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

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 scandalous 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,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink:
My thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell. (1)

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.

(i) [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 Only for wantonness.'

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,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn―
Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim

scorn.

nor Virtue

December 17. 1813. (1)

SONNET, TO THE SAME.

THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes-but, oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

December 17. 1815.

(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.]

FROM THE PORTUGUESE.

66

TU MI CHAMAS.

""

In moments to delight devoted,

66

My life!" with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words! on which my heart had doted, If youth could neither fade nor die.

To death even hours like these must roll,
Ah! then repeat those accents never;
Or change" my life!" into " my soul !"
Which, like my love, exists for ever.

ANOTHER VERSION.

You call me still your life.-Oh! change the word—
Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh:
Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name,
For, like the soul, my love can never die.