Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.

But if I scribble longer now,

The deuce a soul will stay to read:
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed.

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires!
No more, like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my muse inspires:
The reader's tired, and so am I.

[1806.]

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW ON THE HILL.

Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.-VIRGIL. YE scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection

Embitters the present, compared with the past; Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,

And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last; *

Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied; How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance,

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied! Again I revisit the hills where we sported,

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;

The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wan-
der'd,

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown; While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,

I fancied that Mossop† himself was outshone:
Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason de-
prived;

Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

"My school-friendships were with me passions (for I was always violent); but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be sure, some have been cut short by death) till now. At Harrow I fought my way very

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you! Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you: Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me. More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. But if, through the course of the years which await me,

Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,

"Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew." [1806.]

TO M.

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 control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. [1806.]

TO WOMAN.

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, placed 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 cursed 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!

fairly. I think I lost but one battle out of seven."-Byron Diary, 1821.

+ Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his per formance of Zanga.

แ

How quick we credit every oath,

And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope t will last for aye,
When lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,

Woman, thy vows are traced in sand."*

Through hours, through years, through time, it will cheer;

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; In life's last conflict 't will appear, And meet my fond expiring gaze.

TO M. S. G.

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.

TO MARY,

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.† 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 placed thee next my heart.

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

TO LESBIA.

LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say 't is I, not you, have changed,
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!

"T is 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 bosom 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! loved you most sincerely:
And-though our dream at last is ended-
My bosom 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 prepared,

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!

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG

LADY.

[As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them; to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.‡]

DOUBTLESS, Sweet girl! the hissing lead,
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms,
And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,
Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.

Surely some envious demon's force,
Vex'd to behold such beauty here,
Impell'd the bullet's viewless course,
Diverted from its first career.

"of which," says Mr. Moore, "the poet used to show a lock, as well as her picture, among his friends."

The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the beautilady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss Houson.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide; But Heaven, with interposing power, In pity turn'd the death aside.

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear Upon that thrilling bosom fell; Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, Extracted from its glistening cell: Say, what dire penance can atone

For such an outrage done to thee? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, What punishment wilt thou decree? Might I perform the judge's part,

The sentence I should scarce deplore; It only would restore a heart

Which but belong'd to thee before.

The least atonement I can make
Is to become no longer free;
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,
Thou shalt be all in all to me.

But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject
Such expiation of my guilt:
Come then, some other mode elect;
Let it be death, or what thou wilt.

Choose then, relentless! and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;
Yet hold-one little word forbear!
Let it be aught but banishment.

LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.

Δει δ' και με φευγει.-ANACREON.

THE roses of love glad the garden of life, Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu!

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or death disunite us in love's last adieu!

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen breast,

Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet may renew: With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt, Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu!

Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth Love twined round their childhood his flow'rs as they grew;

They flourish awhile in the season of truth,

Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu!

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue? Yet why do I ask ?-to distraction a prey,

Thy reason has perished with love's last adieu!

Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate love's last adieu!

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains
Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins;
He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu!

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang which he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu!
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast;
No more with love's former devotion we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is love's last adieu!

In this life of probation for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due:
From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle
shrine,

The atonement is ample in love's last adieu!
Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight;
His cypress, the garland of love's last adieu!

DAMETAS.

IN law an infant,* and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;

From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;

Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;

Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin:
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.†

TO MARION.

MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
"T is 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 indifference thrills us.
Wouldst thou wandering 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, curt'sies, frowns-in short she
Dreads lest the subject should transport me;

stricted as he was by deference to any will but his own, even the pleasures to which he was naturally most inclined prematurely palled upon him, for want of those best zests of all enjoyment-rarity and restraint."