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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.



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.


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.


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.


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.



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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