10.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure:
From what even here hath past, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure.

11.

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.

12.

Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet;

Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

13.

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;

It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.

LINES,

INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.

1.

START not-nor deem my spirit fled:

In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.

2.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
I died: let earth my bones resign:

Fill up-thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

3.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood:
And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.

4.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine!

5.

Quaff while thou canst-another race,
When thou and thine like me are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

6.

Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.

Newstead Abbey, 1808.

ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER,

BART.
1.

THERE is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But pations swell the funeral cry,

And Triumph weeps above the brave.

2.

For them in Sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,
All earth becomes their monument!

3.

A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue;
The present hours, the future agê,
For them bewail, to them belong.

4.

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.

5.

A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,

Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?

6.

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined

Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; And early Valour, glowing, find

A model in thy memory.

17.

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.

8.

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name?
Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.

9.

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.

1.

WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;
Ah, happy! if each tear of thine
Could wash a father's fault away!

2.

Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-
Auspicious to these suffering isles;
And be each drop in future years
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!

March, 1812.

FROM THE TURKISH.

1.

THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound,
The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.

2.

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine;

And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

3.

That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.

4.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

5.

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute;
'Tis past-to them and thee adieu-
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

SONNET.

TO GENEVRA.

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,