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Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Though long and mournful must it be,
Yet I deserve the stern decree,
And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
It felt not half so much to part,
INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.
START not-nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.
I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
Fill up-thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.
Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood:
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
Quaff while thou canst-another race,
Why not? since through life's little day
Newstead Abbey, 1808.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER,
THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
For them in Sorrow's purest sigh
A tomb is theirs on every page,
For them the voice of festal mirth
Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round.
A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early Valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.
But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In wo, that glory cannot quell;
And shuddering hear of victory,"
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?
While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.
Alas! for them, though not for thee,
They cannot chose but weep the more; Deep for the dead the grief must be, Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
TO A LADY WEEPING.
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-
FROM THE TURKISH.
THE chain I gave was fair to view,
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
And they have done their duty well,
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
Let him, who from thy neck unbound
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
THINE eyes blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features-caught From contemplation-where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,