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I lived, I loved, I quaffed, like thee;

I died ; let earth my bones resign: Fill up—thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine.


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.


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!


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.


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.


To a Lady weeping.

WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah, happy! if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away! Weep for thy tears are Virtue's tears

Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!

March, 1812.


From the Turkish.


The chain I gave was fair to view,

The lute I added sweet in sound,

The heart that offered both was true,

And ill deserved the fate it found.

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