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EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE
POET AND SHOEMAKER. (1)

STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.

His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella ?"
For character-he did not lack it;

And if he did, 'twere shame to "Black-it."

Malta, May 16. 1811.

ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA.

GOOD plays are scarce,

So Moore writes farce:

The poet's fame grows brittle

We knew before

That Little's Moore,

But now 'tis Moore that's little.

September 14. 1811. (2)

(1) [Some notice of this poetaster has been given, antè, Vol. VII. p. 269. He died in 1810, and his works have followed him. — E.]

(2) [The farce in question was called "M. P.; or, the Blue Stocking," and came out at the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September. - E.]

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, (1)

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE

CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE.

"OH! banish care"-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought-but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of any thing but love.

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'T would suit philosophy to tell.

(1) [i. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See Vol. VII. p. 305.-E.]

I've seen my
bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,—
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less. (1)

But let this pass-I'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,

I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,

When Britain's " May is in the sere,"

Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes
Suit with the sablest of the times,

Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise,
One, who in stern ambition's pride,

Perchance not blood shall turn aside,

(1) [These lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while under the pressure of recent sorrow, the poet reverted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to come. - - MOORE.]

One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,

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Him wilt thou know. and knowing pause,
Nor with the effect forget the cause. (1)

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. (2)

TO THYRZA.

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?

By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;

The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet

no - ne'er again!

(1) [The anticipations of his own future career in these concluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at any lengths to which the spirit of selflibelling would carry him. It seemed as if, with the power of painting fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition to be, himself, the dark sublime he drew,' and that, in his fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endeavoured to fancy, where he could not find in his own character, fit subjects for his pencil. - MOORE.]

(2) [Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, the poet says,"I am growing nervous (how you will laugh!) but it is true,- really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervous. Your climate kills me; I can neither read, write, nor amuse myself, or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights restless: I have seldom any society, and, when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity; for I find a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely."-E]

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That softly said, "We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.

And didst thou not, since Death for thee Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, Who held, and holds thee in his heart?

Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,

Till all was past? But when no more
"Twas thine to reck of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flow'd as fast- as now they flow.

Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?

Ours too the glance none saw beside; The smile none else might understand; The whisper'd thought of hearts allied, The pressure of the thrilling hand;

The kiss, so guiltless and refined

That Love each warmer wish forebore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, Even passion blush'd to plead for more.

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