When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait On one by birth predestined to be great;

That books were only meant for drudging fools, That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;" they point the path to shame,

Believe them not;

And seek to blast the honors of thy name.

Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,

Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,

None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart; 't will bid thee, boy, forbear;
For well I know that virtue lingers there.

Yes! I have marked thee many a passing day,

But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have marked within that generous mind
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hailed her favorite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot -
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,

The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll,
That well-emblazoned but neglected scroll,
Where lords, unhonored, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,

In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;

Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And called, proud boast! the British drama forth.*
Another view, not less renowned for wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favored by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordained to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.†

* [" Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, created Earl of Dorset by James I., was one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who produced a regular drama."

Anderson's Poets.]

["Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, born in 1637, and died in 1706, esteemed the most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and

Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name ;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign

Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:

Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue
And gild their pinions as the moments flew ;
Peace, that reflection never frowned away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hailed, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,

May one day claim our suffrage for the state,

the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song,' To all you Ladies now at Land.' His character has been drawn in the highest colors by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve." — Anderson's Poets.]

We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe,
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;

No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice:
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught

To veil those feelings which perchance it ought,
If these, but let me cease the lengthened strain,
Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

1805.

FRAGMENT.

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH.†

HILLS of Annesley, bleak and barren,

Where my thoughtless childhood strayed,

* [I have just been, or rather ought to be, very much shocked by the death of the Duke of Dorset. We were at school together, and there I was passionately attached to him. Since, we have never met, but once, I think, since 1805 — and it would be a paltry affectation to pretend that I had any feeling for him worth the name. But there was a time in my life when this event would have broken my heart; and all I can say for it now is, that it is not worth breaking. - Byron's Letters, 1815.]

† [Miss Chaworth was married to John Musters, Esq., in August, 1805.]

How the northern tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted shade!

Now no more, the hours beguiling,
Former favorite haunts I see;

Now no more my Mary smiling

Makes ye seem a heaven to me.

1805.

GRANTA. A MEDLEY.

Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου, καὶ πάντα κρατήσεις.

OH! Could Le Sage's* demon's gift

Be realized at my desire,

This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St. Mary's spire.

Then would, unroofed, old Granta's halls
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,
The price of venal votes to pay.

Then would I view each rival wight,

Petty and Palmerston survey;

*The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection.