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TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONG,

Μπενω μες τσ' περιβόλι
Ωραιότατη Χάηδή, &c.

I ENTER thy garden of roses,
Beloved and fair Haidée,
Each morning where Flora reposes,
For surely I see her in thee.
Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,
Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Which atters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung;
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Through her eyes, through her every feature,
Shines the soul of the young Haidée.
But the loveliest garden grows hateful

When Love has abandon'd the bowers;
Bring me hemlock-since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,
Will deeply embitter the bowl;
But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save:
Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave.
As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,

Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,

Hast pierced through my heart to its core.

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THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,

Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams

Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;

Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

1811.

March, 1811.

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT,
LATE POET AND SHOEMAKER.
STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella?"
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to "Black it."
Malta, May 16, 1811.

FAREWELL TO MALTA,

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!

Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventured!

Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!

(How surely he who mounts you swears!)

Adieu, ye merchants often failing! Adieu, thou mob for ever railing! Adieu, ye packets-without letters! Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters!

Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen!

Adieu, that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,
Adieu, his Excellency's dancers!

Adieu to Peter-whom no fault 's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!
Adieu, red coats, and redder faces!
Adieu, the supercilious air
Of all that strut "en militaire!"
I go-but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad-but in a different way.

Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue!
While either Adriatic shore,

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and woman's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme-because 't is "gratis."

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her-
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, O Malta! since thou 'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods I've got a fever.

May 26, 1811. [First published, 1832.]

TO DIVES.

A FRAGMENT.

UNHAPPY DIVES! in an evil hour

'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst!
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,

How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose! But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst Of crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. 1811. [First published, 1832.]

ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA.

GOOD plays are scarce,

So Moore writes farce:

The poet's fame grows brittle-
We knew before

That Little 's Moore,

But now 't is Moore that 's little.

September 14, 1811.

[First published, 1830.]

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE."

"OH! banish care "-such ever be

The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,

Whose every thought-but let them pass

Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of anything but love.

"T were long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'T would suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,

The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress

Time had not made me love the less.

The pledge we wore-I wear it still,

But let this pass-I'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,-

I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's "May is in the sere,"

Thou hear'st of one whose deepening crimes
Suit with the sablest of the times,

Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise;
One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside;
One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,
Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause,
Nor with the effect forget the cause.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811.
[First published, 1830.]

TO THYRZA.

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said,

By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?

By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;
The past, the future fled to thee,

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again!
Could this have been-a word, a look,
That softly said, "We part in peace,"
Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.
And didst thou not, since Death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart,
Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,
Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more
T was thine to reck of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow.
Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,
Affection's mingling tears were ours?
Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand,
The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;
The kiss, so guiltless and refined,

That Love each warmer wish forbore;
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even Passion blush'd to plead for more.
The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine;

But where is thine?-Ah! where art thou?

Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.

If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again. But if in worlds more blest than this Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here. Teach me too early taught by thee! To bear, forgiving and forgiven: On earth thy love was such to me; It fain would form my hope in heaven! October 11, 1811

AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE!

AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence-for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days-

But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
On what I am-on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softest notes repeat
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony
Is worse than discord to my heart!

"Tis silent all!-but on my ear
The well remember'd echoes thrill;
I hear a voice I would not hear,
A voice that now might well be sll:
Yet oft my doubting soul 't will shake,
Even slumber owns its gentle tone,
Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown.
Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep, Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he who through life's dreary way Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

December 6, 1811.

ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.

ONE struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again.

It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form'd to live alone:
I'll be that light, unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou
Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou'rt nothing-all are nothing now.
In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!

The smile that sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill:

Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
The heart, the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,

When sailing o'er the gean wave, "Now Thyrza gazes on that moon"Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains: Like freedom to the time-worn slave,

A boon 't is idle then to give,

Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

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When love and life alike were new!
How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!
The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent-ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.
Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still preserve that love unbroken,

Or break the heart to which thou 'rt press'd.
Time tempers love, but not removes,
More hallow'd when its hope is fled:
Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead?

EUTHANASIA.

WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

But silent let me sink to earth,

With no officious mourners near:

I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear.
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour

Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives, and him who dies.

'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish-for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
And women's tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan?

For thousands Death hath ceas'd to lower, And pain been transient or unknown. "Ay, but to die, and go," alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe!

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
'Tis something better not to be.

AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR.

"Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse ! "

AND thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell,

'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;
Nor need I to repine,

That all those charms have pass'd away;
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief

To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last;
Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;

To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

February, 1812.

IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF
MEN.

IP sometimes in the haunts of men
Thine image from my breast may fade,
The lonely hour presents again

The semblance of thy gentle shade:

And now that sad and silent hour
Thus much of thee can still restore,
And sorrow unobserved may pour

The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile

I waste one thought I owe to thee,
And self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory:
Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine;

I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.
If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,
It is not drain'd to banish care;
The cup must hold a deadlier draught,
That brings a Lethe for despair.
And could Oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free,
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl

That drown'd a single thought of thee. For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,

Where could my vacant bosom turn? And who would then remain behind To honour thine abandon'd Urn? No, no-it is my sorrow's pride That last dear duty to fulfil : Though all the world forget beside, 'Tis meet that I remember still.

For well I know, that such had been Thy gentle care for him, who now Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, Where none regarded him, but thou: And, oh! I feel in that was given

A blessing never meant for me; Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven For earthly Love to merit thee.

March 14, 1812.

FROM THE FRENCH.

ÆGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes; She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.

ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be,

That thou should'st thus be rent in twain? Have years of care for thine and thee Alike been all employ'd in vain ? Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee feels thou art A fitter emblem of his own.

March 16, 1812.

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING. 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!

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