British Women Romantic Poets Project

Miscellaneous Poems.

E. S. L. (Elizabeth Susan Law), 1799-1883

Copyright (c) 2002, University of California

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series

Miscellaneous poems

E. S. L. (Elizabeth Susan Law)

[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. I:713. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler I:713mf.]

[Front flyleaf reads in manuscript hand, "Augusta Law from the authoress." in original printed edition.]

Purchase of software has been made possible by a research grant from the Librarians' Association of the University of California, Davis chapter.

All poems, line groups, and lines are represented. All material originally typeset has been preserved, with the exception of running heads, the original prose line breaks, signature markings and decorative typographical elements. Page numbers and page breaks have been preserved. Pencilled annotations and other damage to the text have not been preserved.

• Latin

• Italian

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

BY

E. S. L.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. DEDICATED TO
JOSEPH JEKYLL, ESQ.

BY

E. S. L.

LONDON:
IBOTSON AND PALMER, PRINTERS, SAVOY STREET, STRAND.

TO JOSEPH JEKYLL, ESQ.

IF wit, that charm'd my infant ears,
    With ceaseless, bright, and sportive play,
If friendship, prov'd from earliest years,
    May wake the tributary lay,
Fain would my grateful voice record
    Those blissful hours, by genius blest,
When erst you cheer'd my father's board,
    A brilliant and a valued guest.

And if, in after years, I found
    New cause that kindly heart to praise,
Which, as thy lightnings glanc'd around,
    Still bade their flashes harmless blaze,
A faithful vot'ry at thy shrine,
    I dare to urge th' aspiring claim,
Which bids these humble off 'rings shine
    With borrow'd light from Jekyll's name.

CONTENTS.

• Lady Jane Grey's Letter to Lord Guilford Dudley1
• The Postman10
• Description of an Old Man in the Abbey Church at Malvern15
• The Recluse--a Fragment17
• Written at Pisa22
• Past Joys25
• Mola di Gaeta28
• Addressed to Lady F. M.30
• Addressed to Italy31
• The Effects of Absence35
• Addressed to Mrs. H. G----n, on the Birth of her second
       Daughter38
• Monody on my dear Father, Edward Lord Ellenborough40
• To 1818 and 181944
• On the Death of E. A. Towry45
• Reflections on a Life of Dissipation47
• Melancholy Thoughts at Pisa49
• Farewell to London53
• Portrait of Lady ----56

  ---

  Page [viii]

• Thérèse61
• Lines addressed to F. S. L.63
• On the Death of Lord Byron65
• On hearing of the Death of "Riego."70
• Addressed to F. H. L. when she completed her seventeenth
       year71
• Thérèse74
• Lines supposed to be addressed by Corinne to Lord Nelvil,
       on returning the Ring75
• Alvina77
• The Favourite of Nature79
• The Preference of Feeling over Talent82
• The Preference of Beauty, as the result of Feeling,
       over that arising from extreme Youth84
• Translated from the Italian of Serafino Aquilano87
• Translation of a Song written by a French Sergeant on the
       Campaign in the Morea, 182891
• Stanzas for Music97
• To Lord S----th101
• Stanzas for Music102

LADY JANE GREY'S LETTER TO LORD
GUILFORD DUDLEY.

IT must not--cannot be--thy wish is vain,
In this dark world we may not meet again!
But one short hour remains--one struggle more,
And all our earthly trials will be o'er!
How hard the strife hath been, He only knows,
Who lends me strength to bear this final close,
How oft, alas! this young rebellious heart,
All unprepared to act the hero's part,
Hath dar'd to murmur at the stern decree,
And fondly--wildly--clung to life and thee!

Forgive me, Heav'n! if not entirely thine,
I could not thus, love, hope, and life resign,
Without the tribute of some foolish tears,
Wrung from a wife's despair--a woman's fears;
If, O how fondly! I have lov'd to dwell
On past delights--remembered but too well,--
Liv'd o'er again those dear--those blissful hours,
When all the joys of youth and love were ours,
Till wrought to madness, my distemper'd brain
Hath e'en presum'd thy justice to arraign,
And almost durst that mercy to deny,
Which doom'd a heart--so young--so blest--to die!

Lov'd Sion! thou canst tell how, day by day,
Beneath thy well-known shades we used to stray;
How oft we lingered in thy myrtle bowers,
Yet gave not all to love those valued hours;

Rich in the treasured themes of classic lore,
Thy converse taught my youthful mind to soar;
To climb the hill of science, and pursue
The muse's flow'ry paths, for ever new.
Fir'd with the wish to merit love like thine,
No task, no toil, could baffle zeal like mine;
Still taught by thee, I turn'd the classic page,
And arts and letters charm'd my tender age;
To me no joys could youthful sports impart,
Thine image reign'd unrivall'd in my heart;
By love alone impell'd, I ask'd no bays,
I sought no laurels but a husband's praise:
Urg'd by no hope--no feverish thirst of fame--
I breath'd no wish t' immortalize my name!
Woe to that hour, when mad ambition's call
Resounded first through Sion's peaceful hall;
When Suffolk, urg'd by thine ambitious sire,
To England's throne first bade his child aspire;

Heav'n knows how oft--how fervently I pray'd
They would not drag me from the grateful shade,
Nor force their daughter with reluctant hand
To grasp the doubtful sceptre of the land!
How long Northumberland implored in vain--
Entreated--menac'd--threaten'd o'er again;
How long I wrestled with his stubborn will--
Vain all my prayers, my tears yet vainer still,
And when at length, on ev'ry side assail'd,
A parent's influence o'er my heart prevail'd--
When filial duty, urg'd beyond controul,
First wrung the weak compliance from my soul,
Thou saw'st the bitter flood of tears I shed--
Thou knew'st in secret, how my bosom bled;
Whilst my presaging heart, in wild despair,
Could only vent its agonies in pray'r!

Alas! how short the interval between
The captive rebel, and th' anointed queen!

How near allied, my short-liv'd pow'r hath shown,
The traitor's dungeon to the monarch's throne!
No more of this--since now condemn'd to die,
I fain would meet my fate without a sigh!
And meekly bending 'neath the Chast'ner's rod,
Prepare my parting soul to meet her God!
O if to him my ev'ry thought be giv'n--
If my firm faith and hope have rest in Heav'n,
Religion's aid shall moral force supply,
And teach a trembling woman how to die!
With tranquil pulse shall nerve her feeble heart,
In her last hour to act the hero's part!
Fir'd with the thought--e'en now--e'en now I feel
A holier fervour through my bosom steal,
So soon to soar beyond the world's control,--
A martyr's raptures elevate my soul!
No chilling dread, no doubting fears are mine,
My heart undaunted, waits th' appointed sign;

And when with solemn sound, the deep-ton'd bell
Shall warn me to the block--that fatal knell,
That harbinger of death, shall only prove
A welcome summons to the realms above!
This blood, this guiltless blood, so soon to flow,
With livelier transport in my veins shall glow;
E'en as to Heav'n my eyes, my heart, I raise,
Then on the deadly axe triumphant gaze,
A Saviour's aid--a Saviour's name invoke,
And bare my neck to meet the fatal stroke!

O then! since thus resign'd to yield my breath,
My chasten'd spirit calmly looks on death,
Why should we meet? What can it now avail,
Our latest hour with tempting strife to assail?
O why each agonizing pang renew?
Why dash each glorious prospect from my view?
Why wake again the murmur scarce forgiv'n,
Or chain to earth--a spirit wing'd for heav'n?

The parting scene, alas! would only prove
The heart that fear'd not death--might melt to love!
One fond embrace would call me back to life,
And all the Christian vanish in the wife!
Whilst gazing wildly on that dear loved face,
How would my beating heart the past retrace!
One fatal hour might heav'nly dreams dispel,
And bid my wav'ring heart once more rebel;
One tender smile would make me thine again,
And prove each late resolve, each struggle, vain!
Might rouse th' unhallow'd sigh--the vain regret--
Recalling all--the dying should forget;
Religion's self too weak a shield might be,
The heart which brav'd the axe--might yield to thee!

Then let us meet no more! 'twere worse than vain
To stir the tempest of our souls again!

'Twere wiser far, to give to pray'r alone
Those few brief hours we yet may call our own.
Then may we fondly hope--our sins forgiv'n--
Our souls releas'd may wing their flight to heav'n!
Till death alone we part!--a moment's space,
And we shall meet before the Throne of Grace!
That fatal stroke which ends our brief career,
Confirms our union in a worthier sphere;
'Tis but one bitter pang--that moment o'er,
No vengeful tyrant shall divide us more;
Pride--hate--ambition--all must yield their sway
To that dread power whom nature's laws obey;
His voice divine shall sanctify our love,
Refin'd and purified in realms above!
Of saints and angels there, a glorious band,
With golden censers round the throne shall stand!
From burning incense fragrant fumes shall rise,
And clouds of wreathing smoke pervade the skies;

Seraphs with golden wings shall fan the flame,
And loudly shout their great Creator's name;
Whilst heav'n's high vaults with sacred echoes ring,
As countless millions hail th' Eternal King!

June, 1830.

THE POSTMAN.

WITH beating heart, and trembling hope elate,
The youthful Lucy at her casement sate,
Full to her view the neighbouring hamlet rose,
Whose modest spire the circling trees enclose,
The moss-grown pathway winds the yews among,
And skirts the church with clust'ring ivy hung;
Death's grey memorials thickly studded round,
Tell who repose beneath each grassy mound;
These to the heart their solemn warning strike,
Here youth and age may read their fate alike!
Yet, in the spring of life, unus'd to ill,
Deluded mortals cling to pleasure still,

Still in the future trust--o'erlook the past,
Nor dream their sunny skies shall e'er o'ercast;
Onward they press, till, with resistless force,
The grave alone can check their madd'ning course!
This very hour, there breathes a gentle heart,
To whom these solemn scenes no gloom impart,
On one deep feeling all her soul intent,
Her speaking eyes are on that pathway bent--
But say--what means this tumult in her breast?
On whom do those dark eyes with fervour rest?
Nay--'tis not fondness--'tis the eager gaze,
Which doubt and ardent hope alone can raise;
No form belov'd those radiant orbs arrest,
Would his were near to calm that troubled breast!
Whose tardy footsteps doth that sigh reprove?
It chides the ling'ring messenger of love;
"Alas!" she cries--"and whence this sad delay,
Why fails he in his 'custom'd rounds to day?"

But now, at length, she thinks, with measur'd pace,
His dark'ning shadow on that path to trace,
"He comes! he comes!" th' enraptur'd Lucy cries,
And in her breast a thousand visions rise!
He nears the gate--athwart his shoulder borne
His 'custom'd satchell, negligently worn;
Oh! what a motley crowd of smiles and tears,
For many a heart all unconcern'd he bears--
What dreams of bliss! what agonizing pain,
What blighted hopes those various scrolls contain!
How many a gentle bosom soon shall bleed,
O'er the sad tale it longs, yet fears, to read!
With trembling grasp shall break the fatal seal,
Where some few lines the worst of woes reveal,
By dark foreboding fears already guess'd,
Whilst the first glance too well confirms the rest!
And now the fainting form, and wild despair,
May tell what vital hopes lay shiver'd there!

Say, what is Lucy's fate?--with lips apart--
With quick drawn breath, and wildly throbbing heart,
She lists the 'custom'd signal to await--
Hark! no! he comes not--heavens! he past the gate;
And can it be? And doth no hope remain?
And hath each anxious wish been nurs'd in vain?
"Alas!" she cries, "is this the blissful day
I vainly hop'd would every care repay?
Is this that hour my heart hath longed to see--
That look'd for dawn of promis'd bliss to me?
And hath it ris'n, at length, with roseate hue,
But to defraud each hope my bosom knew?
How have I pray'd that Time, with swifter wing,
Would haste his flight Love's tender scroll to bring?
But now I fain could wish his course more slow,
Had still delay'd to teach me all my woe.

Doom'd to neglect, a prey to anxious pain,
Heart sick'ning sorrow chills thro' ev'ry vein!"
Thus Lucy said--when lo! her colour fails,
And a faint tremor through her limbs prevails,
Her quiv'ring lip, her half closed eyes, betray
That her weak frame must yield to feeling's sway,
A death-like paleness reigns upon her brow,
All nature's functions seem suspended now:
At length a sigh, as though her heart had burst,
Breaks from her tight-bound breast,--'twas then that first
She op'd her languid eyes, and gaz'd around--
And e'en as if that effort had unbound
Nature's best aid and soother of our grief,
Tears came at length to grant their kind relief,
And ease the burden of that breast forlorn,
Long doom'd, alas! o'er faithless love to mourn.

DESCRIPTION OF AN OLD MAN,

WITH trembling gait, and languid form he came,
And 'gainst that column leant his feeble frame,
Scarce could his aged limbs their burden bear,
To keep his sabbath in the house of prayer,
Yet would he still, by one last effort, prove
The christian tribute of his faith and love!
As tho' he to his Maker fain would give
The little all of life he had to live.
Upon that hollow cheek and sunken eye,
There dwelt a something that can never die!
That holy aspect to a spirit giv'n,
That vibrates on the verge of earth and heav'n!

That smile triumphant o'er terrestrial pain,
Secure in Christ immortal bliss to gain;
Now tremulously weak he strives to raise
His feeble voice in heavenly notes of praise;
But vain, alas! each faint attempt he made,
Exhausted nature still refused her aid!
Deeply he sigh'd--but check'd the starting tear,
Nor did one murmuring plaint arrest the ear;
One hectic flush, that lit his pallid cheek,
The transient combat of his soul might speak,
O'er which, if earth had yet one moment's sway,
The next his spirit chasm that gloom away,
As with uplifted heart to Heav'n he pray'd,
And "May thy will be done!" devoutly said.

THE RECLUSE,

FOR pity's sake, forbear--nor ask the woes
Which mark'd a wretched life that soon must close!
Griefs which embitter'd all my earliest days,
And chang'd for cypress--laurel wreaths and bays;
These, these it was, that in an evil hour,
Mov'd my rash purpose with resistless power,
Madly to risk my all of earthly bliss
For dreams of peace--for solitude like this!
Here ev'ry object that arrests my eyes,
Bids my regrets in mournful train arise:
The warbling birds that sport on yonder tree
Awaken all my woes, for they are free--

The sportive kids that rambling stray from home,
Make my heart weep, that I no more may roam:
The lively tenants of earth, air, and sea,
All speak of liberty, and point at--me!
Each hour, that slowly drags its lengthening chain
Wakes a faint hope that does but mock my pain;
First bids me weep, then says my tears are vain,
Fix'd is my fate, nor hopes of change remain!
Patience and time, which to each other ill
Bring sure relief, my cup of sorrow fill!
With blighted hopes the setting sun I see,
The dawn may rise but all in vain for me;
No bright'ning prospects can the future yield,
Life is a blank, my wretched doom is seal'd,
And that which weighs the heaviest on my heart,
Is that 'neath self-created wounds I smart;
Forc'd by no cruel friends to speak the vows
Which lips pronounce, but conscience disallows,

'Twas I alone who doom'd my life's decline
Within Camaldule's walls immur'd to pine,
'Twas I that to my aged heart denied
The dear delights to social bliss allied;
And banish'd far from ev'ry human eye,
Unwept--unpitied--here at length must die!
My languid eyes no anxious friends shall close,
Nor flowers upon my grave with care dispose;
Far from the land interr'd which gave me birth,
By captive brethren grudg'd this mound of earth,
Which, from the narrow precincts of their field,
To my cold ashes they reluctant yield;
No proud inscription shall my name disclose,
No marble tell whose bones may here repose;
But by the world forgotten or despised,
That vainly warn'd--in vain, alas! advis'd:
Whilst on my mould'ring limbs the worms shall prey,
My name and mem'ry shall alike decay.

Nor these alone the griefs at which I pine,
Tho' these might break a stouter heart than mine,
No! that which points more sure the fatal dart,
Which strikes the deadliest dagger to my heart,
Is that this sacrifice no merit pleads,
Sloth and seclusion are no Christian deeds.
This exile warring against common sense,
Argues no virtue, but a new offence,
Condemn'd by him whom heav'n and earth obey,
Unlike the doctrine which his words convey,
Where active virtue forms the mighty plan,
And social charity 'twixt man and man--
Where shall I find a solace to my woes?
How check the tide of sorrow as it flows?
Against all precepts human and divine,
E'en to the latest hour of life's decline,
Ne'er shall I cease that madness to deplore,
By which, self-exil'd on a foreign shore,

No hope remains, but in my God above,
Who blends with justice, lenity and love--
From Him alone my bleeding heart shall crave
Pardon and mercy, and an early grave!
And O! may ye, whose friends around you rise,
Who taste those joys which I have learnt to prize,
Ye, on whose steps love, hope, and pleasure wait,
Value such blessings ere 'tis yet too late--
Think on my fate, my rash example flee--
Raise songs to freedom! and breathe sighs for me!

Naples, March 17th, 1822.

WRITTEN AT PISA.

PISA farewell! the golden Arno still
Shall lave thy walls, and all thy fountains fill,
But I shall wander on thy banks no more,
Nor linger musing on thy well-known shore,
No longer gaze in silence on thy stream,
By night illumin'd with the moonlight beam,
No more shall mark the shelt'ring mountain's height,
Which hides fair Lucca from the Pisan's sight.*
Land of the olive! harbinger of peace!
Oh! may this grateful emblem never cease
To deck thy vallies, and adorn the plain,
'Twixt Pisa's walls, and the Tyrrhenian main.

In peace let hapless Ugolino rest,
Tho' after death by tyrant rage opprest,
His barb'rous murd'rers in their fury blind,
His lifeless limbs to infamy consign'd,
And e'en around his neck a chain affix,*
Lest his freed soul recross the fatal Styx,
Escape from Charon, to avenge its wrongs,
Resume the shape to which its wrath belongs--
Burst from the tomb, inflam'd with fury dire,
On his foul murd'rers vent his tenfold ire--
Light on their guilty heads with matchless hate,
And to each foe assign Ruggieri's fate!
Could not thy sorrows with more pity meet
In that rude iron age, than at thy feet
Thus to be forc'd to see thy babes expire;
Their only crime--to own thee for their sire!

Whate'er thy guilt, thy children yet were free,
What cruel mandate bade them die with thee?
Thou who so oft the tempest's rage did brave,
And fac'd the perils of a wat'ry grave.
Ah! why thus doom'd by cruel fate to miss
A glorious death--to meet an end like this?
Happy had ocean's deep vouchsaf'd a tomb,
And thus have sav'd thee from a dungeon's gloom.
* Perche i Pisan veder Lucca non ponno --Dante . * When the body of the unfortunate Count Ugolino was discovered last year, a chain was found attached to the corpse.--Jan . 1820.
Jan. 1820.

PAST JOYS.

WHEN friends have left us--when no more we hear
Their much-lov'd voices strike the list'ning ear,
When moments, hours, and days e'en glide away,
Uncheer'd by friendship's smile--life's brightest ray,
Hush'd every sound in haunts where pleasure reign'd,
And social converse shed a charm unfeign'd,
Where talents bright, with genius in their train,
Crown'd those blest hours we ne'er may know again:
Oh then shall mem'ry yield us pain and grief,
Retracing hours of bliss, alas! so brief,
And yet ne'er valued rightly till they fled,
And left the earth to slumber with the dead.

When the swift wings of time have far remov'd
Friends--peaceful homes--all, all that we have lov'd,
With sad regret we dwell, and anguish keen,
On joys of other days that once have been,
And blest us--yet e'en now amidst the gloom
Which recollection casts around the tomb,
The mind may draw a transient, faint, relief,
To soothe its anguish, and disarm its grief,
There is a melancholy pleasure, still,
Which hangs around past joys, no grief can chill,--
Oh! it is like the sun's last setting ray,
Which gilds the evening of a clear, bright day,
And lingers yet to shed its latest gleam,
Since night's dark mantle soon must cloud its beam;
And this we now may taste, tho' pleasure fail
To cheer the scenes where we shall spread our sail;
As our frail bark perchance shall onward glide,
Borne o'er the surface of life's ebbing tide,

Tho' storms shall drive it with resistless force,
And boist'rous winds obstruct its humble course,
Remembrance still may rouse a golden dream,
Rich as the sands of fam'd Pactolus' stream,
And tho' the sun of happier days be set,
Still from our hearts we'll banish vain regret,
Each over-anxious, worldly thought dismiss,
And reason calmly on terrestrial bliss,
Still cling with fondness to the friends we love,
Yet fix our firmest thoughts on things above.

Rome, 1820.

MOLA DI GAETA.

[Lines 7 and 8 have been crossed out in the original printed edition, perhaps by the author. They are included below. Ed.]

I VIEW'D thee, Mola, by the moon's pale light,
Lovely and calm, yet not in beauty bright,
As when Aurora, with her purple hue,
Set forth thy modest graces to our view,
Lit up thy charms, then more than heav'nly bright,
And ting'd thy mountains with a golden light;
Fast in his cave the wind Eölus bound,
And sav'd thee from each slight intruding sound;
No breath escap'd to agitate the air,
But grace and beauty reign'd in silence there,
E'en the rude ocean whose tumultuous roar
With deaf'ning clamour strikes each neighbouring shore,

Here hush'd and captive rolls no longer free,
But chain'd and silent yields its power to thee,
Here each proud wave uncurls its tow'ring head,
And scarcely undulates the ocean's bed,
Whilst still as nearer they approach the land,
More smooth th' unruffled waters wide expand,
Till as a glassy lake their surface shines,
Which on each side thy woody bank confines.

June 1820.

ADDRESSED TO LADY F. M.

THIS flow'r I gather'd in th' Elysian fields,
    Freddy, with fondest hope I send to thee,
That the pure, fragrant breath its perfume yields,
    May waft their fabled happiness to thee.

Yet may thy life no poet's fable prove,
    Thy future lot no dream of bliss divine,
But true and lasting as Eliza's love,
    Each feign'd delight be realized in thine.

Campi Elisei, May 22, 1820.

ADDRESSED TO ITALY.

FAREWELL , Ausonia! fading from my view,
From Simplon's height receive my last adieu!
May heaven protect thee, lov'd, and beauteous land,
From the fierce tyrant's sacrilegious hand,
And save its fairest, and its fav'rite child,
From hordes of rude barbarians, fiercely wild,
And grant thee force and courage to oppose
The yoke of bondage, and a host of foes;
Tho' now so humbled, thy once glorious head
If not to ev'ry sense of feeling dead,
Thou yet canst boast, tho' of all else bereft,
In honour's cause one warm pulsation left--
Rouse thee, Italia! for thy children's sake,
From thy disgraceful lethargy awake!

Think on thy former glories, now no more,
And be again what thou hast been before.
Awake, Italia! from thy shameful rest,
List to the cries of innocence opprest,
Wake to the sound of freedom's latest call,
'Tis her last gasp, be free--or greatly fall!
Once more, farewell! I leave thine Alpine snows,
By nature plac'd a barrier 'gainst thy foes,
Thy mountain torrents and thy dark ravines,
Thy fertile plains, and all the various scenes
In which fond nature loves to see thee drest,
Shall ever on my grateful mem'ry rest,
And a new link shall each remembrance be,
To enforce the chain which binds my soul to thee;
Yet now I quit thy charms without a sigh,
And calmly view them fading from my eye,
Can bear to gaze, tho' day's declining ray
Lend its last gleam, and now they fade away--

Yet this affects me not, a stronger tie
Now bids my willing footsteps onward fly,
Homeward I turn to greet my native shore,
Free from the mountain blast and torrent's roar,
Fantastic nature in a foreign clime
May pierce the soul with greatness more sublime,
Frown from amidst her rocks, ope wide her jaws,
Defiance bid to her most sacred laws,
Doom her own offspring to the dire embrace,
And in one ruin swallow up her race* --
This has no charms for me--I love her best,
When deck'd in smiles, all nature seems at rest,
And dearer far to me the peaceful scene
Of Britain's fertile valleys, cloth'd in green;
Its healthy meadows and productive soil,
Whose plenty soon rewards the lab'rer's toil,
Whose daily task perform'd, he sinks to rest,
Nor dreads the neighbouring mountain's nodding crest;

Oh! blest Britannia--freedom's sacred isle!
Long on thy shores may Heav'n vouchsafe to smile,
Still on thy favour'd head new blessings send,
And from all foes thy sea-girt plains defend.
* Martigny.
May 4, 1821.

THE EFFECTS OF ABSENCE.

POETS may sing, and friends may swear, that love
Is only taught by absence to improve,
That friendship shall its pristine warmth retain,
And still unchang'd, thro' ages shall remain;
But trust not this delusive, dear deceit--
'Tis rarely thus long parted friends shall meet;
The world hath been too busy since that hour
When parting friendship brav'd its heartless pow'r,
Habit no longer can exert its sway,
Nor rule the thoughts and actions of the day;
New friends, new customs in their turn control,
And new impressions agitate the soul.
And is it true, the world can thus destroy
Each blessed prospect of domestic joy?

And can it teach to hearts, once warm and true,
To change their feelings and their native hue?
With heartless, cold, averted gaze to turn
From those whose long-tried friendship now they spurn,
To wear a frigid and ungenial air
Towards those whose sentiments they cease to share?
Hearts that with theirs in unison had beat
Full many a year, with careless glance to greet,
Each warm emotion from their breasts to chase,
Of early friendships banish ev'ry trace,
Themselves--their feelings--to the world resign,
And sacrifice their hearts at fashion's shrine?
O! could these hearts the glitt'ring phantom know,
For whom the joys of friendship they forego,
How false, how treacherous--their idol's love
Shall soon to its deluded vot'ries prove!

How soon its fav'ring smiles, from them withdrawn,
Shall court new triflers, skill'd alike to fawn;
How in their hour of grief and heartfelt pain,
Cold and indiff'rent shall the world remain,
And turn with careless heart and tearless eye
From the sad tale of all their misery!
Then would they learn those faithful hearts to prize,
Whose truth untainted by the world shall rise,
O'er whom ingratitude disowns the power
To render callous in affliction's hour;
Who, firm and fond, in conscious virtue drest,
Forgive the frailties of a contrite breast,
With eager zeal forestall the suppliant's pray'r,
The broken ties of friendship to repair,
With soothing kindness, love and pity blend,
And hail with rapture a returning friend,
Nor other boon their faithful hearts implore,
Than to be lov'd--as they were lov'd before!

March, 1824.

ADDRESSED TO MRS. H. G----N,

WHAT , tho' the adverse fates should linger still
A parent's fondest wishes to fulfil,
And still refuse, regardless of thy prayer,
To crown thy hopes, and bless thee with an heir,
Lament not, Mary, that, decreed above,
Another daughter claims a mother's love!
To more ambitious man the wish resign
To see his name adorn a num'rous line.
Be thine, my fair, the more endearing part
To tend thy babe, and form her infant heart,
Nor deem the culture of a female mind
A thankless labour--useless to mankind;

Beauty may win, and grace attract the eye,
But virtue only lifts the soul on high!
If thy fair infant own her mother's face,
If she inherit half her mother's grace,
If in her dawning mind the promise be
Of all those virtues which unite in thee,
In future years, perchance, this fruitful soil
Shall yield a golden harvest to thy toil,
And her soft influence in the land be felt,
When some proud heart beneath her charms shall melt;
Haply the flame her virtues shall inspire,
May in her country's cause some patriot fire.
To noblest energies his soul awake,
And bid the senate with his thunders shake,
Till, like her grandsire, he'll bequeath a name
To link his mem'ry with his country's fame!

Sept. 1829

MONODY ON MY DEAR FATHER,
EDWARD, LORD ELLENBOROUGH.

YE who have mourn'd o'er life's departing breath,
And view'd the sad and solemn scene of death,
Whilst hanging still o'er him whose soul is fled,
Have ye not felt the awful, silent dread,
Which strikes the soul as we in vain deplore
His loss, whose presence ne'er can cheer us more!
Those eyes are closed, whose fond approving glance
Could once the bliss of each gay joy enhance;
Those lips are seal'd--where truth for ever reign'd,
Where wisdom dwelt, and piety unfeign'd!
Cold is that heart, whence goodness ever flow'd,
Where virtue, life, and feeling warmly glow'd--

That heart is cold where justice held her sway,
Whose righteous dictates virtue lov'd t' obey,
E'en vice abash'd, its sacred force confess'd,
And suff'ring innocence her champion blest!
Stranger to art, disdaining vain parade,
Unmov'd by interest, ne'er by flatt'ry sway'd,
With zeal untir'd maintaining virtue's cause,
When daring vice presum'd t' infringe her laws,
Religion's staff, morality's defence,
Endow'd with talents rare, and soundest sense,
His chief, his constant aim, the public good,
Dauntless 'midst censure and applause he stood!
Reason would soon his transient wrath subdue,
His christian bosom never vengeance knew;
He felt an insult, but reveng'd it not,
Th' offender pardon'd, and th' offence forgot;
Prompt to acknowledge if himself he err'd,
From gen'rous candour ne'er by pride deterr'd,

A heart that tenderness at once could melt,
Where ev'ry kinder, gentler feeling dwelt,--
Such was the father whom we now bewail,
But what can tears or poignant grief avail?
Can they recall him to this earth again?
False, flatt'ring hope! ah! wherefore art thou vain?
Yet wish it not!--nor mourn his trial o'er,
Since pain can wound, nor anguish grieve him more;
Whilst all those virtues which adorn'd him here
Will prove his passport to a worthier sphere!
For earth too pure, above this dark abyss
His soul was summon'd to etherial bliss;
Confided now to blessed angels' care,
He lives again their lasting joys to share!
Since hopes like these the righteous souls await,
From earth translated to a glorious state,

Let us no more our fruitless hours consume
In vain lament, but teach our grief to assume
A nobler character, a loftier tone,
More worthy him whose spirit hence is flown;
His actions imitate, his virtues tell,
And with delight on all his merits dwell,
Rais'd above earth and ev'ry earth-born care,
For Heav'n's eternal joys our souls prepare,
Till ev'ry feeling, taught on high to soar,
Our hearts shall taste of bliss unknown before.

St. James's Square, Dec. 1818.

TO 1818 AND 1819.

ADIEU ! thou'rt fled--thy days are told!
    Another comes on swiftest wings,
And like the Phoenix, fam'd of old,
    Thy offspring from thy ashes springs!

Thou'rt come--but whether 'tis design'd
    In joy to smile--in grief to sigh!
Submissive, to my fate resign'd,
    His Will be done, who reigns on high!

ON THE DEATH OF E. A. TOWRY.

CHECK not the tear which Grief and Nature crave,
To bathe so fair an infant's early grave;
But let the Christian's hope our fears disarm,
Our anguish soothe, and chase all vain alarm;
Let Resignation's hand unlink the chain
By Sorrow weav'd, and mitigate our pain;
Teach our wild grief with gentler tide to flow,
And bless His Name who dealt the fatal blow.
For tho' from mortal eyes are oft conceal'd
His ways divine, enough has been reveal'd
To make us rest contented with our state,
Since Mercy guides the hand that rules our fate.

Had her frail thread of life been longer spun,
Nor yet so soon had set her dawning sun,
We cannot say how long the transient gleam
Had shone propitious on life's chequer'd stream;
What griefs had haply check'd its troubled course,
And dimm'd a stream so limpid at its source.
But now we trust a soul so young, so pure,
Hath wing'd its flight above this world obscure;
Refin'd from earthly dross, now heav'nly bright,
Will rest for ever in the realms of light!
Let not blind mortals then presume to raise
Their humble accents but in notes of praise;
With grateful hearts that heav'nly Pow'r revere,
Who gave us being, and who placed us here;
Whate'er our lot, repress the murm'ring sigh,
And live like Christians--and like Christians die.

Basle, Sept. 1819.

REFLECTIONS
ON A LIFE OF DISSIPATION.

HOW poor the joys those hapless mortals taste
Who still in Folly's train their moments waste;
In Pleasure's giddy round unpleas'd they mix,
Nor find one object which their hearts can fix,
Whilst each new day the idle hours are past
In joyless retrospection of the last.
Lost to all real bliss and true content,
The mind grows weak, and all its pow'rs are spent;
A mere existence is to them decreed,
Fearing to inspect too close the life they lead;
They hurry wildly on, their only thought
Bent on that happiness so vainly sought;

And whilst they marvel that they find it not,
Ne'er think to blame themselves, but curse their lot;
Or fancy still, some joy not yet possest
Would fill the craving in their aching breast,
That when acquir'd but leaves a craving still,
Which pleasures vain like these can never fill;
Till the worn mind, exhausted, pants for rest,
By false enjoyment vanquish'd and opprest.

MELANCHOLY THOUGHTS AT PISA.

IF tears could speak the grief I feel,
    The weight with which my heart's opprest,
My weeping eyes would soon reveal
    The anguish lab'ring at my breast.

Ah! they would tell how ev'ry hour
    With heavier footstep stalks along,
Yet they must ever want the pow'r
    To say what griefs to each belong.

But feeling hearts no impulse need
    To comprehend a soul's distress,
That pierced with Sorrow's dart may bleed,
    Tho' language fail its wounds t' express.

Then sympathetic souls extend
    To soothe a heart yet new to grief;
That pity thou alone canst send,

[In the original printed edition, the word "send" in this line has been changed to "lend" in contemporary manuscript hand, possibly the author's. Ed.]

But sanguine youth no more indulge

[In the original printed edition, the word "But" in this line has been changed to "Bid" in contemporary manuscript hand, possibly the author's. Ed.]

Teach it with firmness to discard
    The cherish'd error from its mind;
Think, if the effort cost thee hard,
    'Tis always pain to couch the blind.

Thus undeceiv'd, 'twill learn to know,
    Ere sad experience prove the truth,
How vain, how false the glitt'ring show
    That wins the breast of fervent youth.

It cannot check the tide of grief,
    Nor yet avert Affliction's dart;
It cannot e'er impart relief
    When under Sorrow's sting we smart--

For human nature's still the same,
    To earth-born evils ever prone,
Which cheat the promise youth may claim,
    And change its notes to Sorrow's tone.

And tho' its buoyant spirit rise
    Fresh from beneath Affliction's stroke,
Soon this elastic fervour dies,
    By griefs repeated, crush'd and broke.

And then, oh then, 'twill weeping own
    The fallacy of worldly bliss,
And rue the glare which glitt'ring shone
    To guide it t'wards the dread abyss.

But timely warn'd its path to flee,
    Youth may with calmness glide along;
And humbly bear, if Fate decree,
    The woes which to our state belong.

Pisa, Nov. 1819.

FAREWELL TO LONDON.

THOU flatt'ring, false, deceitful world--adieu!
Now have I trod thy motley stage anew,
Shar'd each delight thy festive scenes could yield,
And each new haunt have tried in pleasure's field,
But still unchang'd, I look on all thy joys,
Ill form'd to yield content--thy sweetness cloys;
The heart but sickens o'er thy follies vain,
And counts the hours thus idly spent in vain,
Hours in which mem'ry's efforts lie unblest,
One thought to trace or new idea exprest,
Where ev'ry taste must bow 'neath fashion's sway,
And court the hackney'd smiles that round her play,

Each object that her partial favour shares,
Seen thro' her glass, a diff'rent aspect wears;
Art mimics nature--naiveté is art,
And all her vot'ries act a studied part:
Those whom her frowns condemn they freely blame,
And to the skies extol her minion's name;
Yet hapless mortals, vain of such applause,
Submissive yield to her tyrannic laws,
Nor blush their lives by such deceit to guide,
But madly in her treach'rous smiles confide.
Awake! each slumb'ring menial of her train,
Nor doom experience still to plead in vain,
Her's is the voice of wisdom and of truth,
A prophet own'd by age--tho' scorn'd by youth!
'Tis thy own cause she pleads with ardent zeal,
And as a parent makes the fond appeal;
Fain would she rouse thee from thy slipp'ry state,
Ere strength'ning errors circumscribe thy fate,

Ere yet the witchcraft which allures thy heart,
Its vital streams infect with deadliest art,
Corrupt the liquid currents as they flow,
And doom thee to eternity, of woe!

1821.

PORTRAIT OF LADY ----.

ENDOW'D with beauty of that kind
Which seems to speak the feeling mind,
In whose soft eye are seen exprest
The workings of her gentle breast,
Wherein, if pleasure hold her sway,
Her eyes dart forth a bright'ning ray,
And with such living lustre beam
That more than human oft they seem:
But didst thou view her in that hour,
When tyrant grief exerts his pow'r,
When hope and joy have given way
To pensive meditation's sway,
Too sadly would her eyes express
Too feelingly her soul's distress;

Yet would I not exchange one sigh
Breath'd in that hour when none were by,
For all the smiles which beauty wears,
When freest from heart-rending cares;
For lovelier far I deem her now,
With that expression on her brow
Of mild endurance, silent woe,
Disdaining ostentatious show,
Than when, in livelier mood perchance,
She casts around the quick'ning glance;
As in mid-day the blazing sun,
Ere half his course he yet has run,
Darts all around his piercing rays,
Too dazzling far for human gaze;
Tho' then in majesty array'd,
Less pleasing than that soften'd shade,
We view, when, at the daylight's close
Th' effulgent brightness milder grows,

And we can mark his fading ray,
Till, cloth'd in night, he sinks away.

Her aspect wore a stately grace,
Which suited well her beauteous face,
Yet temper'd with that softness mild,
By nature lent the artless child,
And when engag'd in converse sweet,
With those she lov'd, whose hearts could meet,
Each gentle feeling she exprest
As it arose within her breast,
Her eye the quick expression caught,
And of itself half spoke the thought.

She was romantic, some would say,
Because she had more heart than they,
And oft dissatisfied she stole
From joys ungenial to her soul,

When as her tears in silence flow,
With secret hope her heart would glow,
That haply she ere long might find
A gen'rous heart, a feeling mind,
That corresponding with her own,
Had all the gentler feelings known,
In temper firm at duty's call,
In social converse, mildness all,
In sweet alliance with that soul,
In joys sublime her years might roll,
With that all sympathetic breast,
Her's might, whene'er with grief opprest,
Divide the anxious wish, and share
Each tender hope that linger'd there;
Such hearts thus link'd in friendship's chain,
The world's mean joys might well disdain,
And to its cares indiff'rent grown
Live in each other's hearts alone,

Till that still hour when life's bright day
Shoots forth its last declining ray,
Then join'd in calm and fervent pray'r,
Religion's peaceful joys they share,
Before th' Almighty low they bend,
And blessings for their earthly friend
Invoking with their parting breath,
Smile on each other e'en in death.

THERÉSE.

URGE me no more! thy prayer is vain,
Too deep within my suffering heart
Sorrow hath fix'd her with'ring dart--
I cannot meet the world again!

I cannot tread the festive hall,
I cannot join the glitt'ring throng;
The midnight dance, the once-lov'd song,
Would now too many a pang recall.

The laugh, the jest, I there might hear,
With bitter taunt would seem to say,
"Can sounds like these chase grief away,
"Unwelcome guest! what dost thou here?"

To check the o'ermast'ring tide of woe,
Vain would each borrow'd art appear;
Smiles cannot chase the struggling tear--
The fount when full must needs o'erflow.

My brow of gloom would all in vain
A smoother surface strive to wear,
For lines of care are graven there,
Too deep to be effaced again!

Then wherefore seek the haunts of men,
I am not as I was of old;
The die is cast--my heart is cold--
It cannot wake to life again!

LINES ADDRESSED TO F. S. L.

I MAY have seen a fairer face,
    E'en gazed upon a brighter eye,
But ne'er on brows where I might trace
    A kindlier glance of sympathy.

And tho' thy features may not boast
    The symmetry of ancient art,
They own those charms I value most,
    A beauty springing from the heart.

Which if by casual grief enhanced,
    It bring th' angelic mind to view,
Then the rapt soul may gaze entranc'd
    On charms of more than earthly hue.

They wear a smile by Nature lent,
    A grace that breathes in them alone,
To mortal eyes by angels sent,
    To link our nature with their own.

They speak the peaceful, humble mind
    To piety and virtue giv'n,
'Till by such purity refin'd,
    Our thoughts are rais'd from earth to heav'n!

Rome, April 6th, 1822.

ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

O SAY , what varied feelings at the tale
    Of Byron's death, in British hearts shall spring?
And can it be, the sad event shall fail
    O'er some cold breasts a transient gloom to fling?

Shall not each human heart to feeling born,
    In one deep sentiment of grief unite?
Whilst round the tomb where weeping muses mourn,
    Genius and freedom shall to fame excite?

Alas! there breathes too many a spirit frail,
    From whose cold ear the news shall pass away,
Who scarce shall mark the melancholy tale,
    Nor own a feeling which survives the day!

Others again, whose sterner minds are prone
    The darkest side of human hearts to scan,
Shall dwell with rigour on his faults alone,
    And scorn the bard--in hatred to the man!

To those whose breasts the love of genius fires,
    Temper'd by Virtue's firm despotic reign,
A mingled sentiment the bard inspires
    Of admiration, pity, and disdain!

O'er ill directed feelings now they mourn,
    And grieve to mark how Vice exerts her sway,
And weep that hearts to better feelings born,
    Should thus by Passion's force be led astray.

For who can say, how fair the plant had thriv'n,
    Had early culture bless'd the fruitful soil;
What promise fair each op'ning bud had giv'n,
    To pay with usury the lab'rer's toil?

Of magic eloquence like his possess'd,
    Had all his talents been to Virtue giv'n,
Had sacred truths his pow'rful mind confess'd,
    What converts had he made from earth to heav'n!

Thousands might then have bless'd his honour'd name,
    And Britain proudly hail'd her darling son;
Whilst Virtue, borrowing the trump of Fame,
    Proclaim'd the victories her champion won!

Whate'er his faults, still Britain feels one tie
    To bind her closely to her child remains;
Wherever struggling Freedom rais'd her cry,
    His heart responsive echoed back the strains!

For when self-exil'd from his native land,
    A kindred feeling taught him there to roam,
Where Freedom's torch, by noble spirits fann'd,
    Still bade the British wand'rer think on home!

O may the land which heard his latest groan,
    No recreant to the cause of Freedom prove;
But whilst the "sons of Greece" his loss bemoan,
    Their latent energy his spirit move!

O may each torch that lights him to the grave
    Add freshened vigour to the gen'ral flame;
And e'en his ashes curse the tim'rous slave
    Whose servile heart ne'er wept his country's shame!

Still one there lives, whose fate to his was seal'd,
    By mutual vows--by men and angels heard!
Whom he had sworn to succour and to shield,
    Till death should loose the oath his lips preferr'd!

And shall she mourn o'er his untimely fate,
    On whom the darkest of his faults hath shone?
Ordained the suffering victim of his hate--
    Say, can her breast one tender feeling own?

Yes! she , the mother of his daughter, weeps!
    For tho' he long had broke each dearer tie,
In woman's heart each fiercer passion sleeps,
    Affection only there can never die!

ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF
"RIEGO."

WOULD ye know why an ass was employ'd to convey
To an infamous death the base Ferdinand's prey?
'Twas that Tyranny sought thro' the limits of Spain
For some beast of a nobler descent--but in vain!

For each steed, of a nature more gen'rous and brave,
Scorn'd "The Champion of Freedom" to drag to the grave;
Till an ass, whose dull spirit ill-usage had broke,
The true emblem of slavery--bent to the yoke!

London, Nov. 1823.

ADDRESSED TO F. H. L.
WHEN SHE COMPLETED HER SEVENTEENTH YEAR,

SINCE then to me devolves a task,
    That well might claim a gifted ken,
A lovelier theme I could not ask
    T' inspire a humble poet's pen.

As late I mark'd thy sparkling eye,
    The soul that lived in every glance,
And watch'd thy fairy footsteps fly,
    As music wak'd th' enliv'ning dance;

My roving fancy lov'd to trace
    A vision of thy future years,
And gazing on thy joyous face,
    My bosom throbb'd with hopes and fears!

Yes, new to life, each varied joy
    To thee one bright illusion seems;
Thou know'st not that delight can cloy,
    And grief dispel our brightest dreams.

'Tis hard to think a form so fair,
    The ills of life should ever know;
That bosom be a prey to care,
     Those radiant eyes with grief o'erflow!

Tho' Virtue's self, to aid each strife,
    Within thy breast shall plant her shrine,
When launch'd upon the sea of life,
    I tremble for a heart like thine!

Yet wherefore on a day like this,
    When all should seem as bright as thee,
Indulge in aught but dreams of bliss,
    And sounds of mirth and revelry?

It is not meet, in darksome mood,
    The bard should thus thy visions cloud;
On this thy brightest hour intrude,
    And life's gay hopes in sorrow shroud.

Then O! whene'er thy blissful doom
    Shall claim my sounding lyre again,
For thee I'll chase a poet's gloom,
    For thee awake a livelier strain!

And now my pray'rs I waft on high,
    That countless years of bliss be thine!
And nurse a hope, and breathe a sigh,
    That one sweet smile may yet be mine!

Feb. 11th, 1829. Signed ----.

THERÉSE.

INDULGE fond hopes, if yet thou mayst,
    'Tis long since mine were chill'd;
My heart is but a dreary waste,
    With gloomy visions filled.

Each brighter prospect dash'd to earth,
    Each gayer hope destroy'd,
The voice of grief has silenced mirth,
    And left my breast a void!

LINES,
SUPPOSED TO BE ADDRESSED BY CORINNE TO LORD NELVIL,
ON RETURNING THE RING.

TAKE back this pledge, in days of yore,
    Love's fondest, fairest, earliest token,
That dear--that madd'ning dream is o'er,
    Thy heart is chang'd!--and mine is broken!

It may not now with me remain,
    It could but serve anew to waken
The torturing pang that fires my brain,
    The deadly thought--that 'tis forsaken!

I know e'en yet, could pride allow,
    Thou'rt mine by oath!--attest it, Heav'n!
But I should scorn by plighted vow
    To bind a heart once freely giv'n.

Whilst burning drops mine eyelids lave,
    Thine image from my breast I'll sever,
Drown years of hope in Lethe's wave,
    And fling thee from my heart for ever!

[ALVINA.]

             Sospiri miei, dolorosi e tristi,
             Quanti ne mando giù che non son visti!

ALAS ! how many a mournful sigh
    In solitude my bosom heaves,
Without one human witness nigh,
    Whose sympathy my heart relieves.

Oh! if in joy 'tis bliss to know
    The heart that with our own can beat,
The bosom that with our's can glow,
    And fancy's fond illusions meet,

'Tis dearer far in sorrow's hour,
    When melancholy clouds the brow,
To feel that friendship owns the pow'r
    To bid our grief to reason bow;

O then 'tis luxury to feel
    One faithful breast our anguish share,
Assuage the pain it cannot heal,
    And check the madness of despair.

THE FAVOURITE OF NATURE.

THOSE care-worn looks of sorrow speak,
    Of chill'd affection--blighted love,
The tear which trembles on thy cheek,
    Might claim a sigh from saints above!

Say, was it 'neath some sudden blow,
    Thy over-anxious bosom bent,
That laid thy towering hopes so low,
    And all thy native vigour spent?

Oh! that had been a friendly stroke,
    Had spared my heart full many a pain,
For then--it must at once have broke,
    And I--had ne'er known grief again!

But no!--a harder fate was mine,
    Affection's withering gleam to mark--
To watch its gradual, slow decay.
    And view its latest glimm'ring spark!

Yet then!--when all was dark and chill!--
    And that lov'd heart was cold to me,
E'en then I felt--I priz'd it still,
    And wholly wean'd--I could not be!

For love like that which once I felt,
    In lines too lasting had been trac'd--
Too long had on my mem'ry dwelt
    To be by time's rude hand effac'd!

For as the troubled waves are seen,
    Tho' hush'd the storm, to tremble still,
E'en so the heart where love hath been,
    Can ne'er grow altogether chill.

Full many a year may glide away,
    Should Heav'n vouchsafe my life to save,
And still my unalter'd heart will say,
    It changes only in the grave!

August 29th, 1822.

THE PREFERENCE OF FEELING OVER
TALENT.

THERE are some o'er whose bosoms no feeling hath power,
    Who each softer expression disdain,
And who mock at the wretch if in misery's hour
    He should seek to give vent to his pain.
The sorrows they witness, but never can share,
    But to sallies of wit can give birth,
And the heart-rending accents thus wrung from despair,
    They but deem a fit subject for mirth.

To my bosom such laughter no bliss can impart,
    And with far dearer warmth it shall glow,

If one burst of true feeling escape from the heart,
    Than e'er wit's brightest flash could bestow.
From the lightness of spirit that baffles controul,
    From such heartlessness fain would I flee;
For the brightest of talents unlink'd with a soul,
    Will be ever unvalued by me.

THE PREFERENCE OF BEAUTY,
AS THE RESULT OF FEELING OVER THAT ARISING FROM
EXTREME YOUTH.

IN life's first spring, when all around is gay,
    And blest by Heav'n, the heart with rapture smiles;
In calm content existence rolls away,
    And youthful beauty all our care beguiles.

With fond delight on ev'ry glance we dwell,
    Each rip'ning grace that strikes the ravish'd eye
Her native bloom, her ev'ry beauty tell--
    Nor dream we e'er for other charms can sigh!

But there are moments when our hearts have felt
    That youth and beauty yield not all we ask;
And that the lovely shrine at which we knelt,
    Proves in our utmost need--a vacant mask.

If now, with grief oppress'd, our hearts should sink,
    Th' eternal smile no longer glads the eye;
And whilst from such ungenial mirth we shrink,
    For warmer, livelier feelings vainly sigh!

Oh! then we find the lily and the rose
    All insufficient in affliction's hour;
And e'en the childish bloom that health bestows
    A magic spell--now robb'd of all its pow'r!

Who would not change these transient, fragile charms
    For the high soul with lively feelings fraught;
Since grief at once their vaunted boast disarms,
    And proves, when sinking, at a reed we caught.

Favor'd by fortune, should our years extend
    Unchequer'd e'en by casual scenes of woe;
Yet e'en in bliss the heart demands a friend,
    And solitary joy disdains to know.

Vain then our hope, beneath the roseate bloom,
    Of childish infancy that soul to find,
Which blends alike with ours when Sorrow's gloom
    Or Hope's bright visions agitate the mind.

Perchance within the youthful bosom lurks
    The seed of all our fondest hopes demand;
Still it must share the fate of Nature's works,
    And wait th' appointed season to expand.

And tho' the first fresh smile of youth be past,
    The soul which then in ev'ry glance shall live,
Will o'er each charm a deeper int'rest cast,
    And to each grace a softer radiance give.

Sept. 2nd, 1822.

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN
OF SERAFINO AQUILANO.

EVERGREEN doth Hope appear,
Wrestling with our grief and fear;
        Every earthly bliss may fly,
        Hope alone can never die!

Fortune oft may bear away
Honours, titles, realms, and sway;
But no art hath power to steal
That which ev'ry pang can heal;
That which can our hearts sustain
Whilst Misfortune frowns in vain;
        Ev'ry earthly bliss may fly,
        Hope alone can never die!

Syrens sing when Ocean's breast
Trembles, by the storm opprest,
For to them the troubled sea
Yieldeth hope of joy and glee!
If with cruel fate we strive,
Hope can yet our heart revive;
        Ev'ry earthly bliss may fly,
        Hope alone can never die!

Soft and sweet, its sacred gleam
Care shall lighten, toil redeem;
Teaching us the seed to sow,
Whence the future crop shall grow;
Lending vigour, day by day,
To the mind that owns its sway;
        Ev'ry earthly bliss may fly,
        Hope alone can never die!

Hope the throneless king can cheer,
Hope can soothe the pris'ner's fear;
Bid the drowning man revive,
Bid the slave with fetters strive;
Doom'd to death, the felon still
Clings to hope, and fears no ill;
        Ev'ry earthly bliss may fly,
        Hope alone can never die!

When Despair asserts her sway,
Gentle Hope shall softly say:
"Cease, O mortals, to repine,
"Happier days shall yet be thine;
"Whilst the roots remain alive,
"Withered trees may yet revive;
        "Ev'ry earthly bliss may fly,
        "Hope alone can never die!"

Oft if dark despair assail,
Man would fain his life curtail,
Did not hope, with promise bright,
Check the soul's untimely flight,
Whisp'ring, grief, till past controul,
Still should scorn the sword or bowl;
        Ev'ry earthly bliss may fly,
        Hope alone can never die!

Now to rob e'en death of fears,
Hope to parting life appears,
Bids the soul its faith maintain,
Doth its dying pangs sustain,
Leading it with fostering care,
Heaven's eternal joys to share;
        Ev'ry earthly bliss may fly,
        Hope alone can never die!

London, Jan. 1832.

TRANSLATION OF A SONG,

NAY frown not warriors brave and bold,
    Favour'd sons of fame and glory,
Ye were but novices of old
    In all the arts of victory;
Victors and vanquish'd strew'd the plain,
    Mankind you threaten'd from afar,
Each morrow view'd new heaps of slain,
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

What sought ye erst in Moscow's field?
    What led ye to the shores of Spain?
Thousands their early doom have seal'd
    In many an ill advis'd campaign!
Oh say! can laurels steep'd in gore,
    Bind up those wounds that Cairo saw?
Or Belgium's slain to life restore?
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

But now, since diplomatic skill
    Mars and Bellona can dethrone,
Towns shall surrender to the quill,
    And slaughter be a curse unknown;
Grown harmless, e'en the cannon's roar
    No more shall thunder from afar,
No longer blood, but ink they pour:
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

The Grecian rebels to chastise,
    The Turk has arm'd a hostile band,
The Frank to their assistance flies,
    And vows t' avenge the Moreot's land:
But lo! the Turks are seen to yield,
    The diplomat with many a star,
From his fireside has won the field:
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

And yet to please the Gallic host,
    Favour'd sons of fame and glory,
We run to seek, at desperate cost,
    A phantom farce of victory.
The Mussulman, too proud to stoop,
    Unsheathes the shining scymetar,
Before our flag, his standards droop,
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

Already Modon opes her gate,
    As sound our trumpets 'neath her walls,
Coron sublimely strives with fate,
    And slings a pebble ere she falls!
Th' Egyptian pacha scorns controul,
    For refuge flies to Bacchus' car,
With Christians drains the madd'ning bowl,
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

As the Gallic lines advance,
    See Navarino's portals close,
A sapper dares the unequal chance,
    Alone defies his sable foes,
He mounts--but sliding o'er the sand,
    He bites the dust--he curs'd his star--
A Turk stretch'd forth a saving hand:
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

And how? shall Patras hesitate?
    Each warrior trusting to his shield,
Hath sworn within her walls to await
    The fiercest carnage, ere he yield.
Lo! summon'd by the Gallic force,
    The Turks their castle gate unbar,
They count their loss--a goat, a horse:
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

With these inglorious operations
    Ends the Gallo-Greek affair,
Farewell! orders--decorations,
    Farewell! castles in the air!
In hapless exile here we pine,
    Strangers on a foreign shore,
Uncheer'd by glory, love or wine:
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

Oh! ye decreed by fav'ring fate,
    In happier Provence to remain,
Oh! cease to mourn your blissful state,
    Oh! cease to envy us in vain!
If e'er again, 'neath Toulon's bowers,
    To Bacchus we libations pour,
Well may ye sing the live long hours,
    Heard ye e'er the din of war?

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

             "Ne giorni tuoi felici,
             Ricordati di me."