STANZAS. ["REMEMBER HIM," &c.] REMEMBER him, whom passion's power That yielding breast, that melting eye, Oh! let me feel that all I lost But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost Το spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whate'er to others, thou I bless thy purer soul even now, Even now, in midnight solitude. Oh, God! that we had met in time, Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee ! Far may thy days, as heretofore, From this our gaudy world be past! This heart, alas ! perverted long, Itself destroy'd might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be, The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree, And almost deem the sentence sweet. Still, had I loved thee less, my heart As if its guilt had made thee mine. ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. (1) WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent) Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise * To me, divine Apollo, grant-O! And thus to furnish decent lining, (1) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. II. p. 198.-E] 1813. TO LORD THURLOW. "I lay my branch of laurel down, Let every other bring his own." Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers. "I lay my branch of laurel down." THOU❝lay thy branch of laurel down!" Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own, Does Rogers want it most, or thou? Or send it back to Doctor Donne: "Then thus to form Apollo's crown." Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers, "Let every other bring his own." When coals to Newcastle are carried, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, And thou shalt have plenty to spare. TO THOMAS MOORE. WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN COLD BATH FIELDS PRISON, MAY 19. 1813. (') Он you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown, For hang me if I know of which you may most [Bag; Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post * brag, But now to my letter-to yours 'tis an answer— To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on (According to compact) the wit in the dungeonPray Phoebus at length our political malice I May not get us lodgings within the same palace! suppose that to-night you're engaged with some codgers, And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers: And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heath cote, But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra. (2) (1) [See antè, Vol. II. p. 206.] (2) [The reader who wishes to understand the full force of this scanda lous insinuation is referred to Muretus's notes on a celebrated poem Catullus, entitled In Casarem; but consisting, in fact, of savagely scornf abuse of the favourite Mamurra : "Quis hoc potest videre? quis potest pati, Nisi impudicus et vorax et helluo ? Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia ?" &c.-E.] |