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Still my heart remains the same;
Still it doats on youth and beauty;
"T is to them I pay my duty;
Chide no more then ; for I vow,
If my heart adores a new love,
Joys like those I shared with you, love!
It was a shrine, a sunny shrine,
Love ever does when once possessed !
L. E. L.
A PICTURE IN THE BRITISH GALLERY, BY E. D. LEAHY.
It was a stream in Thessaly; - the banks
One only flower grew in that lonely place,
They called the nymph--- RETIREMENT.
L. E. L.
BY AN ETONIAN.
Whoe'er has been at Coventry, must know
(Unless he 's quite devoid of curiosity), That once a year it has a sort of show,
Conducted with much splendour and pomposity. I'll just describe it, if I can— but no,
It would exhaust the humour of a Fawcett; I
Ah! those were pleasant days, when you and I,
Dear Fred Golightly, trod those boards of yore; I often grieve to think that they 're past by, As
you must--on a rainy after-four : Though now its fairly quashed, you wont deny
That that same stage was frequently a bore; It spoiled our cricket, which we're all so proud on, Nor let us beat the Kingsmen—as we've now done.
Oh! sweet is praise to youthful poet's ear,
When gently warbled by the lips he loves; "T is sweet one's exercise read o'er to hear,
(Especially the week before Removes); But sweeter far, when actors first appear,
The loud collision of applauding gloves, The gleam of happy faces o'er them cast Moments of triumph not to be surpast !
Oh! stolen joys, far sweeter for the stealing,
Oh! doubts and fears, and hopes of Eton, all Ye are departed ! but a lingering feeling
Of your enchantments holds my heart in thrall. My eyes just now are fixed upon the ceiling
I feel my cheek flush-hear my inkstand fall;
My soul is wandering through the distant groves
But to my tale—I'm somewhat given to prating,
I can't but own it; but my theme was fine, And all the feelings which I 've been narrating
Are worth enjoying-and they 've all been mine? But I 'll no longer keep the reader waiting;
So, without wasting now another line,
Spirit which art within me, if in truth
Thou dost exist in my soul's depths, and I Have not mistaken the hot pulse of youth,
And wandering thoughts, for dreams of poesy, Rise from thy lone recesses, rise and soothe
Each meaner thought to aspirations high, Whelm me in musings of deep joy, and roll Thy radiant visions on my kindling soul !
If, when at morn I view the bright blue heaven,
Thoughts are around me which not all have felt; If, in the dim and fading light of even,
A poet's rapture on my soul hath dwelt; If to my wayward nature hath been given
Dreams that absorb, and phantasies that melt, Sweet tears, and wild attachments — lend thy wings, Spirit, to bear me in my wanderings !
But these are boyish dreams,-Away, away,
Ye fond enchantments of my foolish brain ;-
my frail vessel tempts life's dangerous main. Still, dear delusions of my boyhood, stay!
Still let me pour my weak, but harmless strain! In fancied draughts my thirst poetic slake, And never, never from that dream awake!
This is a very pretty invocation,
Though scarce adapted to my present style ; I wrote it in a fit of inspiration,
The finest I've enjoyed a monstrous while ; For most uncertain 's my imagination,
And 't is but seldom that my muse will smile. Come, reader, we'll her present humour try; Draw up the curtain — the scene 's Coventry.
It is an ancient and a gallant town,
Nor all unknown to loftier lays than mine; It has of old seen deeds of high renown—
Its situation 's not extremely fine.
And still in England's annals longs to shine;
But at the period when my tale commences,
There were no Cobbetts — 't was a barbarous age; The “ Sovereign People" scarce were in their senses,
For Radical Reform was not the rage : Though then Sir Francis * might have found pretences
Just war against the government to wage; For king and nobles thought it no great crime To be confounded tyrants at that time.
There was of yore an Earl of Coventry,
Famous for wine and war-one Leofric; A genuine Saxon-he'd a light blue eye,
His stature tall — his frame well built and thick: His flaxen locks fell down luxuriantly
On his fine shoulders — and his glance was quick. But though he really was a handsome earl, He was at times a most uncommon churl.
He had fought well and often - miles around,
Chieftain and vassal trembled at his name ;
• Wentworth -- not Burdett.