It is no crime to speak my vow,
For, ah! thou canst not hear it now.

Thou sleepest 'neath thy lowly stone
That dark and dreamless sleep;
And he, thy loved and chosen one-
Why goes he not to weep?

He does not kneel where I have knelt;
He cannot feel what I have felt,

The anguish still and deep,

The painful thoughts of what has been, The canker-worm that is not seen!

But I-as o'er the dark blue wave

Unconsciously I ride,

My thoughts are hovering o'er thy grave, My soul is by thy side.

There is one voice that wails thee yet,

One heart that cannot e'er forget
The visions that have died;
And aye thy form is buried there—
A doubt an anguish-a despair!

(1820-1821.)

A CHILD'S GRAVE.

O'ER yon Churchyard the storm may lower;
But, heedless of the wintry air,
One little bud shall linger there,
A still and trembling flower.

Unscathed by long revolving years,
Its tender leaves shall flourish yet,
And sparkle in the moonlight, wet
With the pale dew of tears.

And where thine humble ashes lie,
Instead of 'scutcheon or of stone,
It rises o'er thee, lonely one,
Child of obscurity!

Mild was thy voice as Zephyr's breath,

Thy cheek with flowing locks was shaded!

But the voice hath died, the cheek hath faded In the cold breeze of death!

Brightly thine eye was smiling, Sweet! But now Decay hath still'd its glancing; Warmly thy little heart was dancing,

But it hath ceased to beat!

A few short months-and thou wert here!
Hope sat upon thy youthful brow;
And what is thy memorial now ?
A flower-and a Tear.

(1821.)

VOL. II.-12

A LETTER FROM ETON.

My dearest Cynthia,

If you knew
Half of the toil P. C. goes through,
You'd never dip your spiteful pen
In Anger's bitter ink again,
Because the hapless author woos
No correspondent-save the Muse.

Was ever such a wretched elf?
I ha'n't a minute to myself!
My own and other people's cares
Are dinned incessant in my ears!
I can't get rid of Mr. Vapour,
With all his silly "midnight taper,"
Nor Mr. Musgrave's learned paper,
"Diseases of the Hoof;"

E'en now, as thus I sit me down,
Scared by your thunder and your frown,
Two Fiends are hid aloof;

Two Fiends in dark Cocytus dipped;

A Blockhead with a manuscript,

A Devil with a proof!

Alas! alas! I seem to find

Some torment for my weary mind

In everything I see!

My duck is old,-my mutton tough,-
To some they may be good enough,
They smell of "Press" to me;
And when I stoop my lips to drink,
I often shudder as I think

I taste the taste of Printer's ink

In chocolate and tea!

And what with friends, and foes, and hits

Sent slyly out by little wits,

A fulminating breed;

And what with Critics, Queries, Quarrels,
Fame and fair faces, loves and laurels,

Sermons and sonnets, good and bad,
I'm getting-not a little mad—
But very mad indeed!

But you, who in your home of ease
Are far from sorrows such as these,
Maid of the archly smiling brow,
What folly are you following now?
With you, amid the mazy dance,
That came to us from clever France,
Does he, that bright and brilliant star,
The future Tully of the Bar,

Its present Vestris, glide?

Or does he quibble, stride, look big,
Assume the face of legal prig,

And charm you with his embryo wig,
In all its powdered pride?