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Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose

To the top-cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm;

With an ardor for liberty, fresh as, in youth,

It first kindles the bard and gives life to his lyre; Yet mellow'd, ev'n now, by that mildness of truth; Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire;

With an eloquence-not like those rills from a height,

Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapor are o'er; But a current, that works out its way into light Through the filtering recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade; If the stirrings of Genius, the music of fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to persuade,

Yet think how to Freedom thou'rt pledged by thy Name.

Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree
Set apart for the Fane and its service divine,
So the branches, that spring from the old Russell
tree,

Are by Liberty claim'd for the use of her Shrine.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

"My birth-day"-what a diffrent sound,

That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as Youth counts the shining links,

That Time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks

How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said"-" were he ordain'd to run "His long career of life again,

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Of nursing many a wrong desire;
Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That cross'd my pathway, for his star.-
All this it tells, and, could I trace

Th' imperfect picture o'er again,
With pow'r to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away—
All-but that Freedom of the Mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!

FANCY.

THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found,

That, fill'd as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands, within her own bright round,

A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm, that's not from nature won,—
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun;
But 'tis the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to Beauty all its charms and hue; .
As the same light, that o'er the level lake

One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colors as gay as those on angels' wings!

Reflected bright in this heart of mine,
Fanny, dearest, thy image lies;
But, ah! the mirror would cease to shine,
If dimm'd too often with sighs.
They lose the half of beauty's light,

Who view it through sorrow's tear;
And 'tis but to see thee truly bright

That I keep my eye-beams clear.
Then wait no longer till tears shall flow-
Fanny, dearest! the hope is vain;

If sunshine cannot dissolve thy snow,
I shall never attempt it with rain.

TRANSLATIONS FROM CATULLUS.

Carm. 70.

Dicebas quondam, &c.

TO LESBIA.

THOU told'st me, in our days of love,

That I had all that heart of thine; That, ev'n to share the couch of Jove,

Thou wouldst not, Lesbia, part from mine.

How purely wert thou worshipp'd then!

Not with the vague and vulgar fires Which Beauty wakes in soulless men,-

But loved, as children by their sires.

That flatt'ring dream, alas, is o'er ;

I know thee now-and though these eyes Doat on thee wildly as before,

Yet, even in doating, I despise.

Yes, sorceress-mad as it may seem

With all thy craft, such spells adorn thee, That passion even outlives esteem,

And I, at once, adore-and scorn thee.

SONG.

FANNY, DEAREST!

YES! had I leisure to sigh and mourn,

Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh;

And every smile on my cheek should turn
To tears when thou art nigh.
But, between love, and wine, and sleep,
So busy a life I live,

That even the time it would take to weep

Is more than my heart can give. Then wish me not to despair and pine, Fanny, dearest of all the dears! The Love that's order'd to bathe in wine, Would be sure to take cold in tears.

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Nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, &c. &c.
Lib. iv. Carm. 13.

"NEVER shall woman's smile have pow'r "To win me from those gentle charms !"Thus swore I, in that happy hour,

When Love first gave thee to my arms.

And still alone thou charm'st my sightStill, though our city proudly shine With forms and faces, fair and bright,

I see none fair or bright but thine.

September, 1818.

SOME think we bards have nothing real;

That poets live among the stars so, Their very dinners are ideal,

(And, heaven knows, too oft they are so,)— For instance, that we have, instead

Of vulgar chops, and stews, and hashes,
First course-a Phoenix, at the head,

Done in its own celestial ashes;
At foot, a cygnet, which kept singing
All the time its neck was wringing.
Side dishes thus-Minerva's owl,
Or any such like learned fowl:

Doves, such as heaven's poulterer gets,
When Cupid shoots his mother's pets.
Larks, stew'd in Morning's roseate breath,
Or roasted by a sunbeam's splendor;
And nightingales, berhymed to death-

Like young pigs whipp'd to make them tender.

Such fare may suit those bards, who're able
To banquet at Duke Humphrey's table;
But as for me, who've long been taught
To eat and drink like other people;
And can put up with mutton, bought

Where Bromham" rears its ancient steeple-
If Landsdowne will consent to share
My humble feast, though rude the fare,
Yet, season'd by that salt he brings
From Attica's salinest springs,
"Twill turn to dainties;-while the cup
Beneath his influence bright'ning up,
Like that of Baucis, touch'd by Jove,
Will sparkle fit for gods above!

VERSES TO THE POET CRABBE'S INKSTAND.12

WRITTEN MAY, 1832.

ALL, as he left it!-ev'n the pen,
So lately at that mind's command,
Carelessly lying, as if then

Just fallen from his gifted hand.

Have we then lost him? scarce an hour, A little hour, seems to have pass'd, Since Life and Inspiration's power Around that relic breathed their last.

Ah, powerless now-like talisman,

Found in some vanish'd wizard's halls, Whose mighty charm with him began, Whose charm with him extinguish'd falls.

Yet though, alas! the gifts that shone Around that pen's exploring track, Be now, with its great master, gone, Nor living hand can call them back;

Who does not feel, while thus his eyes Rest on the enchanter's broken wand, Each earth-born spell it work'd arise Before him in succession grand?

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When I would paint thee, as thou art, Then all thou wert comes o'er my heartThe graceful child, in beauty's dawn, Within the nursery's shade withdrawn, Or peeping out-like a young moon Upon a world 'twill brighten soon. Then next, in girlhood's blushing hour, As from thy own loved Abbey-tow'r I've seen thee look, all radiant, down, With smiles that to the hoary frown Of centuries round thee lent a ray, Chasing even Age's gloom away ;— Or, in the world's resplendent throng, As I have mark'd thee glide along, Among the crowds of fair and great A spirit, pure and separate, To which even Admiration's eye Was fearful to approach too nigh ;— A creature, circled by a spell Within which nothing wrong could dwell; And fresh and clear as from the source, Holding through life her limpid course, Like Arethusa through the sea, Stealing in fountain purity.

Now, too, another change of light! As noble bride, still meekly bright

A SPECULATION.

Or all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on
himself.

TO MY MOTHER.

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822.

THEY tell us of an Indian tree,

Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free, And shoot, and blossom, wide and high,

Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth, From which the life, that fills and warms Its grateful being, first had birth.

'Tis thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be)
This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

LOVE AND HYMEN.

LOVE had a fever-ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And wild and strange enough, Heav'n knows,
The things he raved about while waking.

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