatre is wonderful-beats even Greece. Of the truth of Juliet's story, they seem tenacious to a degree, insisting on the fact-giving a date, (1303,) and showing a tomb. It is a plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves in it, in a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a cemetery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted as their love. I have brought away a few pieces of the granite, to give to my daughter and my nieces. The Gothic monuments of the Scaliger princes pleased me, but a poor virtuoso am I.'"-Byron Letters, Nov., 1816.]

4 [Cane I. Della Scala, surnamed the Great, died in 1329: he was the protector of Dante, who celebrated him as "il Gran Lombardo."]

To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too,
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate;
And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate;
Thy good old man, whose world was all within
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in :
Would that the royal guests it girds about
Were so far like, as never to get out!
Ay, shout! inscribe! rear monuments of shame,
To tell Oppression that the world is tame!
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage,

The comedy is not upon the stage;
The show is rich in ribandry and stars,
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars;
Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy,

For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free!

X.

Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb Czar,"
The autocrat of waltzes and of war!
As eager for a plaudit as a realm,
And just as fit for flirting as the helm;
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit,
And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit;
Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw,

But harden'd back whene'er the morning 's raw ;
With no objection to true liberty,

Except that it would make the nations free.
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace!
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece!
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet,
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet!
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine,
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain!
How royally show off in proud Madrid
His goodly person, from the South long hid;
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows,
By having Muscovites for friends or foes.
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son!
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on;
And that which Scythia was to him of yore
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore.
Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth,
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth;
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine,
Many an old woman, but no Catherine."
Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles-
The bear may rush into the lion's toils.

[Verona has been distinguished as the cradle of many illustrious men. There is one still living:

Per cui la fama in te chiara risuona
Egregia, eccelsa, alma Verona,-

I mean Ippolito Pindemonte, a poet who has caught a portion of that sun whose setting beams yet gild the horizon of Italy. His rural pieces, for their chaste style of coloring, their repose, and their keeping, may be said to be in poetry, what the landscapes of Claude Lorraine are in picture.-Rosk! 6 [Claudian's famous old man of Verona, "qui suburb.um nunquam egressus est."-The Latin verses are beautifully imitated by Cowley

"Happy the man who his whole life doth bound
Within th' enclosure of his little ground:
Happy the man whom the same humble place
(Th hereditary cottage of his race)
From his first rising infancy has known,
And, by degrees, sees gently bending down,
With natural propension, to that earth
Which both preserved his life and gave him "irth
Him no false distant lights, by Fortune set,
Could ever into foolish wanderings get;
No change of Consuls marks to him the year:
The change of seasons is his calendar," &c. &c.]

7 [The Emperor Alexander; who died in 1825.]

8 The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the

Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields;1
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields?
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords

To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes,
Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,
Than follow headlong in the fatal route,

To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure
With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure:
Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe;

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;
And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey?
Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.
I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun

Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun;
But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander
Rather a worm than such an Alexander!
Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free;
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinopé :
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan

The face of monarchs for an "honest man."

XI.

And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land
Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band
Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers
And tribune, which each orator first clambers
Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found,
Hears "the lie" echo for his answer round?
Our British Commons sometimes deign to "hear!"
A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear;
Even Constant, their sole master of debate,
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate.
But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather
Combat than listen, were it to their father.
What is the simple standing of a shot,
To listening long, and interrupting not?
Though this was not the method of old Rome,
When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome,
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction,
In saying eloquence meant "Action, action!"

XII.

But where's the monarch? hath he dined? or yet
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt?
Have revolutionary patés risen,

And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison?
Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops?
Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups?
Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed
Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded
Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks

I read all France's treason in her cooks!

Great by courtesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth.

["Eight thousand men had to Asturias march'd
Beneath Count Julian's banner; the remains
Of that brave army which in Africa

So well against the Mussulman made head,
Till sense of injuries insupportable,
And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew
Their leader's noble spirit. To revenge
His quarrel, twice that number left their bones,
Siain a unnatural battle on the field

Of Xeres, where the sceptre from the Goths By righteous Heaven was reft."-Southey's Roderick.] According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who, during the reign of King Joachim, fled to the recesses of the Abruzzi, and there formed a secret confederacy, were the first that assumed the designation, since familiar all over Italy, of Carbonari," (colliers.)]

Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say,
Desirable to be the Desiré?

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode,"

Apician table, and Horatian ode,

To rule a people who will not be ruled,

And love much rather to be scourged than school'd?
Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste
For thrones; the table sees thee better placed;
A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best,
To be a kind host and as good a guest,
To talk of letters, and to know by heart
One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art;
A scholar always, now and then a wit,
And gentle when digestion may permit ;—
But not to govern lands enslaved or free;
The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.

XIII.

Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise?
"Arts-arms-and George- and glory-and the
isles-

And happy Britain-wealth-and Freedom's smiles-
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof-
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof-

Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd,

That nose, the hook where he suspends the world! And Waterloo-and trade-and

A syllable of imposts or of debt)

-(hush! not yet

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t' other day-
And pilots who have weather'd every storm".
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Reform.")
These are the themes thus sung so oft before,
Methinks we need not sing them any more;
Found in so many volumes far and near,
There's no occasion you should find them here.
Yet something may remain perchance to chime
With reason, and, what 's stranger still, with rhyme.
Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit,
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit,
And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame;
Our last, our best, our only orator,
Even I can praise thee-Tories do no more:
Nay, not so much;-they hate thee, man, because
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes.
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo,
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow;
But not for love mistake their yelling cry;
Their yelp for game is not a eulogy;
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack,
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.

4

[Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire-the residence of Louis XVIII., during the latter years of the Emigration.] "Naso suspendit adunco.”—Horace. The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to his acquaintance.

["The Pilot that weather'd the storm" is the burden of a song, in honor of Pitt, by Mr. Canning.]

["I have never heard any one who fulfilled my ideal of an orator. Grattan would have been near it, but for his harlequin delivery. Pitt I never heard-Fox but once and then lie struck me as a debater, which to me seems as different from an orator as an improvisatore or a versifier from a poet. Grey is great, but it is not oratory. Canning is sometimes very like one. Whitbread was the Demosthenes of bad taste and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. Holland is impressive from sense and sincerity. Burdett is sweet and silvery as Belial himself, and, I think, the greatest favorite in Pandemonium."-Byron Diary, 1821.]

Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast
With his great self and rider in the mud;
But what of that? the animal shows blood.

XIV.

?

Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen
Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen?
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease,
The first to make a malady of peace.
For what were all these country patriots born?
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fail,
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all.
And must ye fall with every ear of grain?
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?
He was your great Triptolemus; his vices

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your
prices;

He amplified to every lord's content

The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent.
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters?
Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone?
The man was worth much more upon his throne.
True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt;
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,
And acres told upon the appointed day.
But where is now the goodly audit ale?
The purse-proud tenant, never known to fail?
The farm which never yet was left on hand?
The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land?
The impatient hope of the expiring lease?
The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!
In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill,
In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill;
The landed interest-(you may understand
The phrase much better leaving out the land)—
The land self-interest groans from shore to shore,
For fear that plenty should attain the poor.
Up, up again, ye rents! exalt your notes,
Or else the ministry will lose their votes,
And patriotism, so delicately nice,
Her loaves will lower to the market price;
For ah! "the loaves and fishes," once so high,
Are goue--their oven closed, their ocean dry,
And naught remains of all the millious spent,
Excepting to grow moderate and content.
They who are not so, had their turn-and turn
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Now let their virtue be its own reward,
And share the blessings which themselves prepared.
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,
Farmers of war, dictators of the farm;
Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands,
Their fields manured by gore of other lands;
Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
Their brethren out to battle-why? for rent!
Year after year they voted cent. per cent.,

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they

meant

To die for England-why then live?—for rent!
The peace has made one general malecontent
Of these high-market patriots; war was rent!
Their love of country, millions all misspent,
How reconcile? by reconciling rent!

And will they not repay the treasures lent?
No: down with every thing, and up with rent!
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent,
Being, end, aim, religion-rent, rent, rent!
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess;
Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less;
Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands
Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands.
Such, landlords! was your appetite for war,
And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar!
What would they spread their earthquake even o'er
cash?

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash?
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall,
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital?
Lo! Mother Church, while all religion writhes,
Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes;
The prelates go to-where the saints have gone,
And proud pluralities subside to one ;
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark,
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark.
Shoru of her bishops, banks, and dividends,
Another Babel soars-but Britain ends.
And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants,
And prop the hill of these agrarian ants.
"Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;"
Admire their patience through each sacrifice,
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride,
The price of taxes and of homicide;
Admire their justice, which would fain deny
The debt of nations:-pray who made it high?

XV.

Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,
The new Symplegades-the crushing Stocks,
Where Midas might again his wish behold
In real paper or imagined gold.

That magic palace of Alcina shows More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore, And all her pebbles from Pactolus` shore. There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the stake, And the world trembles to bid brokers break. How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines, Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines; No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money: But let us not to own the truth refuse, Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews? Those parted with their teeth to good King John, And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own; All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, And waft a loan from Indus to the pole." The banker-broker-baron-brethren, speed Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions-why? for rent! To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need.

1 [On the suicide of Lord Londonderry, in August, 1822, Mr. Canning, who had prepared to sail for India as Governor-General, was made Secretary of State for Foreign Af fairs, not much, it was alleged, to the personal satisfaction of George the Fourth, or of the high Tors in the cabinet He lived to verify some of the predictions of the poet-to

46

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Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow each success;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain.
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march;
Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch.
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command
In every realm their scripture-promised land :-
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old:
Two Jews-but not Samaritans-direct
The world, with all the spirit of their sect.
What is the happiness of earth to them?
A congress forins their "New Jerusalem,"
Where baronies and orders both invite-
Oh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight?
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine,
Who spit not "on their Jewish gaberdine,"
But honor them as portion of the show-
Where now, oh pope! is thy forsaken toe?
Could it not favor Judah with some kicks?
Or has it ceased to "kick against the pricks?")
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh,
To cut from nations' hearts their "pound of flesh."

XVI.

Strange sight this Congress! destined to unite
All that's incongruous, all that 's opposite.
speak not of the Sovereigns-they're alike,
A common coin as ever mint could strike:
But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings,
Have more of motley than their heavy kings.
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine,
While Europe wonders at the vast design:
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite,
Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight;

1

There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ;'
And subtle Greeks' intrigue for stupid Tartars;
There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters,
Tarns a diplomatist of great éclat,

To furnish articles for the "Débats;"
Of war so certain-yet not quite so sure
As his dismissal in the "Moniteur."
Alas! how could his cabinet thus err?
Can peace be worth an ultra-minister?

He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again,

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Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."

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to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, meeting the Duke of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon after the latter had been ennobled by the Emperor of Austria, 1s said to have begged leave to present M. le premier baron Jaif to M. le premier baron Chretien.]

Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign: "Ah! Monsieur C., are you related to that Chateaubriand who-who-who has written thing?" (Crit quelque chose!) It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy. [Count Capo d'Istrias-afterwards President of Greece. The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother and son of a Mainote chief whom he had imprisoned.]

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[The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.]

[From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough:

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The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ;
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave,
Here only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
But, no, she still must hold a petty reign,
Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain ;
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries;
What though she share no more, and shared in vain,

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,

Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas;
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
Where Parma views the traveller resort,

To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn

Of all her beams-while nations gaze and mourn-
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime;

(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold;-
But no, their embers soon will burst the mould;)
She comes!-the Andromache, (but not Racine's,
Nor Homer's,)-Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans!
Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through,
Is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave

Do more? or less?-and he in his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
And the ex-empress grows as er a wife!
So much for human ties in royal breasts!
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests?

XVIII.

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home,

And sketch the group-the picture's yet to come.
My muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt,

She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar,
While all the Common Council cry" Claymore!"
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt,"
She burst into a laughter so extreme,
That I awoke-and lo! it was no dream!

Here, reader, will we pause:-if there's no harm in This first-you'll have, perhaps, a second "Carmen."

"And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines,
Now forms my quincunx, and now ranks my vines,
Or tames the genius of the stubborn plain.
Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."]

5 [Napoleon François Charles Joseph, Duke of Reichstadt, died at the palace of Schönbrunn, July 22, 1832, having just attained his twenty-first year.]

[Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husband to Maria-Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in 1831. See ante, p. 471.)

7[George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat annoyed, on entering the levee-room at Holyrood (Aug. 1822) in full Stuart tartan, to see only one figure similarly attired (and of simlar bulk)-that of Sir William Curtis. The city knight had every thing complete-even the knife stuck in the garter. He asked the King, if he did not think him wel! dressed. "Yes!" replied his Majesty, "only you have no spoon in your hose." The devourer of turtle had a fine engraving executed of himself in his Celtic attire.]

OCCASIONAL PIECES. 1807-1824.

THE ADIEU.

WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR

WOULD SOON DIE.

ADIEU, thou Hill! where early joy
Spread roses o'er my brow;
Where Science seeks each loitering boy
With knowledge to endow.
Adieu, my youthful friends or foes,
Partners of former bliss or woes;

No more through Ida's paths we stray; Soon must I share the gloomy cell, Whose ever-slumbering inmates dwell Unconscious of the day.

Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes,

Ye spires of Granta's vale,
Where Learning robed in sable reigns,
And Melancholy pale.

Ye comrades of the jovial hour,
Ye tenants of the classic bower,

On Cama's verdant margin placed,
Adieu! while memory still is mine,
For, offerings on Oblivion's shrine,
These scenes must be effaced.

Adieu, ye mountains of the clime

Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime
His giant summit rears.

Why did my childhood wander forth
From you, ye regions of the North,
With sons of pride to roam?
Why did I quit my Highland cave,
Marr's dusky heath, and Dee's clear wave,
To seek a Sotheron home?

Hall of my Sires a long farewell-
Yet why to thee adieu?

Thy vaults will echo back my knell,

Thy towers my tomb will view:

The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy Hall2

Forgets its wonted simple note-
But yet the Lyre retains the strings,
And sometimes, on Æolian wings,
In dying strains may float.

Fields, which surround yon rustic cot,
While yet I linger here,
Adieu! you are not now forgot,

To retrospection dear.

Streamlet along whose rippling surge,
My youthful limbs were wont to urge
At noontide heat their pliant course;
Plunging with ardor from the shore,
Thy springs will lave these limbs no more,
Deprived of active force.

And shall I here forget the scene,

Still nearest to my breast?

Rocks rise, and rivers roll between

The spot which passion bless'd; Yet, Mary, all thy beauties seem Fresh as in Love's bewitching dream, To me in smiles display'd; Till slow disease resigns his prey To Death, the parent of decay,

Thine image cannot fade.

And thou, my Friend! whose gentle love,
Yet thrills my bosom's chords,
How much thy friendship was above
Description's power of words!

Still near my breast thy gift I wear
Which sparkled once with Feeling's tear,
Of Love the pure, the sacred gem;
Our souls were equal, and our lot
In that dear moment quite forgot;
Let Pride alone condemn!

All, all is dark and cheerless now!
No smile of Love's deceit

Can warm my veins with wonted glow,
Can bid Life's pulses beat:

Not e'en the hope of future fame,

Can wake my faint, exhausted frame,

Or crown with fancied wreaths my head Mine is a short inglorious race,

To humble in the dust my face,
And mingle with the dead.

Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart;
On him who gains thy praise,
Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart,
Consumed in Glory's blaze;
But me she beckons from the earth,
My name obscure, unmark'd my birth,
My life a short and vulgar dream;
Lost in the dull, ignoble crowd,
My hopes recline within a shroud,
My fate is Lethe's stream.

When I repose beneath the sod,
Unheeded in the clay,
Where once my playful footsteps trod,
Where now my head must lay;
The meed of Pity will be shed
In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed,

By nightly skies, and storms alone;
No mortal eye will deign to steep
With tears the dark sepulchral deep
Which hides a name unknown.

Forget this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven:
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.

To bigots and to sects unknown,

Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne;

1 [Harrow.]

[ See antè, pp. 388, 412.]

[Mary Duff. See antè, p. 426, note.]

3 [The river Grete, at Southwell.]

[Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. See antè, p, 408 1

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