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To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,

What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest, tenderest passion warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition;

As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming!


THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou mayst read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?

And shouldst thou seek his end to know: My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,

He'll linger long in silent woe;

But live-until I cease to be.



REMEMBER him, whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be bless'd:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost


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
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
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!
And that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last!

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,
Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign- such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what even here hath pass'd, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure

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
Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part,

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 common sense his thoughts could raise -
Why would they let him print his lays?

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To me, divine Apollo, grant-0!
Hermilda's first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ;

And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining -
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

(1) [See Moore's Notices, antè, Vol. II. p. 198. —E]


"I lay my branch of laurel down,
Then thus to form Apollo's crown

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?
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne :
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou-none.

"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,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

"Let every other bring his own."

When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried,
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders ;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

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