TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY. OH factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. weep, Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep; Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, THE TEAR. "O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."— Gray. WHEN Friendship or Love our sympathies move, Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile, Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear. (1) The "illiberal impromptu" appeared in the Morning Post, and Lord Byron's "reply " in the Morning Chronicle.-E. The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth! (1) seat of Friendship and Truth, Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more, In the shade of her bower I remember the hour By another possest, may she live ever blest! With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, (1) Harrow. When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier, As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear. May no marble bestow the splendour of woe No fiction of fame shall blazon my name, October 26th, 1806. REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain, For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh Would you teach her to love? for a time seem to rove; At first she may frown in a pet; But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile, And then you may kiss your coquette. For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, And humbles the proudest coquette. Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain, If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride, Some other admire, who will melt with your fire, For me, I adore some twenty or more, Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them all, No longer repine, adopt this design, And break through her slight-woven net; Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend, Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the smart, Should lead you to curse the coquette. October 27th, 1806. |