FAME. OH, talk not to me of a name great in story; 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, 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, (What maid will not the tale remember?) If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, For me, degenerate modern wretch, But since he cross'd the rapid tide, To woo,-and-Lord knows what beside, '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, TO MR. MURRAY. FOR Orford and for Waldegrave You give much more than me you gave; My Murray. Because if a live dog, 'tis said, A live lord must be worth two dead, My Murray. And if, as the opinion goes, Verse hath a better sale than prose- But now this sheet is nearly cramm'd, |