Would thou wert fair for only me,

And couldst no heart but mine allure!To all men else unpleasing be,

So shall I feel my prize secure.'

Oh, love like mine ne'er wants the zest
Of others' envy, others' praise;
But, in its silence safely bless'd,

Broods o'er a bliss it ne'er betrays.

Charm of my life! by whose sweet pow'r
All cares are hush'd, all ills subdued-
My light, in ev❜n the darkest hour,
My crowd, in deepest solitude!?

No, not though heav'n itself sent down

Some maid, of more than heav'nly charms, With bliss undreamt thy bard to crown,

Would he for her forsake those arms!

IMITATION.

FROM THE FRENCH.

WITH women and apples both Paris and Adam
Made mischief enough in their day :-

God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear
Madam,

Depends not on us, the same way.
For, weak as I am with temptation to grapple,

The world would have doubly to rue thee;
Like Adam, I'd gladly take from thee the apple,
Like Paris, at once give it to thee.

INVITATION TO DINNER.

ADDRESSED TO LORD LANSDOWNE.

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 ap with mutton, bought

Where Bromham3 rears its ancient steeple

If Lansdowne 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.

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 fallon 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.

1

Displiceas aliis, sic ego tutus ero.

Tu mihi curarum requies, tu nocte vel atrå

Lumen, et in solis tu mihi turba locis.

4 Soon after Mr. Crabbe's death, the sons of that gentleman did me the honor of presenting to me the inkstand, pencil, &c., which their distinguished father had long been

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 dwel;
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, Thou bring'st thy Lord a dower above All earthly price, pure woman's love; And show'st what lustre Rank receives, When with his proud Corinthian leaves Her rose thus high-bred Beauty weaves.

Wonder not if, where all's so fair

To choose were more than bard can dare;
Wonder not if, while every scene

I've watch'd thee through so bright hath been,
Th' enamor'd Muse should, in her quest

Of beauty, know not where to rest,
But, dazzled, at thy feet thus fall,

Hailing thee beautiful in all !

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.

To let him pine so were a sin ;

One, to whom all the world's a debtorSo Doctor Hymen was call'd in, And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet, Though still some ugly fever latent ;"Dose, as before"-a gentle opiate,

For which old Hymen has a patent.

After a month of daily call,

So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all, Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.