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FROM THE TURKISH.
THE chain I gave was fair to view,
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou could'st think In other hands its notes were such.
Let him, who from thy neck unbound
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
That but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn—
Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.
THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe
While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.
WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.