Since now the hour is come at last,
  When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now, our dream of bliss is past,
  One pang, my girl, and all is over.

Alas! that pang will be severe,
  Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
  Departing for a distant shore.

Well! we have pass’d some happy hours,
  And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
  The shelter of our infant years;

Where from this Gothic casement’s height,
  We view’d the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
  We lingering look a last farewell,

O’er fields through which we us’d to run,
  And spend the hours in childish play;
O’er shades where, when our race was done,
  Reposing on my breast you lay;

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
  Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss,
  It dar’d to give your slumbering eyes:

See still the little painted bark,
  In which I row’d you o’er the lake;
See there, high waving o’er the park,
  The elm I clamber’d for your sake.

These times are past, our joys are gone,
  You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes, I must retrace alone;
  Without thee, what will they avail?

Who can conceive, who has not prov’d,
  The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly lov’d,
  You bid a long adieu to peace.

This is the deepest of our woes,
  For this these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
  Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!

Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
  The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
  Nor less the affection I cherish’d for you.

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
  The attachment of years, in a moment expires:
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
  But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.

Full oft have we wander’d through Ida together,
  And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
  But Winter’s rude tempests are gathering now.

No more with Affection shall Memory blending,
  The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When Pride steels the *****, the heart is unbending,
  And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.

However, dear George, for I still must esteem you—
  The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid;
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you,
  Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chill’d is affection,
  With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My ***** is calm’d by the simple reflection,
  That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.

You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
  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 retrospection!
  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 endeavour,
  I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

Harriet! to see such Circumspection,
In Ladies I have no objection
  Concerning what they read;
An ancient Maid’s a sage adviser,
Like her, you will be much the wiser,
  In word, as well as Deed.

But Harriet, I don’t wish to flatter,
And really think ‘t would make the matter
  More perfect if not quite,
If other Ladies when they preach,
Would certain Damsels also teach
  More cautiously to write.

LESBIA! since far from you I’ve rang’d,
  Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say, ’tis I, not you, have chang’d,
I’d tell you why,—but yet I know not.

Your polish’d brow no cares have crost;
  And Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
  Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.

Sixteen was then our utmost age,
  Two years have lingering pass’d away, love!
And now new thoughts our minds engage,
  At least, I feel disposed to stray, love!

“Tis I that am alone to blame,
  I, that am guilty of love’s treason;
Since your sweet breast is still the same,
  Caprice must be my only reason.

I do not, love! suspect your truth,
  With jealous doubt my ***** heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,
  One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended;
  For, oh! I lov’d you most sincerely;
And though our dream at last is ended
  My ***** still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers;
  Absence has made me prone to roving;
But older, firmer hearts than ours
  Have found monotony in loving.

Your cheek’s soft bloom is unimpair’d,
  New beauties, still, are daily bright’ning,
Your eye, for conquest beams prepar’d,
  The forge of love’s resistless lightning.

Arm’d thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
  Many will throng, to sigh like me, love!
More constant they may prove, indeed;
  Fonder, alas! they ne’er can be, love!

Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
  With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
  Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,
  Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
  That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,
  So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear’d that, too divine for earth,
  The skies might claim thee for their own.

Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
  Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
  Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest Sylph appall,
  When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
  But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

’Tis said that Berenice’s hair,
  In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne’er permit thee there,
  Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,
  Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E’en suns, which systems now controul,
  Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.

MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
’Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love’s a stranger to thy breast:
He, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding ‘frown’.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff’rence thrills us.
Would’st thou wand’ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or seem to smile;
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips—but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curtsies, frowns,—in short She
Dreads lest the Subject should transport me;
And flying off, in search of Reason,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
All I shall, therefore, say (whate’er
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form’d for better things than sneering.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least’s disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt’ry free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill’d to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.

  Marion, adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing,
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I’ll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman’s soft Dominion:
Howe’er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe’er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture;
But would’st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a word, ’tis Animation.

This faint resemblance of thy charms,
  (Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
  Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Here, I can trace the locks of gold
  Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,
  The lips, which made me ‘Beauty’s’ slave.

Here I can trace—ah, no! that eye,
  Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter’s art defy,
  And bid him from the task retire.

Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
  But where’s the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
  Like Luna o’er the ocean playing?

Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
  Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
  Save her who plac’d thee next my heart.

She plac’d it, sad, with needless fear,
  Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
  Held every sense in fast controul.

Thro’ hours, thro’ years, thro’ time,’twill cheer—
  My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life’s last conflict ’twill appear,
  And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

Whene’er I view those lips of thine,
  Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
  Alas! it were—unhallow’d bliss.

Whene’er I dream of that pure breast,
  How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
  For that,—would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
  Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,—and why?
  I would not force a painful tear.

I ne’er have told my love, yet thou
  Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
  To make thy *****’s heaven a hell?

No! for thou never canst be mine,
  United by the priest’s decree:
By any ties but those divine,
  Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,
  Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
  Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortur’d heart,
  By driving dove-ey’d peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
  Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave
  More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,—
  I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
  And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
  All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shall thou be free,
  No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
  No martyr shall thou be to love.

When I dream that you love me, you’ll surely forgive;
  Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live,—
  I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,
  Shed o’er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
  What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
  Mortality’s emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
  If this be a foretaste of Heaven!

Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow,
  Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
  Thus doom’d, but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in visions, sweet Lady, perhaps you may smile,
  Oh! think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
  To awake, will be torture sufficient.

Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
Bright as thy mother’s in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father’s heart, my Boy!

And thou canst lisp a father’s name—
Ah, William, were thine own the same,—
No self-reproach—but, let me cease—
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother’s shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger’s breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,—
A Father’s heart is thine, my Boy!

Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature’s claims disown?
Ah, no—though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of Love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy—
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

Oh,’twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere Age has wrinkled o’er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!

Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen’s form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne’er desert its pledge, my Boy!

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!

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 ***** 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 phrenzy 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 gulf appears in view,
  Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion’s blackening lake is seen,
  Convuls’d by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
  Alas! must perish altogether.

Thy verse is “sad” enough, no doubt:
  A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can’t find out,
  Unless for thee we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more;
  And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I’m sure, will suffer sore,
  Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
  May once be read—but never after:
Yet their effect’s by no means tragic,
  Although by far too dull for laughter.

But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain—
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you’ll read them o’er again.

Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray’d,
Exploring every path of Ida’s glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E’en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown’d in rank, not far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this ****** thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,—
And even in simple boyhood’s opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,—
When these declare, “that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestin’d to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;”
Believe them not,—they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few in Ida’s early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart—’twill bid thee, boy, forbear!
For well I know that virtue lingers there.

Yes! I have mark’d thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark’d within that generous mind
A soul, if well matur’d, to bless mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail’d her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

’Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot—
In life just gaz’d at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the ****** dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering ’scutcheon, or the Herald’s roll,
That well-emblazon’d but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour’d, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnotic’d as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o’erspread,
In records destin’d never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise;
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune’s minion, but her noblest son.
  Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call’d, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view! not less renown’d for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour’d by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain’d to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song.
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow’s hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown’d away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.

To these adieu! nor let me linger o’er
Scenes hail’d, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

  Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe—
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,
If these,—but let me cease the lengthen’d strain,—
Oh! if these wishes are not breath’d in vain,
The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

Tu semper amoris
  Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.

  VAL. FLAC. ‘Argonaut’, iv. 36.


Friend of my youth! when young we rov’d,
Like striplings, mutually belov’d,
  With Friendship’s purest glow;
The bliss, which wing’d those rosy hours,
Was such as Pleasure seldom showers
  On mortals here below.

The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I’ve known,
  When distant far from you:
Though pain, ’tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
  And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive mem’ry lingers o’er,
Those scenes to be enjoy’d no more,
  Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life’s evening dream is dark and dull,
  And we may meet—ah! never!

As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
  Together join’d in vain;
How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
  Till mingled in the Main!

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
  Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death’s unfathom’d gulph appear,
  And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
  Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
’Tis yours to mix in polish’d courts,
  And shine in Fashion’s annals;

’Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
  Without the aid of Reason;
For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,
  Nor left a thought to seize on.

Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem’d it monstrous hard
  That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
  As void of wit and moral.

And yet, while Beauty’s praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
  Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution’s arm is dead,
  And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
  Bad rhymes, and those who write them:
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,
  I really will not fight them.

Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
  Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
  A very harden’d sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:
  Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy’s flight
I soar along from left to right;
  My Muse admires digression.

I think I said ’twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;—
  May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble Monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
  If worth can recommend you.

Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
  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 smiles be ever smiles of love,
  Your tears be tears of joy!

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
  And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you’ve been known to me,—
  Be still as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
  To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I’d waive at once a Poet’s fame,
  To prove a Prophet here.

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 reformèd coquette.

Yet still, I must own,
I should never have known,
From your verses, what else she deserv’d;
Your pain seem’d so great,
I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so dev’lish reserv’d.

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 say, “When I rove,”
“I know nothing of love;”
Tis true, I am given to range;
If I rightly remember,
I’ve lov’d 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 will affright,
Or drive me to dreadful despair.

While my blood is thus warm,
I ne’er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists’ school;
Of this I am sure,
Was my Passion so pure,
Thy Mistress would think me a fool.

And if I should shun,
Every woman for one,
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.

My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here’s a double health to thee!

Here’s a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky’s above me,
Here’s a heart for every fate.

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

Were’t the last drop in the well,
As I gasp’d upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
’Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be—peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore!

And thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft and charm so rare
Too soon returned to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o’er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell
’Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last
As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,
Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong or change or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lours,
Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have passed away
I might have watched through long decay.

The flower in ripened bloom unmatched
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatched,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watct it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it plucked today;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that followed such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath past,
And thou wert lovely to the last—
Extinguished, not decayed,
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o’er thy bed:
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head,
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

Oh, 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 expir’d in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscur’d 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 undue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;”
Yet, let not canker’d Calumny assail,
Or round her statesman wind her gloomy veil.
FOX! o’er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour’d marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e’en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes, alike, his talents own.—
Fox! shall, in Britain’s future annals, shine,
Nor e’en to PITT, the patriot’s ‘palm’ resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour’s sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar’d to ask.

Woman! experience might have told me
That all must love thee, who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, plac’d in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join’d with hope, when still possessing;
But how much curst by every lover
When hope is fled, and passion’s over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse, when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope ’twill last for ay,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,’
“Woman, thy vows are trac’d in sand.”

Mingle with the genial bowl
The Rose, the ‘flow’ret’ of the Soul,
The Rose and Grape together quaff’d,
How doubly sweet will be the draught!
With Roses crown our jovial brows,
While every cheek with Laughter glows;
While Smiles and Songs, with Wine incite,
To wing our moments with Delight.
Rose by far the fairest birth,
Which Spring and Nature cull from Earth—
Rose whose sweetest perfume given,
Breathes our thoughts from Earth to Heaven.
Rose whom the Deities above,
From Jove to ****, dearly love,
When Cytherea’s blooming Boy,
Flies lightly through the dance of Joy,
With him the Graces then combine,
And rosy wreaths their locks entwine.
Then will I sing divinely crown’d,
With dusky leaves my temples bound—
Lyæus! in thy bowers of pleasure,
I’ll wake a wildly thrilling measure.
There will my gentle Girl and I,
Along the mazes sportive fly,
Will bend before thy potent throne—
Rose, Wine, and Beauty, all my own.

Justum et tenacem propositi virum.
      HOR. ‘Odes’, iii. 3. I.


  The man of firm and noble soul
  No factious clamours can controul;
  No threat’ning tyrant’s darkling brow
    Can swerve him from his just intent:
  Gales the warring waves which plough,
    By Auster on the billows spent,
  To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix’d determined mind in vain.

  Aye, and the red right arm of Jove,
  Hurtling his lightnings from above,
  With all his terrors there unfurl’d,
    He would, unmov’d, unaw’d, behold;
  The flames of an expiring world,
    Again in crashing chaos roll’d,
  In vast promiscuous ruin hurl’d,
  Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless ’midst the wreck of earth he’d smile.

When fierce conflicting passions urge
The breast, where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
Can rouse the tortur’d breast no more;
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
Absorbs each wish it felt before.

But if affection gently thrills
The soul, by purer dreams possest,
The pleasing balm of mortal ills
In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise,
Fair Venus! from thy native heaven,
What heart, unfeeling, would despise
The sweetest boon the Gods have given?

But, never from thy golden bow,
May I beneath the shaft expire!
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,
Awakes an all-consuming fire:
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears!
With others wage internal war;
Repentance! source of future tears,
From me be ever distant far!

May no distracting thoughts destroy
The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be winged with joy,
Which hover faithful hearts above!
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine
May I with some fond lover sigh!
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine,
With me to live, with me to die!

My native soil! belov’d before,
Now dearer, as my peaceful home,
Ne’er may I quit thy rocky shore,
A hapless banish’d wretch to roam!
This very day, this very hour,
May I resign this fleeting breath!
Nor quit my silent humble bower;
A doom, to me, far worse than death.

Have I not heard the exile’s sigh,
And seen the exile’s silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn’d to fly,
A pensive, weary wanderer here?
Ah! hapless dame! no sire bewails,
No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails
Thy steps within a stranger’s doors.

Perish the fiend! whose iron heart
To fair affection’s truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly lov’d depart,
Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne’er unlocks with silver key,
The milder treasures of his soul;
May such a friend be far from me,
And Ocean’s storms between us roll!

He who, sublime, in epic numbers roll’d,
And he who struck the softer lyre of Love,
By Death’s unequal hand alike controul’d,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

Well! thou art happy, and I feel
  That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
  Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband’s blest—and ’twill impart
  Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass—Oh! how my heart
  Would hate him if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favourite child,
  I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smil’d,
  I kiss’d it for its mother’s sake.

I kiss’d it,—and repress’d my sighs
  Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother’s eyes,
  And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:
  While thou art blest I’ll not repine;
But near thee I can never stay;
  My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem’d that Time, I deem’d that Pride,
  Had quench’d at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
  My heart in all,—save hope,—the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time
  My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime—
  We met,—and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,
  Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling couldst thou trace;
  The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream
  Remembrance never must awake:
Oh! where is Lethe’s fabled stream?
  My foolish heart be still, or break.

When I rov’d a young Highlander o’er the dark heath,
  And climb’d thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow!
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 ***** 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 ***** impress’d,
  I lov’d 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 my 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 are gone;
  The mountains are vanish’d, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
  And delight but in days, I have witness’d before:
Ah! splendour has rais’d, but embitter’d my lot;
  More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail’d, yet they are not
  forgot,
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.

When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
  I think of the rocks that o’ershadow Colbleen;
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
  I think of those eyes that endear’d the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
  That faintly resemble my Mary’s in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
  The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.

Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
  Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchang’d as before,
  Will Mary be there to receive me?—ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
  Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,—
  Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow—
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o’er me—
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well:—
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.

If, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont
(What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont!

If, when the wintry tempest roared,
He sped to Hero, nothing loath,
And thus of old thy current poured,
Fair Venus! how I pity both!

For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May,
My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I’ve done a feat today.

But since he crossed the rapid tide,
According to the doubtful story,
To woo—and—Lord knows what beside,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;

’Twere hard to say who fared the best:
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you!
He lost his labour, I my jest;
For he was drowned, and I’ve the ague.