If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: LINES 1803. WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN BY J. J. ROUSSEAU : "AWAY, away! your flattering arts ANSWER TO THE FOREGoing, addressed to miss. DEAR, Simple girl, those flattering arts, Mere phantoms of thine own creation; to whom the affectionate verses, given in page 3, were addressed: **Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born," etc. But in the altered form of the Epitaph, not only this passage, but every other containing an allusion to the low rank of his young companion, is omitted; while, in the added parts, the introduction of such language as "What though thy sire lament his failing line, " seems calculated to give an idea of the youth's station in life, wholly different from that which the whole tenour of the original Epitaph warrants. That he grew more conscious of his high station, as be approached to manhood, is not improbable, and this wish to sink his early friendship with the young cottager may have been a result of that feeling.—Moore. The following is a copy of the lines, as they first appeared in the private volume: "Oh, Boy! for ever loved, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, July, 1804. ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING. (1) [ANIMULA! vagula, blandula, АH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, To what unknown region borne, TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. EQUAL to Jove that youth must be- Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; "Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove E. (1) This and several little pieces that follow appear to be fragments of school exercises done at Harrow. E. 6 Ah! Lesbia! though 't is death to me, I cannot choose but look on thee; But, at the sight, my senses fly; I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die; My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. "Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. 4. CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. YE Cupids! droop each little head; And, softly fluttering here and there, (1) The hand of Death is said to be most unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease, Now, having pass'd the gloomy bourne Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. For thou hast ta'en the bird away : For thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay. TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. [Justum et tenacem propositivirum, etc.] Can swerve him from his just intent: To curb the Adriatic main, Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, He would, unmoved, unawed, behold. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile. IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. TO ELLEN. OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire, FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS. [Μηδαμ' ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.] GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne Both gods and mortals homage pay, Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. How different now thy joyless fate, Since first Hesione thy bride, When placed aloft in godlike state, The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou satt'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled! The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor jove relentless frown'd. (1) Which droop with nightly showers, I wring: Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : 66 My bow can still impel the shaft : 'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?” Harrow, Dec. I, 1804. FROM ANACREON. [Μεσονυκτίοις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ. λ.] 'Twas now the hour when Night had driven (1) Lord Byron, in one of his diaries, says, "My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as exercises), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Eschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, FROM ANACREON. [Θέλω λέγειν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.] I WISH to tune my quivering lyre ΤΟ ΕΜΜΑ. SINCE now the hour is come at last, my grand patron (our head-master) but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subside into poesy."E. Alas! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part to meet no more; Which tears me far from one so dear, Departing for a distant shore. Well! we have pass'd some happy hours, Where, from this Gothic casement's height, It dared to give your slumbering eyes. In which I row'd you o'er the lake; The elm I clamber'd for your sake. This is the deepest of our woes, For this these tears our cheeks bedew ; This is of love the final close, Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu! TO M.S.G. WHENE'ER I view those lips of thiue, Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss. For that would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet I conceal my love-and why? I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou And shall I plead my passion now, To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume, Let it consume, thou shalt not know : I will not ease my tortured heart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. I bid thee now a last farewell. And hope no more thy soft embrace; All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. At least from guilt shalt thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love. TO CAROLINE. THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, The tears that from my eyelids flow'd Were lost in those which fell from thine. Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame; And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In sighs alone it breathed my name. Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret, TO CAROLINE. When a few silver hairs, of those tresses remaining, On! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?'T is this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. From my eyes flow no tear, from my lips flow no curses, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss ; For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning, Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance lanch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight; Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer; Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation, In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled? If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. (1) Lord Strangford's translations of Camoëns' Amatory Poems are mentioned by Mr. Moore as having been at this period a favourite study of Lord Byron.-E. features, Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, In the death which one day will deprive you of me. Mistake not, sweet sceptic! the cause of emotion ; No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; He worships each look with such faithful devotion, A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, When calling the dead,in earth's bosom laid low,Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow; Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem, The old and disappointed maid; In single sorrow doom'd to fade? Then read, dear girl! with feeling read, He was in sooth a genuine bard; His was no faint fictitious flame : Like his, may love be thy reward, But not thy hapless fate the same. (2) try, he who had taught her literary fame to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, and who seemed born to revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and Lusian heroism, was compelled to (2) The latter years of Camoëns present a mournful picture, wander through the streets, a wretched dependant on casual connot merely of individual calamity, but of national ingratitude.-tribution. One friend alone remained, to smooth his downward Ho whose best years had been devoted to the service of his coun path, and guide his steps to the grave with gentleness and conso |