Fugitive Pieces Part 2

9.

'Tis then your breast, no longer cold, With equal ardour seems to burn, While close your arms around me fold, Your lips my kiss with warmth return.

10.

Ah! would these joyous moments last; Vain HOPE! the gay delusions past, That voice!--ah! no, 'tis but the blast, Which echoes through the neighbouring grove.

11.

But when _awake_, your lips I seek, And clasp enraptur'd all your charms, So chill's the pressure of your cheek, I fold a statue in my arms.

12.

If thus, when to my heart embrac'd, No pleasure in your eyes is trac'd, You may be prudent, fair, and chaste, But ah! my girl, you _do not love_.

TO MARIA ----

Since now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover, Since now, our dream of bliss is past, One pang, my girl, and all is over.

Alas! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part, to meet no more; Which tears me far from _one_ so dear, _Departing_ for a distant sh.o.r.e.

Well! we have pa.s.s'd some happy hours, And joy will mingle with our tears; When thinking on these ancient towers, The shelter of our infant years.

Where from this gothic cas.e.m.e.nt's height, We view'd the lake, the park, the dell, And still though tears obstruct our sight, We lingering look a last farewell.--

O'er fields, through which we us'd to run, And spend the hours in childish play, O'er shades where, when our race was done, Reposing on my breast you lay,

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss, It dar'd to give your slumbering eyes.

See still the little painted _bark_, In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park, The _elm_, I clamber'd for your sake.

These times are past, our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes, I must retrace alone, Without thee, what will they avail.

Who can conceive, who has not prov'd, The anguish of a last embrace?

When torn from all you fondly lov'd, You bid a long adieu to peace.

_This_ is the deepest of our woes, For _this_, these tears our cheeks bedew, This is of love the final close, Oh G.o.d! the fondest, _last_ adieu!

1805.

FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES, FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF aeSCHYLUS.

Great Jove! to whose Almighty Throne, Both G.o.ds and mortals homage pay, Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.

Oft shall the sacred victim fall, In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain, 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

How different now thy joyless fate, Since first Hesione thy bride, When plac'd aloft in G.o.dlike state, The blus.h.i.+ng beauty by thy side.

Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smil'd, And mirthful strains the hours beguil'd; The nymphs and Tritons danc'd around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd nor Jove relentless frown'd.

HARROW, _December_ 1, 1804.

LINES IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN," BY J.J.

ROUSSEAU, FOUNDED ON FACTS.

Away, away,--your flattering arts, May now betray some simpler hearts; And _you_ will _smile_ at their believing, And _they_ shall _weep_ at your deceiving.

_ANSWER TO THE ABOVE, ADDRESS'D TO MISS ----_.

Dear simple girl those flattering arts, (From which you'd guard frail female hearts,) Exist but in imagination, Mere phantoms of your own creation; For he who sees that witching grace, That perfect form, that lovely face; With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, He never wishes to deceive thee; Once let you at your mirror glance, You'll there descry that elegance, Which from our s.e.x demands such praises, But envy in the other raises.-- Then he who tells you of your beauty, Believe me only does his duty; Ah! fly not from the candid youth, It is not flattery, but truth.

_July_, 1804.

ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS, AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.

Where are those honours? IDA, once your own, When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne; As ancient Rome fast falling to disgrace, Hail'd a Barbarian in her Caesar's place; So you degenerate share as hard a fate, And seat _Pomposus_, where your _Probus_ sate.

Of narrow brain, but of a narrower soul, Pomposus, holds you in his harsh controul; Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; With noisy nonsense, and new fangled rules, (Such as were ne'er before beheld in schools,) Mistaking _pedantry_, for _learning's_ laws, He governs, sanctioned but by self applause.

With him, the same dire fate attending Rome, Ill-fated IDA! soon must stamp your doom; Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame, No trace of science left you, but the name.

HARROW, _July_, 1805.

EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND.

Oh Boy! forever lov'd, for ever dear, What fruitless tears have wash'd thy honour'd bier; What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath, Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death.

Could tears have turn'd the tyrant in his course, Could sighs have check'd his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey.

Thou still had'st liv'd, to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight: Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born, No t.i.tles did thy humble name adorn, To me, far dearer, was thy artless love, Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove.

For thee alone I liv'd, or wish'd to live, (Oh G.o.d! if impious, this rash word forgive) Heart broken now, I wait an equal doom, Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb; Where this frail form compos'd in endless rest, I'll make my last, cold, pillow on thy breast; That breast where oft in life, I've laid my head, Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead; This life resign'd without one parting sigh, Together in one bed of earth we'll lie!

Together share the fate to mortals given, Together mix our dust, and hope for Heaven.