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." A crown! why, twist it how you will, Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. When next you visit Delphi's town, Enquire amongst your fellow-lodgers, They 'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown, years before your birth, to Rogers. Some "Let every other bring his own." When coals to Newcastle are carried, 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 For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, [Bag; Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post * * * 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 Phœbus at length our political malice May not get us lodgings within the same palace! I 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 of Catullus, entitled In Cæsarem; but consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful 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.] IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits, And clouds the brow, or fills the eye; September, 1813. SONNET, TO GENEVRA. THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features - caught From contemplation-where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. (1) [These verses are said to have dropped from the poet's pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy which overclouded the general gaiety. It was impossible to observe his interesting countenance, expressive of a dejection belonging neither to his rank, his age, nor his success, without feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether it had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional temperament. It was obviously of a degree incalculably more serious than that alluded to by Prince Arthur'I remember when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned them, and felt that his sphere was far above the frivolous crowd which surrounded him, gave a strong effect of colouring to a character whose tints were otherwise romantic. SIR WALTER SCOTT.] With such an aspect, by his colours blent, Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! scorn. . December 17. 1813. (1) SONNET, TO THE SAME. THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, December 17. 1813. (1) ["Redde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets. I never wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, and many years ago, as an exercise- and I will never write another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly platonic compositions." Diary, 1813.— E.] |