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FAME.

OH, talk not to me of a name great in story ;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

'

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is

wrinkled ? 'Tis but as a dead-flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary ! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory?

Oh FAME !—if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM

SESTOS TO ABYDOS.

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 roar'd,

He sped to Hero, nothing loth,
And thus of old thy current pour'd,

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 to-day.

But since he cross'd 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 drown'd, and I've the ague.

ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

January 22, 1821.

Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three and thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing-except thirty-three.

TO MR. MURRAY.

For Orford and for Waldegrave
You give much more than me you gave ;
Which is not fairly to behave,

My Murray.

Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
Be worth a lion fairly sped,
A live lord must be worth two dead,

My Murray.

a

And if, as the opinion goes,
Verse hath a better sale than prose-
Certes, I should have more than those,

My Murray.

But now this sheet is nearly cramm’d,
So, if you will, I shan't be shamm'd,
And if you won't, you may be damn'd,

My Murray.

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO

DR. POLIDORI.

Dear Doctor, I have read your play.
Which is a good one in its way,–
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels, :
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.

I like your moral and machinery ; Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery ; Your dialogue is apt and smart ; The play's concoction full of art ; Your hero raves, your heroine cries, All stab, and every body dies. In short, your tragedy would be The very thing to hear and see : And for a piece of publication, If I decline on this occasion, It is not that I am not sensible To merits in themselves ostensible, But—and I grieve to speak it-plays Are drugs—mere drugs, sir-now-a-days. I had a heavy loss by “Manuel,”Too lucky if it prove not annual, And Sotheby, with his “ Orestes” (Which, by the by, the author's best is),

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