JUVENILE POEMS.

FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus. Juv.

MARK those proud boasters of a splendid line,
Like gilded ruins, mould'ring while they shine,
How heavy sits that weight of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow;
Those borrow'd splendours, whose contrasting light
Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew ?
The genuine virtues that with eagle-gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze !
Where is the heart by chymic truth refin'd,
Th' exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind?
Where are the links that twin'd, with heav'nly art,
His country's interest round the patriot's heart?

Justum bellum quibus necessarium, et pia arma quibus nulla nisi in armis relinquitur spes.-LIVY,

Is there no call, no consecrating cause,
Approv'd by Heav'n, ordain'd by nature's laws,
Where justice flies the herald of our way,
And truth's pure beams upon the banners play?

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath To slumb'ring babes, or innocence in death; And urgent as the tongue of Heav'n within, When the mind's balance trembles upon sin.

Oh! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim should meet

An echo in the soul's most deep retreat;
Along the heart's responding chords should run,
Nor let a tone there vibrate - but the one!

Look Nature round, her features trace,
Her seasons, all her changes see;
And own, upon Creation's face,
The greatest charm's variety.

For me, ye gracious powers above! Still let me roam, unfix'd and free; In all things, but the nymph I love, I'll change, and taste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms

Could e'er estrange my heart from thee; — No, let me ever seek those arms, There still I'll find variety.

TO A BOY, WITH A WATCH.

WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

Is it not sweet, beloved youth,
To rove through Erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers?

And is it not more sweet than this,

To feel thy parents' hearts approving, And pay them back in sums of bliss

The dear, the endless debt of loving?

It must be so to thee, my youth;

With this idea toil is lighter; This sweetens all the fruits of truth, And makes the flower of fancy brighter.

The little gift we send thee, boy,

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder, If indolence or siren joy

Should ever tempt that soul to wander.

"Twill tell thee that the winged day

Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour; That life and time shall fade away,

While heav'n and virtue bloom for ever!

VARIETY.

ASK what prevailing, pleasing power Allures the sportive, wandering bee To roam, untired, from flower to flower, He'll tell you, 'tis variety.

SONG.

IF I swear by that eye, you'll allow, Its look is so shifting and new, That the oath I might take on it now The very next glance would undo.

Those babies that nestle so sly

Such thousands of arrows have got, That an oath, on the glance of an eye Such as yours, may be off in a shot.

Should I swear by the dew on your lip,

Though each moment the treasure renews, If my constancy wishes to trip,

I may kiss off the oath when I choose.

Or a sigh may disperse from that flow'r
Both the dew and the oath that are there;
And I'd make a new vow every hour,
To lose them so sweetly in air.

But clear up the heav'n of your brow,
Nor fancy my faith is a feather;
On my heart I will pledge you my vow,
And they both must be broken together!

To

REMEMBER him thou leav'st behind, Whose heart is warmly bound to thee, Close as the tend'rest links can bind

A heart as warm as heart can be.

Oh! I had long in freedom rov'd,

Though many seem'd my soul to share; "Twas passion when I thought I lov'd,

"Twas fancy when I thought them fair.

Ev'n she, my muse's early theme,

Beguil'd me only while she warm'd ; 'Twas young desire that fed the dream,

And reason broke what passion form'd.

But thou-ah! better had it been
If I had still in freedom rov'd,
If I had ne'er thy beauties seen,

For then I never should have lov'd,

Then all the pain which lovers feel

Had never to this heart been known; But then, the joys that lovers steal, Should they have ever been my own? Oh! trust me, when I swear thee this, Dearest the pain of loving thee, The very pain is sweeter bliss

Than passion's wildest ecstasy.

That little cage I would not part,

In which my soul is prison'd now, For the most light and winged heart That wantons on the passing vow.

Still, my belov'd! still keep in mind,
However far remov'd from me,
That there is one thou leav'st behind,
Whose heart respires for only thee!

And though ungenial ties have bound
Thy fate unto another's care,
That arm, which clasps thy bosom round,
Cannot confine the heart that's there.

No, no! that heart is only mine

By ties all other ties above,

For I have wed it at a shrine

Where we have had no priest but Love.

SONG.

WHEN Time, who steals our years away,
Shall steal our pleasures too,
The mem'ry of the past will stay,

And half our joys renew.

Then, Julia, when thy beauty's flow'r
Shall feel the wintry air,
Remembrance will recall the hour

When thou alone wert fair.
Then talk no more of future gloom;

Our joys shall always last;

For Hope shall brighten days to come,
And Mem'ry gild the past.

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl,
I drink to Love and thee:
Thou never canst decay in soul,

Thou'lt still be young for me.
And as thy lips the tear-drop chase,

Which on my cheek they find, So hope shall steal away the trace

That sorrow leaves behind. Then fill the bowl away with gloom! Our joys shall always last;

For Hope shall brighten days to come,
And Mem'ry gild the past.

But mark, at thought of future years
When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears,

They mingle with my bowl.
How like this bowl of wine, my fair,
Our loving life shall fleet;

Though tears may sometimes mingle there,
The draught will still be sweet.

Then fill the cup

away with gloom! Our joys shall always last;

For Hope will brighten days to come, And Mem'ry gild the past.

SONG.

HAVE you not seen the timid tear,

Steal trembling from mine eye? Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, Or caught the murmur'd sigh? And can you think my love is chill,

Nor fix'd on you alone?

And can you rend, by doubting still, A heart so much your own?

To you my soul's affections move,

Devoutly, warmly true;
My life has been a task of love,

One long, long thought of you. If all your tender faith be o'er,

If still my truth you'll try ; Alas, I know but one proof more I'll bless your name, and die!

REUBEN AND ROSE.

A TALE OF ROMANCE.

THE darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls Had long been remember'd with awe and dismay; For years not a sunbeam had play'd in its halls, And it seem'd as shut out from the regions of day.

Though the valleys were brighten'd by many a beam,

Yet none could the woods of that castle illume; And the lightning, which flash'd on the neighbouring stream,

Flew back, as if fearing to enter the gloom! "Oh! when shall this horrible darkness disperse !" Said Willumberg's lord to the Seer of the Cave;"It can never dispel," said the wizard of verse, "Till the bright star of chivalry sinks in the wave!"

And who was the bright star of chivalry then? Who could be but Reuben, the flow'r of the age? For Reuben was first in the combat of men,

Though Youth had scarce written his name on

her page.

For Willumberg's daughter his young heart had beat,

-

startled, and saw, through the glimmering shade,

A form o'er the waters in majesty glide;

No, no, be happy - dry that tear
Though some thy heart hath harbour'd near,
May now repay its love with blame;
Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,
Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee;
Though all the world look cold upon thee,
Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still
Unharm'd by that surrounding chill;
Like the famed drop, in crystal found, 1
Floating, while all was froz'n around, -
Unchill'd, unchanging shalt thou be,
Safe in thy own sweet purity.

ANACREONTIC.

·În lachrymas verterat omne merum.
TIB. lib i. eleg. 5.

PRESS the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple show'r ;
And, while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heav'n grant no tears, but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe.

as this that I saw at Vendôme in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it into a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen."— Addison's Remarks on several Parts of Italy.

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.

WHY, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool.
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please th' elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought.
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-ey'd child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
"He was, indeed, a tender soul-

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No critic law, no chill control, "Should ever freeze, by timid art, "The flowings of so fond a heart!" Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love! That, hov'ring like a snow-wing'd dove, Breath'd o'er my cradle warblings wild, And hail'd me Passion's warmest child, Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye, From Feeling's breast the votive sigh; Oh let my song, my mem'ry, find A shrine within the tender mind; And I will smile when critics chide, And I will scorn the fume of pride Which mantles o'er the pedant fool, Like vapour round some stagnant pool!

TO JULIA.

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream,
A dream, I find, illusory as sweet :
One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,
Far dearer were than passion's bland deceit!

THE SHRINE.

ΤΟ

My fates had destin'd me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lur'd my pious steps to stay;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, ev'ry humbler altar past,

I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last!