6.

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free, When thou had'st lov'd without a crime,

And I been less unworthy thee!

7.

Far may thy days as heretofore

From this our gaudy world be pass'd!

And that too bitter moment o'er,

Oh! may such trial be thy last!

8.

This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroyed might there destroy ;

To meet thee in the glittering throng,

Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.

9.

Then to the things whose bliss or woe Like mine is wild and worthless allThat world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall.

10.

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath past may guess What there thy bosom must endure.

11.

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,
Since not by Virtue shed in vain,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;
For me they shall not weep again.

12.

Though long and mournful must it be,
The thought that we no more may meet;

Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

13.

Still, had I lov'd thee less, my heart
Had less have sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part,

As if its guilt had made thee mine.

XXIX.

Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a Skull.

· 1.

START not-nor deem my spirit fled :

In me behold the only skull,

From which, unlike a living head,

Whatever flows is never dull.

2.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
I died; let earth my bones resign:

Fill up thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

3.

Better to hold the sparkling grape

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood;

And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.

4.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,

In aid of others' let me shine;

And when, alas! our brains are gone,

What nobler substitute than wine!

5.

Quaff while thou canst-another race,
When thou and thine like me are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

6.

Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce

Redeemed from worms and wasting clay,

This chance is theirs, to be of use.

Newstead Abbey, 1808.

XXX.

On the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Bart.

THERE is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave; But nations swell the funeral cry,

And Triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh

O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:

In vain their bones unburied lie,

All earth becomes their monument !

A tomb is theirs on every page,
An epitaph on every tongue:
The present hours, the future age,

For them bewail, to them belong.