Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;

To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour; (1)
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread.
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,
They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place.
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard!
Such is their practice, such is their reward!
This much, at least, we may presume to say -
The premium can't exceed the price they pay.

1806.

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.

SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.

of under-graduates, take up a poker to them, and heard him use language as blackguard as his action. Of all the disgusting brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was the most bestial, as far as the few times I saw him went. He was tolerated in this state amongst the young men for his talents; as the Turks think a madman inspired, and bear with him. He used to recite, or rather vomit, pages of all languages, and could hiccup Greek like a Helot: and certainly Sparta never shocked her children with a grosser exhibition than this man's intoxication. -1818.]

(1) Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment. [Lord Henry Petty is now Marquess of Lansdowne. — - E.]

I would not say,

"I love," but still

My senses struggle with my will:

In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt ;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit the guilty lips impart;

And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,

repress,

No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, " 'twas the spirit moved us."
Though what they utter'd I
Yet I conceive thou 'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,

Thy form appears through night, through day:
Awake, with it my fancy teems;

In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,

And bids me curse Aurora's ray

For breaking slumbers of delight

Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:

66

May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her ;

That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!" (1)

THE CORNELIAN. (2)

No specious splendour of this stone

Endears it to my memory ever;

(1) These verses were written at Harrowgate, in August 1806.-E.

(2) The cornelian of these verses was given to Lord Byron by the Cambridge chorister, Eddlestone, whose musical talents first introduced him to

With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver. (1)

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,—

For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offer'd it with downcast look,
As fearful that I might refuse it;

the young poet's acquaintance, and for whom he appears to have entertained, subsequently, a sentiment of the most romantic friendship.-E.

(1) In a letter to Miss Pigot, of Southwell, written in June, 1807, Lord Byron thus describes Eddlestone:-" He is exactly to an hour two years younger than myself, nearly my height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know; I hope I shall never have occasion to change it." Eddlestone, on leaving his choir, entered into a mercantile house in the metropolis, and died of a consumption, in 1811. Lord Byron, on hearing of his death, thus writes to the mother of his fair correspondent:—“I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may remember a cornelian, which some years ago I consigned to Miss Pigot, indeed gave to her, and now I am about to make the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gave it to me, when I was very young, is dead, and though a long time has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial I possessed of that person (in whom I was very much interested), it has acquired a value by this event I could have wished it never to have borne in my eyes. If, therefore, Miss Pigot should have preserved it, I must, under these circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be transmitted to me, and I will replace it by something she may remember me by equally well. As she was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate of him who formed the subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the giver of that cornelian died in May last, of a consumption, at the age of twenty-one,-making the sixth, within four months, of friends and relations that I have lost between May and the end of August.". The cornelian heart was returned accordingly; and, indeed, Miss Pigot reminded Lord Byron that he had left it with her as a deposit, not a gift. It is now in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh. — E.

I told him when the gift I took,
My only fear should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, And ever since I've loved a tear.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth, Must quit the garden for the field.

"Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; The flowers which yield the most of both In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

Had Fortune aided Nature's care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,
If well proportion'd to his mind.

But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form had fix'd her fickle breast;

Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remain'd to give the rest.