English

No more, vain wretch! such trifling arts pursue,
These public fooleries will never do!
Love's secret flames, like lamps, shou'd bury'd lie,
The very moment they take air, they die.
Women , thro' crowds , can unfeign'd passion spy,
Skill'd, in the rhet'ric of a speaking eye:
But when, regardless of their fame, you move,
Your glare of folly blinds their eye of love .

Come all ye gem'men volunteers,
Of glory who would share,
And leaving with your wives your fears,
To the drum head repair;

Or to the noble Serjeant Pike,
Come, come, without delay,
You'll enter into present pay,
My lads the bargain strike.
A golden guinea and a crown,
Besides the Lord knows what renown,
His majesty the donor,
And if you die,

'Twas on the day, whose unauspicious fate,
With dismal news , alarm'd Britannia 's state;
And, in our admiral's shipwreck , let us see,
That courage cannot stem mortality!
The sea's grim sov'reign , in a calmer place,
Unbent the wrinkly terrors of his face:
Where, stretch'd at ease, the wanton monarch lay,
And, hem'd with Neriids , laugh'd the hours away;
Soft knots of unform'd coral swell'd his bed,
And oozy samphire crown'd his bushy head.
A watchful guard the best-arm'd fishes keep,

Oh, Gentlemen! I'm come — but was not sent ye;
A voluntier — pray, does my size content ye?
Man , I am yours: sex! blest, as heav'n can make you,
And, from this time, weak woman , I forsake you.

Who'd be a wife? when each new play can teach us,
To what fine ends , these lords of ours beseech us.
At first, whate'er they do — they do so charming!
But mark what follows — frightful, and alarming!
They feed, too fast, on love — then, sick'ning , tell us,
They can't, forsooth, be kind , because they're jealous .

In lonely walks, distracted by despair,
Shunning mankind, and torn with killing care,
My eyes o'erflowing, and my frantic mind
Rack'd with wild thoughts, swelling with sighs the wind,
Thro' paths untrodden day and night I rove,
Mourning the fate of my successless love.
Who most desire to live untimely fall,
But when we beg to die Death flies our call.
Adonis dies, and torn is the lov'd breast,
In midst of joy, where Venus wont to rest:
That fate, which cruel seem'd to him, would be
Pity, relief, and happiness, to me.

That nature's every where the same,
Each passing day discovers;
For that in me
Some charms they see,
Behold me, though a country dame,
Leading a crowd of lovers.

II.

My sporting squire to keep at bay
The course I'll double over,
Whilst he, intent
On a wrong scent,
Shall always find me stole away
When he cries " Hark to cover.
"
III.

With new-coin'd oaths, my grenadier

I.

He, whose whole treasure one dear vessel bears,
Thro' seas, on which destructive pirates swarm,
Must be excus'd a thousand fears and cares ,
And bend his soul to ev'ry strong alarm .

II.

Ill do they love , and feel thee, at their heart ,
Who seem unmov'd , while others hope thee theirs ;
My kindling bosom burns, with open smart ,
For my proud soul her unveil'd meaning wears.

III.

AT THE Twenty -F IFTH A NNIVERSARY OF THE C LASS OF 1839

I

Shall the first strain upon the lyre unused
Speak as of old,
When oft it told
Of blush and sigh,
Of hope and fear
And smile and tear,
Of those most beautiful in boyhood's eye?
Shall it sing her, the queen of camps and groves,
Sing of our loves?
So let it sing again;
Surely as men,
In the refrain
Of that eternal strain,

Oh! thou eclipse , and glory , of thy kind!
Thou vast o'erwhelmer of the drowning mind!
Bid me not write my thoughts, or speak my pain,
'Till thou hast giv'n me back my soul, again:
As well might shipwreck'd slaves, who, floating , lie,
Swim, through the billowy storms , which sweep the sky,
As my poor sighing breast its torments show,
And paint, in cool description, burning woe .
Lost to sense, mem'ry, meaning — all, but thee!
I drag on life's dull load, in misery .
Absent, from those dear eyes' destructive shine,

Venus now no more behold me,
But an humble village dame,
Coarse and homely trappings fold me,
And Mistress Maudlin is my name.

Yet here no less is paid that duty
Ever due to Venus' worth,
Not more insensible of beauty
Than gods in heaven, are men on earth,