IN one who felt as once he felt,
This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame;
But now his heart no more will melt,
Because that heart is not the same.

As when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their blaze in night.
Thus has it been with passion's fires-
As many a boy and girl remembers-
While every hope of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
The first, though no. a spark survive,
Some careful hand may teach to burn;
The last, alas! can ne'er survive;

No touch can bid its warmth return.

Or, if it chance to wake again,

Not always doom'd its heat to smother, t sheds (so wayward fates ordain) Its former warmth around another.

1807.

TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.* YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.

A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the powe But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gent. heal:

But thou wert not fated affection to share

For who could suppose that a stranger would feel Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for awhile; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,

And still may thy branches their beauty display

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,

Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

You, Bob! are rather insolent, you know, At being disappointed in your wish

And be the only Blackbird in the dish;

These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain Disgraces, too! "inseparable train !" "Three who have stolen their witching airs from

Cupid"

(You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid :) "Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto,

Now to produce in a "divine sestetto"!! "While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, "Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes! Thus lifted gloriously, you'll goar along," Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; "Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" (For this last line George had a holiday.) "Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,"

So says the manager, and so says I.

But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" Is this the poem which the public lost? "True

-true that lowers at once our mounting
pride;"

But lo-the papers print what you deride.
""Tis ours to look on you-you hold the prize,"
'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise!
"A double blessing your rewards impart"-

I wish I had them, then, with all my heart.
"Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause,"
Why son and I both beg for your applause.
"When in your fostering beams you bid us live,"
My next subscription list shall say how much you give
October, 1812.

PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS,†

BY DR. PLAGIARY.

Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre.-Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation-thus “”

"WHEN energising objects men pursue,"

Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. "A modest monologue you here survey," Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day,"

As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse, And gave his son "the rubbish" to rehearse. "Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,” Knew you the rumpus which the author raised; "Nor even here your smiles would be represt," Knew you these lines-the badness of the best. "Flame! fire! and flame!!" (words borrowed from

Lucretius,)

"Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues!
And sleeping pangs awake-and-but away"
(Confound me if I know what next to say,)
"Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings,"

And Master G- recites what Doctor 'Busby sings !-
If mighty things with small we may compare,"
(Translated from the grammar for the fair!)
Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car,"
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of "tar."
This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain."
To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane.
"Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,"
And George and I will dramatize it for ye.

In arts and sciences our isle hath shown"

(This deep discovery is mine alone.) "Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire" My verse-or I'm a fool-and Fame's a liar, Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and much

more.

I allude not to our friend Landor's hero, the traitor Count Julian, but to Gibbon's hero, vulgarly yclept “The Apostate.”

↑ Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee, was one by De, Busby entitled "A Monologue," of which the above is a parody.More

[Instead of the lines to Inez, which now stand in the First Canto of Childs Harold, Lord Byron had originally written the following:] 1.

On never talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies;
It has not been your lot to see,

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz.
Although her eye be not of blue,
Nor fair her locks, like English lasses,
How far its own expressive hue
The languid azure eye surpasses!

2.

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole
The fire, that through those silken lashes
In darkest glances seems to roll,

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal

In lengthen'd flow her raven tresses,
You'd swear each clustering lock could feel,
And curl'd to give her neck caresses.
3.

Our English maids are long to woo,
And frigid even in possession ;
And if their charms be fair to view,
Their lips are slow at Love's confession
But born beneath a brighter sün,
For love ordain'd the Spanish maid is,
And who, when fondly, fairly won,-
Enchants you like the Girl of Cadiz?
4.

The Spanish maid is no coquette,

Nor joys to see a lover tremble, And if she love, or if she hate,

Alike she knows not to dissemble Her heart can ne'er be bought or soldHowe'er it beats, it beats sincerely; And, though it will not bend to gold, "Twill love you long and love you dearly

FAREWELL TO MALTA.

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, the palace rarely entered!

Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventur'd!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!

(How surely he who mounts you swears!)

Adieu, ye merchants often failing!

Adieu, thou mob forever 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 women'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.

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

SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH.

RAND Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here HAROLD lies-but where 's his Epitaph?
If such you seek, try Westminster, and view.
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.

Athens.

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.

LINES,

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.

AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee; And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near; Methought that joy and health alone could be Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus ?-it is as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, But in the after-silence on the shore, When all is lost, except a little life.

And thus upon the world-trust in thy truth-
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth-

On things that were not, and on things that are-
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt 1
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life
Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.

But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold-
And buying others' grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits--the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence-the pretex
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd—
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-

All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won-
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!
September 1816.