Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX,
THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU
APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER.
"OUR nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
But bless the hour when PITT resign'd his breath:
These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
We give the palm where Justice points its due."
TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT
THE FOLLOWING REPLY.

OH factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state:
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd:
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due;"
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,

Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to PITT the patriot's palm resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.

THE TEAR.

"O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."-GRAY,

WHEN Friendship or Love our sympathies move,
When Truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation or fear;

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his
The green sparkles bright with a Tear. [grave,
The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;

But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride,
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,

All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth,

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year,
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd,
But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more,
My Mary to Love once so dear,

In the shade of her bower I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest, may she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight to the regions of
And my corse shall recline on its bier, [night,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt:
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.
Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret;

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny,
That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;

Some other admire, who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.

For me, I adore some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them
Did they act like your blooming coquette.
No longer repine, adopt this design,

And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear

To fly from the captious coquette.

[all,

Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset:
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the
Should lead you to curse the coquette. [smart,
October 27, 1806.

Now, Strephon, good bye; I cannot deny
Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,
For it only consists in the word.

TO ELIZA.

ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect,

Who to woman deny the soul's future existence! Could they see thee, Eliza, they 'd own their defect, And this doctrine would meet with a general

resistance.

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, He ne'er would have women from paradise driven; Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. Yet still, to increase your calamities more,

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!With souls you'd dispense; but this last, who could bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made; On husbands 't is hard, to the wives most uncivil Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, "Though women are angels, yet wedlock's the devil."

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON.

LACHIN Y GAIR.

Your pardon, a thousand times o'er:

From friendship I strove your pangs to remove,
But I swear I will do so no more.

Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret;

She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine
Of this quickly reformed coquette.

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
From your verses what else she deserved;
Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so devilish reserved.
Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss
Can such wonderful transports produce;
Since the "world you forget, when your lips once
My counsel will get but abuse. [have met,"

You say, when "I rove, I know nothing of love;" 'Tis true, I am given to range;

If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number,
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.

I will not advance, by the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't
Or drive me to dreadful despair. [affright,

While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists' school;

Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure,
Thy mistress would think me a fool.
And if I should shun every woman for one,
Whose image must fill my whole breast-
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her-
What an insult 't would be to the rest!

In you let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, Though still they are sacred to freedom and love: Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts feam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd; My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade; I sought not my home till the day's dying glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star; For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

[vale.

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. "Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car: Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. "Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: Still were you happy in death's earthly slumber, You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

TO ROMANCE.

PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,

But leave thy realms for those of Truth.

And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When virgins seem no longer vain,
And even woman's smiles are true.

And must we own thee but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pylades in every friend?

But leave at once thy realms of air

To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for-themselves!

With shame I own I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er,
No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar.
Fond fool to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.

Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir,

To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal fire,

But bends not now before thy throne.

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;

Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,

With fancied flames and phrensy glow; Say, will you mourn my absent name,

Apostate from your gentle train? An infant bard at least may claim From you a sympathetic strain. Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!

The hour of fate is hovering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view, Where unlamented you must lie: Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether.

ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES
SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR,
COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DE-
SCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARM-
LY DRAWN.

"But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?"
New Bath Guide.

CANDOUR compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse which blends the censor with the friend.
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,

I sue for pardon,-must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart :
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind:
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove:
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know!
The artless Helicon I boast is youth;-
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be 't from me the "virgin's mind" to "taint:"
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe-
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,

No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.

November 26, 1806.

ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world in deep despair-

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God.
Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din!
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
High crested banners wave thy walls within.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increased alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers,

[brow,

NEWSTEAD! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S pride!
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord,
In grim array the crimson cross demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board
Their chief's retainers, an immortal band:
Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
in thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, [prowl;
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend
Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.
Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed;
Religion's charter their protecting shield,
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.
One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY the kind gift recalls,

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.

And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. Ah vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, [brave; Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. Not unavenged the raging baron yields;

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain; Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, And days of glory yet for him remain. Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave; But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, [save. The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to Trembling, she snatch'd him from th' unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel;

For nobler combats, here, reserved his life,

To lead the band where godlike FALKLAND fell. From thec, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense now ascends to heaven,

Such victims wallow on the gory ground. There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread,

Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould: From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead,

Raked from repose in search of buried gold. Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death; No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey, Retire: the clamour of the fight is o'er; Silence again resumes her awful sway, And sable Horror guards the massy door. Here Desolation holds her dreary court: What satellites declare her dismal reign! Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort, To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.