«*r«r <&<■ <*; if} : l c' t*m ¥ r c i V.S t /J0 -\,uC Class Book IP DOBELL COLLECTION POEMS, W. T. MONCR1EFF. * Lasso, a tul che non m' ascolta, narro.' Petrarch. $rintrti, (FOR PRIVATE DISTRIBUTION ONLY.) AT THE AUTHOR'S PRIVATE PRES SAVILLE HOUSE, LAMBETH. MDCCCXXIV 205449 5 13 PREFACE. I commenced printing this volume to please one who, alas! has not lived to witness its completion — the praise or censure of others is now, therefore, of little import to me. The trifles it contains were mostly written in that happy, thoughtless season of life when, as the noble Nivernois beautifully and truly remarks, — Reflexion et Jeunesse Ne s'unissent pas aisement. L'on sent a cet age charmant Certain besoin oVaimer qui presse ; Von est ami, Von est amant, Bien moins par choix que par ivresse ; Le ccenr rent un attachement, Et s'abandonne a la tendresse Sans savoir pourquoi ni comment* It will not, consequently, be wondered at, that the major part of them owe their birth more to * Fables jiar M. le Due de Nivernois, Livre 1. Fable 18. fanciful feeling than any other source : some there are, however, that sprung, but too sin- cerely from sad reality ; whilst others are merely imitations of various passages that afforded me pleasure during the progress of a very desultory course of reading. I have found amusement in noting down the various coincidences with my Poems, which I have discovered in other writers, and in pointing out to whom I have been in- debted for my ideas. Whether the reader will be alike gratified in the perusal remains to be de- cided. I commit them to the world without solicitude ; the only aim I had in publishing them I cannot now accomplish — and to every other disappointment I am proof. 5, Union Place, Lambeth. June, 1829. <£tmtettt0* PACK Dedicatory Lines 1 Supplicatory Ode to the Owl 5 Introductory Stanzas 7 Madrigal, "My Harp, which oft so fondly rings" 10 Contradictions of Love II Lines from the French of Moncrif 13 Song, " As flowers that seem the light to shun'' 14 Anecdote Versified 16 Beauty's Immortality 17 Questions 19 Serment d'Amour 20 Love's Hatred 21 Madrigal, " Oft on a Summer's eve" 22 Stanzas, paraphrased from Chaulieu 23 Song, from the German of Schiller 24 Epigram, on leaving Brighton 26 Passion's Wishes 27 To " Thy cheek beauty's blush still discloses" 29 Song, to a Young Lady singing 30 Madrigal, to Maia 31 Rhapsody 33 Lines, on leaving an obscure retirement 35 Lines, written on the Sands of Hastings 37 Song, Sappho to her Mother. 36 VI CONTENTS. PAGE Fancies 41 Ballad, " With frolic children of the earth" 42 Round for Music 43 Stanzas, " Last night 1 stray'd through rose-wreath'd bowers" 44 Madrigal, " Oh, Stream ! on whose fair breast the sunbeams play" 46 Stanzas, " Let fools with disappointment groan'' 47 Sonnet, " Like some sweet portrait" 49 Love's Blindness 50 Beauty and Scorn 51 Lines from Alcaeus 52 Beauty's Idea 53 Stanzas, " 'Twas at the gentle silvery fall of da>' - 54 Theme and Variation 56 Lines to Saccharissa with a Sugar Vase.. 57 Song, "The Moon is down" 58 Anacreontic, " Bring hither, Boy'' 59 Stanzas, " Reproach me not, beloved Shade'' 60 The Dearest Name 6a Maying 63 Serenade, "The daylight has long been sunk'' 65 Consolations of Sorrow 67 Capriccio, " Her black eyes mourn" 69 Love's Creed 7 Notturno, " Tis now the dead of night" 73 Lines, " I saw thee die, and yet I liv'd" 75 Love's Follies 76 A modest Ode to Fortune 77 Hopeless Love 79 Sonnet, " Winter though all thy hours'' 80 The Joy of Weeping 61 Multiplication 82 A Lament, " Fair Flower ! Fair Flower 1" 83 Stanzas, Looking at a Picture CONTENTS. Vll PAGE Reflection, " Oh where have fled" 87 Evening 89 The First of May 91 Sonnet, " For very want of thought" 93 Day and Night 95 Valentine's Day 97 Love's Mutability 99 Single Gursedness 101 Nature's Lesson 104 Cherries , . 1 05 Anacreontic 110 Sonnet from Petrarch, " Alone and pensive" Ill Is it Love 1 112 Simplicity 113 The Hour of Bliss... 116 Lines, " When last we quarrell'd, Love, I swore" 118 Ballad, Eleanor Grey 120 Sonnet Stanzas, "I love to hear the high winds'' 122 Love's Emancipation 124 Lines, " Give me the Lyre my Gracia held so dear" 125 Pity's Pearl 127 Ode, " Nature's Supremacy" , 131 Ballad, "The Pilgrim Prince" 134 Stanzas, Paraphrased from Plato 136 Love and Beauty 138 Sonnet Stanzas, " Wakener of thoughts'' , , 140 Lines, " When first with yours my heart took wing" 142 Ballad, " Directions to the Page" 144 Concetto, " It's passion my timid heart smothers'* 146 Woman's First Love 147 Four Ages of Woman 148 Platonical Sonnet 149 Lines, " Love aim'd his arrows at my heart" 150 Vlll CONTENTS. PAGE Ballad, The Plain Gold Ring 151 Ode on being present at a Young Ladies' Ball 153 Sonnet Stanzas „ The Eternal Voice" 160 Echo's Reply 162 Sonnet written after reading Petrarch 164 Despondency 166 The Spaniard to his Country 169 To the Memory of Mary Anne Moncrieff 171 Resignation 173 Valedictory Sonnet from Petrarch 176 DEDICATORY LINES M A M In morning dream, by summer stream, Before my soul knew care or duty, On the pure tablet of my heart I drew the form that I thought beauty. There did I trace my line of grace, My every thing I deem'd enchanting, And many a chill of youth that form DispelPd, young Hope's sweet sunshine granting. Still, day and night, with fond delight, I woo'd this shade of fancy's forming, And long, a pilgrim, rov'd to find The shrine of charms but half as charming:. 2 But vain my cares, unheard my prayers, — And reason long had deem'd them folly ; For, though I rarest idols found, They were not those which I thought holy ! Though maidens bright shed round their light, My fancy still their beauty tainteJ ; I own'd them fair, but ever sigh'd, " They're not the fair my thoughts have painted." At length there beam'd a form, I deem'd The form so long belov'd in seeming ; With every charm as bright and worm, Yet lovelier than my loveliest dreaming ! There shone the eyes that woke my sighs, Yet sparkling with a radiance lighter : There were the cheeks so long T sought, Yet glowing with a crimson brighter. There rose the bosom's orb}* swell, The silken robe's restraint disdaining. There waved the tress of loveliness, Reason and prudence both enchaining. That form, which shone, my fancy's own, Was thine, thou dearest work of heaven ! Then, surely, thou wert born for me, Or why such prescience of thee given? And, be the world's rude censures hurl'd, I shall not, dear, the less admire thee ! For, oh ! thou'rt all in all to me, Thou'rt all that passion can desire thee. There may be fair, more bright and rare, To me they'll be less rare and bright, dear ! Thou'rt earth's and heaven's best to me ! Thou'rt all that constitutes delight, dear ! ril not maintain thy beauty's chain, Nor praise thy charms before another's; To me thou'rt all I've ever wish'd ! I care not what thou art to others. And every vow I've made ere now, Each song I've breath'd to fancied beauty, Find their true owner here in thee, And pay the tribute, love, of duty. b2 Take then these rhymes of other times, Long since to thee in fancy offered, But now, in blest reality, With double fervour fondly proffered ! And deem each praise, of these rude lays, Thine own — by heaven, through me, directed, Thou concentration of each charm ! And be they by thy smile protected. .>«4<3-- All ever thus each mortal hope declines, Thus do our dearest, brightest wishes fade ! A brief space since,! penn'd, with joy, these lines, And now, I but address them to a shade ! - -H Ef? * SUPPLICATORY ODE, TO THE OWL. Sage bird of darkness, Critic Owl ! Why should'st thou, from thy leafy cowl, In yon deep shades, dart, mighty Sir, To crush the Poet Grasshopper — A dwarfish, trifling-, thoughtless elf, Significant but to himself; Who, — his brief song of summer o'er, — Perchance had troubled thee no more ? Why tear him from his sport away, And make the tuneful wretch thy prey ? Alas ! stern reason thou canst give — " The fool must die, that I may live" 'Tis even so — still victims we To rigorous necessity. Sad elf! in song he woos each flower, x^nd you, too, carol in your bower — Albeit in a graver tone, — A note between a hoot and groan. His lay is breath'd in life and light ; Yours in deep secrecy and night : Yet both attune the voice aloud, And gain attention from the crowd : Both vocal are, and when did we E'er, of one trade, find two agree ? Thus he must perish, hapless one ! His lay is sung, his day is done. Poor insect ! all his mirth is o'er ; He now must madrigal no more. His songs have roused thee on the prowl ; I see thee coming, Critic Owl ! — I see thee from thy haunt advance, With griping claw, and hungry glance ! I see thee dart upon thy prey, And bear him to the shades away. Oh ! mighty Owl ! forbear, forbear ! One vagrant should another spare.* * This Ode is a very free paraphrase of an Epigram of Evenus, in the Greek Anthology, Apa Kooa /ueAt^eTrre, KaXov aQira^aTa, &c. forming EIlirPAM. iy. of Brunck's Collection. 1 have taken the liberty to give the whole subject a turn not to be found in the original. INTRODUCTORY STANZAS. Who has not heard of Memnon's Harp* of yore ? Which, ever as the blushing morning broke, And golden sun-beams play'd its light chords o'er, From silence into wild sweet strains awoke ; — * This celebrated Lyre was fixed in the hand of the colos- sal statue of Memnon. erected at Thebes, in ancient Egypt. See Strabo, Geog. lib. xvii. Pausanias, in Attic. Lucian, in his Philopseudes and Toxaris. Also Philostratus ; this latter Author in his de Vita Apollon. Tyan. has the following passage :— " Soice? yap 6 ijkios o'oye? -nrkrJKTpov, Kara to arofxa efiirlvruv rep Mepvovi, e/cjcaAe iiw,*' reminds me so strongly of Homer"s celebrated passage, — " B77 S'cuciwv iraoa eu>a Tro\v Joseph Warton, " the fair Author looking up earnestly on her mother, casting down the web on which she was employed, and suddenly exclaim- 39 Ah ! though I spend the night in sighs, And strive my tears from day to hide, Pride of my life — joy of my eyes— My dearest mother — do not chide ! For, oh ! in every thrilling vein A secret influence I own ; Young Love asserts his mighty reign, And claims me for himself alone, — Steals every thought, each sense pursues And all, which was so late my pride, Now, lost in love, unnotic'd sues, Yet, dearest mother, do not chide ! ing, ' Beloved mother, I can no longer weave the web, in- spired with love for some beauteous boy by the gentle Venus.' " By the bye, this is not a very adequate translation of the Doctor, the beautifully expressive Epithet ' BgaSivav A^oSacu',' being totally lost in it ; the following is more lite- ral, and does perhaps more justice to the original. " My sweet mother, I really cannot any longer turn the spindle, being subdued by my desire for a youth, through the sloth- creating Venus." Another Commentator asserts " that it would have afforded a worthy subject for Guido, the first, perhaps, among the Ital- ian painters, who alone could have transfused this inimitable 40 expression of deep affection, of languor, and voluptuous sen- timent, to the features and love-inspired form of the too- susceptible Greek." Natural and voluptuous ! a delineation of the personal feelings of the love-lorn Lesbian, it cannot fail to awaken our sympathy. In addition to which, it has, to the Greek Scholar, a simple, touching, unattainable pathos that defies translation. 41 FANCIES. Her kisses hang upon my lips, Like morning's dews upon the rose ; As soft, as sweet, as balmy too ; And, oh ! the lip that tastes such dew, Like dying love, immortal grows ! Her accents break upon mine ear, Like music o'er some stream at night ; I'm not on earth when she is near, Nor yet in heav'n ; but in some sphere, That is than either far more bright ! 42 BALLAD. With frolic children of the earth, Whose thoughtless hearts were light and glad. Whose voices woke no sound but mirth, The minstrel boy was mute and sad ! His heart was like his harp too much, — Unwaken'd, that would never wake ; And where the heart-strings none can touch, The heart will silent be, or break. But when the chosen few ones spoke To genius, taste, and feeling dear, Fast as each heart-strung chord they woke, Its soft response 'twas sweet to hear ! Were love, or war, or woe the theme, He pour'd so wild, so dear a strain, Lull'd them in so divine a dream, None ever wish'd to wake again ! 43 ROUND FOR MUSIC. Remember, love, the rosy flower I promis'd thee in early morn, Which, when we sought at evening hour, We found had fled, and left a thorn ! Ah let it, dearest, teach thee this, In pity to the youth who grieves, — The floweret is the joy we miss — The thorn, the sharp regret it leaves.* * This little Poem is of Greek origin. The first four lines are a close translation of an Epigram, to be found in the Anthologia, beginning : Tb gbdov. k. t. \. 44 STANZAS. Last night, I stray 'd through rose-wreath'd bowers, For, oh ! my soul was sad with love ; And to the Zephyrs and the flowers I sigh'd, their sympathy to move : " Ah ! tell me, gentle gales," said I, •' How I my lovely maid may bind ?" " Bind her with flowers," they murmur'd by ; " So sweet a chain she will not mind !" Some flowers I pluck'd ; "Sweet flowers!" said I, " What with my fair will you avail ?" " Oh ! let us here till morning lie, And o'er the maid we may prevail." Morn came ; I stray'd where they were lying, And sigh'd, my lovely flowers to see; For, some with cold neglect were dying, Whilst others could not livelier be ! 45 Oh ! emblems of my love and me, You shall this morn my story tell ; The flowers that bloom, my fair shall be, — The wither'd, he who loves so well ! And, when she sees your bloom all going, She, then, for me may shed the tear, That I did, when I saw them blowing, And was reminded of my dear ! 46 MADRIGAL. Oh, Stream ! on whose fair breast the sunbeams play, If o'er thy banks my gentle love should stray, Keep thou her image on thy bosom clear, To bless my eyes when next I wander near And thou, too, Echo, when she passes by, If she should gladly sing or fondly sigh, Oh keep the sounds, and but repeat them, when I, her fond lover, cross thy haunts again. 47 STANZAS. Let fools with disappointment groan, My bliss no mortal can defer, For it springs from myself alone ; Yes— yes, the very dream of her Is far more rapturous to me, Than any other's se^can be.* Lull then thy cares for me to rest, — Still let me slumber idly on ; I would not, if I could, be blest, — My happy dreams might then be gone • And, oh ! I would not risk to lose them, E'en for the heaven within her bosom : — * Nearly the same sentiment as this is expressed by Shen- stone in his exquisite and often quoted Inscription, at the Leasowes, to the memory of Miss Dolman : II Eheu ! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari, quam tui meminisse !" 48 For were she less than I have form'd, Though still she might an angel be To hearts, by love like mine unwarm'd, She'd less than woman be to me ; And, after dreams of heav'n, to wake To mortal dreams — my heart would break ! ; • 49 SONNET. TO M. A. M. Like some sweet portrait of the olden time, (When painters pictured with a poet's eye, And woman, woo'd in her young beauty's prime, Wearing Romance's semblance gloriously, Mov'd forth, the chosen genius of the clime !) Mellowed, by lapse of years to that pale cast, That gentle fading morning of decay, — Thou lookest dear — a vision of the past ! Gliding like day-dream on thy placid way : — Scarce seems thy form of earth, so pure thy ra}' ! So calm, so meek, so pale thy look and mein ! So hallowed the chaste light around thee thrown, That, as we gaze, we cling unto the scene, To worship thee— ere thou'rt for ever flown ! E 50 LOVE'S BLINDNESS! Why weakly on her beauties dwell ? Numb'ring each source of false delight ; She boasts no charm, but there lurks harm, Did doting Love possess but sight ! Those locks, at which e'en age awakes, Around her brows so wanton flung, Ah ! what are they but curling snakes, That have my heart to madness stung. Those glances, kindling wild desires, Which from her eyes of azure play, What are they but the lightning's fires, That burn the gazer's peace away ! 51 BEAUTY AND SCORN. Amor pud assai, ma piu lo sdegno. Ital. Prov Oh, what a sun is o'er us glowing ! Oh, what a breeze is past us flying ! It cheers the flowers so sweetly blowing, Which else, by summer's suns, were dying. Nona, thy charms than suns are brighter ; And oh ! their brilliance death would give, But thy disdain breathes cooler, lighter Than southern breeze, and bids us live ! Thy beauty fills our hearts with love, Thy scorn inspires our soul with hate; And we should death by passion prove, But pride steps in and combats fate ! Our hearts by love and hate are torn, And like some bark, when winds annoy it, Between two waves it braves the storm, When singly either might destroy it. e2 52 LINES. IMITATED FROM THE GREEK OF ALC.EUS.* Ah, were I but the lyre, my fair. Thy tuneful fingers wander o'er ; — I might as well be such, for, oh ! You could not play upon me more. E'en, as you bid, I'm grave or gay, — I smile or sigh, feel woe or glee ; For you have stol'n my heart away, And now you are the heart of me. Or, would I were yon vase of gold, Which in the banquet still you sip ; Rich draughts my form would then enfold, And love and wine embathe my lip. * I have taken some liberties with the original of this trifle, which is merely a Fragment, and is by some, but I think incorrectly, attributed to Anacreon. 53 BEAUTY'S IDEA! " Oh, give me an idea /" said I To Maia, who was standing by : " Dull Bard !" said she, " not to perceive But one idea can Maia give !" — " Ah cease," I answer'd, " to reprove, I know, I feel it now, — 'tis Love !" 54 STANZAS. 'Twas at the gentle, silvery fall of day, Stretch'd at my length, beneath a weeping willow, Oppress'd with heat and thought I slumbering lay, Lull'd by the ripplings of the stream's light billow. While there I slept, my vivid fancy form'd A vision fraught with misery and woe : — Oh may I aught by grief or pain deform'd Only on summer eves in slumber know ! Sighs rent my bosom, tears bedew'd my ej-es ; But soon I woke, and, to my joy, I knew There were no sighs but Evening's zeplr^r sighs ; No tears but rose and lily's tears of dew ! Oh then the rapturous joy that thrill'd my form, To find my grief, child of a drean^ hour, Was like the sunshine breaking on the storm. The rainbow rising o'er the sweeping shower 55 These visions of affliction, then, I thought, Are like the quarrels which fond lovers grieve ; For though they painful are, they are but short, And they no anguish'd sting behind them leave. Love is asleep when these light storms are break- ing, And though we anguish feel, the while they last, Yet, when he wakes, what joy brings that awak- ing, To think that all our sleeping woe is past. 56 THEME AND VARIATION. THEM E. Perche mai, se in pianto e in pene, Per me tutto si cangib, La memoria del mio bene Dal mio sen non trapassb ! VARIATION. When bliss, like morning's blush, shall stray, And eve but brings us sorrow's dew ; When all of joy has pass'd away, Ah ! why flies not its memory too ? But, oh ! the memory of past joy Still, still, within the heart will live, — That soothing balsam to destroy, Which, haply, other joys might give. 57 LINES TO SACCHARISSA, WITH A SUGAR VASE. Ah, would, thou humble shrine for sweets, Thou didst some soft nepenthe bear, To moderate our passion's heats, And sweeten every earthly care ! Or, would that in thy bosom I Could every sweet of life convey ; How swiftly then thy form should fly To her, who stole my heart away. But, simple, empty as thou art, Borne by my ceaseless sighs, take wing ; She'll plenteous sweets to thee impart, Who gives a sweet to every thing. 58 SONG. The moon is down, the wind is high, The rain is fastly flowing, But, ah ! the midnight hour is nigh, And I must needs be going ! For to my love I swore, by Jove ! That I this night would meet her; Then blow, ye winds, and flow, ye rains, You'll make me speed the fleeter. Love needs no light, for he is blind ! Thou, moon, need'st not arise ; And flow, thou rain, and blow, thou wind. Love's used to tears and sighs ! My fair is all in all to me, My world lies in her cheeks ! Oh moon, appear — the maid I see ! Be hush'd, ye winds — she speaks ! 59 ANACREONTIC. Bring hither, boy, yon Tuscan wine, And round our brows we'll roses twine ; Roses we have pluck'd to day, And we will drink till they decay. Yes, fill the vase, boy, fill it high, For see the light forsakes the sky : To ocean hastes the fainting beam, And we must seek it in the stream. Then let us, with the goblet's light, Illumine all the hours of night ; Drown every thought of care and pain, And drink till daylight dawns again ! 60 STANZAS TO THE SHADE OF In thoughts from the visions of the night, when deep sleep falleth on men, — an image was before mine eyes ; there was silence, and I heard a voice — Job iv. 13. Reproach me not, beloved shade ! Nor think thy memory less I prize ; The smiles, that o'er my features play'd, But hid my pangs from vulgar eyes. I acted like the worldling boy, With heart to every feeling vain : I smiFd with all, yet felt no joy ; I wept with all, yet felt no pain. 61 No — though, to veil my thoughts of gloom, I seem'd to twine Joy's rosy wreath, 'Twas but as flowerets o'er a tomb, Which only hide the woe beneath. I lose no portion of my woes, Although my tears in secret flow ; More green and fresh the verdure grows, Where the cold streams run hid below. 62 THE DEAREST NAME TO I've call'd you, in my lays, each tender name My love could fancy, or your beauties claim ! I've call'd you idol — angel — darling-r-dear ! And each fond name you sweetly smil'd to hear ; There wants but this to make you more divine, That you would only let me call you — mine /* * These Lines bear some resemblance to an Epigram by Lessing. Coleridge has, I believe, paraphrased the same idea ! 63 MAYING. TO MAIA. Now is the merry month of May ; And birds on every tree are telling The pleasures of their leafy dwelling, Singing many a roundelay ! Hark ! how the jocund rebecs sound ; — Oh merry, merry month of May, — Thy sward invites the limbs to lye, And hear the pleasant bells ring round. Now trips the morris to and fro, The while Dan Robin strains his throat, And drowns the cuckoo's warning note ; Come let us all a maying go ! 64 How fresh the flowers, how bright, how gay ! The sprites, who have the garden's care, Have left their own sweet breathings there. To charm our lovely queen of May ! Gracia, our queen of May art thou ! And never yet was earthly queen, Or queen of Fays, more lovely seen, Or worthier of each summer vow ! And, oh ! if still you constant prove, Sweet meed for every tear and sigh, May soon will August prove, and I Reap the rich harvest of my love ! 65 SERENADE. The day-light has long been sunk under the billow, And Zephyr its absence is mourning in sighs ; Then Dora, my dearest, arise from your pillow, And make the night day with the sun of your eyes. That, fairer than you, no one ever may prove, The bright mould that form'd you, they've broken,* my love ; And now, you alone can your image renew, Then, oh ! for creation's sake, rise, dearest, do ! * The reader may probably accuse me of plagiarism from Byron's noble Monody on Sheridan. I allude to the admired lines which close that Poem : — " Nature form'd but one such man, And broke the die— in moulding Sheridan." Such, however, is not the case ; this trifle was written at the F 66 Pretty star of my soul ! heaven's stars all outshin- ing ; Sweet dream of my slumbers ! ah, love, pray you, rise ; Enchantress! all hearts in your fetters entwining, — To my ears you are music, and light to my eyes ! To my anguish you're balm, to my pleasures you're bliss, To my touch you are joy ; there's the world in your kiss : Day is not day if your presence I miss ; Ah, no ! 'tis a night cold and moonless as this ! request of a musical friend, some months previous to the ap- pearance of the Monody. If there is any robbery. Byron is equally a thief with myself, more than two centuries since, Ariosto, speaking of one of the departed worthies of his time, remarks :— " Natura lo fece, et poine ruppa la stampa."' and if my memory was not so treacherous as it is, I could show that Ariosto did but say that, which had been, more than once, as well said before him, by those great originals of all good things the old Greeks; by-the-bye the same idea may be found in Burks as well as Byro\. 67 CONSOLATIONS OF SORROW. TO THE SHADE OF I miss thee most, my love, at that lone hour, When the last sun-rays leave our summer bower, And day and night, day's orient progress run, Are softly — sweetly — blending into one ! When the bright western star begins to rise, Lighting the dark blue depths of cloudless skies, That calm, that silent hour, the first of eve, Dearest to those who only live to grieve ! Then plung'd in memories of refin'd, sweet sorrow, E'en from my very grief, a joy I borrow ; A joy that almost makes my heart rejoice, — For, in deep solitude, there wakes a voice, A still small voice, the mourner's heart that cheers, Caught from the rill that trickles on in tears, F2 68 The wandering breeze that softly murmurs by, And to the sufferer seems soft pity's sigh ! The listening silence, and the soothing calm, Still to complaining hearts their sweetest balm, And all the nameless sympathies that rise From nature's scenes, the woods — the plains — the skies ! And then, love, to my lonely couch I turn, Where, while with thousand thoughts of thee I burn, I woo the dream that gives thee back again, And in that dear delusion lose my pain ! 69 C A P R I C C I O. ON Her black eyes mourn her treachery, Her cheeks blush deep with shame, Her coral lips pout angrily, Forc'd words of guile to frame. Her locks disdain the ringlet's chain, No more they'll hearts ensnare, At liberty ! they cry " be free, Our ties but bring despair !" At her deceit her bosom swells, Her breath still strays in sighs, Her every beauty now rebels, Her charms in judgment rise ! 70 LOVE'S CREED. When, love, thy charms I see, Can I a sceptic be ? Ah ! no, conviction in a glance is given ; For in thy form and face A hand divine I trace, Laugh at the powers of chance and own a Heaven ! Though atoms, idly hurl'd, Might frame this mighty world ; Though seas and plains from chaos might have birth, Yet, oh ! what chance could give A form like thine to live ? What chaos yield thy judgment, wit, and worth? What chance could give thy cheek That hue so rich and sleek, And fix that radiant brilliance in thine eve ? T! What chaos could bestow Those locks of golden flow, And breathe that witching fragrance in thy sigh ? Own the proud sceptic must ! No chance-rais'd dance of dust, A face, a figure, so divine, could frame ! 'Tis writ in each fair line, Only a hand divine Could to that perfect image give the flame ! Thine eyes, which shine so bright, Are lit with Heaven's own light ; An angel's aspiration is thy breath ! Thy reason, ever right, Keen wit and judgment bright Immortal are, and mock the dart of death ! I seek not musty schools, But scorn the pedant's rules, I am not vers'd in theologic lore ! That there's a God, I know, To whom I ever owe My duty — love ! — I wish not to know more ! 72 A simple creed I own, I hold but this alone — That Heaven, for some wise purpose, urconfess'd , Form'd every creature rare, That fills earth, ocean, air, And that it through its works is worshipp'd best. Then still I'll kneel to thee, My heart's lov'd deity, Nor shalt thou, dear, my orisons reprove ; Through thee, I worship Heaven ! Through thee, my faith is given ! Then to adore thee is religion, Love ! 73 NOTTURNO. Cantus querulae tibiae. Hor. od. 7. b. iii. 5 Tis now the dead of night, my love ; From thy chamber-bower alight, my love ; I've a ladder of ropes, And a world of hopes — Then quickly let's take flight, my love. Here we in danger are, my dear, But we'll fly from it far, my dear ; Then into my arms, With thy thousand charms, Descend like a falling star, my dear. 74 Oh, what are wealth and birth, my love, To honesty and worth, my love ? From thy father's tower, To thy true lover's bower, Is stepping to heaven from earth, my love. The moon is shining bright, my dear ; Our flying steps to light, my dear ; Beaming, the while, An approving smile, On this our true-love flight, my dear. 75 LINES TO I saw thee die, and yet I liv'd ! But what were thy worst pangs to mine ? Bliss, love ! for though dull sense surviv'd, I died a thousand deaths in thine. And though I breathe and gaze and stray, My joy, my rest, my peace, have fled ; My mental life has pass'd away ; My hope, my heart, my soul, are dead ! Existence, motion, still are mine ; But they to senseless things are given, — All, dear, that renders man divine, Thought, feeling, are with thee in heaven, 76 LOVE'S FOLLIES. When, lull'd in passion's dream, my senses slept, How did I act ? — e'en as a wayward child ! I smil'd with pleasure when 1 should have wept ! And wept with sorrow when I should have smil'd ! When Gracia, beautiful but faithless fair, Who long in passion's bonds my heart had kept, First with false blushes pitied my despair, I smil'd with pleasure ! — should I not have wept ? And when, to gratify some wealthier wight, She left to grief the heart she had beguil'd ; That heart grew sick and, saddening at the sight, I wept with sorrow ! — should I not have smiCd? 77 A MODEST ODE TO FORTUNE. Et genus et formam regina pecunia donat." Hor. goddess Fortune, hear my prayer, And make a bard for once thy care ! 1 do not ask, in houses splendid, To be by liveried slaves attended ; I ask not for estates, nor land, Nor host of vassals at command ; I ask not for a handsome wife — Though I dislike a single life; I ask not friends, nor fame, nor power, Nor courtly rank, nor leisure's hour ; I ask not books, nor wine, nor plate, Nor yet acquaintance with the great ; Nor dance, nor song, nor mirth, nor jest, Nor treasures of the east or west ; 78 I ask not beauty, wit, nor ease, Nor qualities more blest than these — Learning nor genius, skill nor art, Nor valour for the hero's part ; These, though I much desire to have, I do not, dearest goddess, crave : — I modestly for money call — For money will procure them all!* * Compare with this the following passage in Boileau's eighth satire : — Quiconque est riche, est tout ; sans sagesse il est sage j II a sans rien savoir la science en partage ; II a Pesprit, le coeur: le me rite, le sang ; La vertu, la valeur,la dignite. le rang ; II est aime des grands, il est cheri des belles : Jamais Surintendant ne trouva decruelles. 79 HOPELESS LOVE. TO If hopeless love thou e'er hadst known, If e'er its pangs were thine, Oh, in the memory of thine own, Thou'dst feel and pity mine. But never, never may'st thou prove How wretched is their fate, Who sigh for those they may not love, Yet feel they cannot hate. * These Lines, with a slight alteration, have been adapted to Caraffa's beautiful Air " Fra lante Angoscie." 80 SONNET. Winter, though all thy hours are drear and chill, Yet hast thou one that welcome is to me ; Ah ! 'tis when day-light fades, and noises still, And we afar can faintly darkness see ;* When, as it seems too soon to shut out day And thought with the intrusive taper's ray, We trim the fire, the half-read book resign, And in our easy chairs at ease recline ; Gaze on the deepening sky, in thoughtful fit, Clinging to light as loth to part with it : Then, half asleep, life seems to us a dream, And magic all the antic shapes that gleam Upon the walls, by the fire's flickerings made ; And oft we start, surpris'd but not dismay'd. Ah ! when life fades and death's dark hour draws near, May we as timely muse and be as void of fear ! * " Darkness visible.'* Milton. 81 THE JOY OF WEEPING, A smile may brighten the tear-drop still, That from Beauty's dear eye strays ; As sun-beams lighten the trickling rill, That weeps through the forest maze. Joy brightens all the tears of love O'er virgin cheeks that steal ! When passion weeps, it is to prove What words cannot reveal ! Aurora weeps in tears of dew, As day leads on the hours, But sweetly smiles, the while, to view Her tears refresh the flowers ! Thus, when our tears for others flow, We smile through them, to see Despair still robb'd of half its woe By generous sympathy ! G 82 MULTIPLICATION. < One kiss my love, and then' — I sigh'd — She granted it, my grief to smother, * One more, and then' — again I cried — " And then, — what then ?" — * Then, love, an- other /* For though, as Sages, dear, disclose, E'en manna's self will cloying prove, " Increase of appetite but grows On what it feeds," when it is Love !' * Vide Basium III. of Joannes Secundus, "Da mihi sua- violum,'" &c. And Basium VI I. of (he same Author. "Centum basia centies, &c.'' Also Catullus. Carm. VII " Quaoris quot mihi basiationes/' &c. ; and Martial, Epig. 34. lib. vi. 83 A LAMENT. The Flowers of the Forest are a wede away ! Fair flower ! fair flower ! Though thou seem'st so proudly growing, Though thou seem'st so sweetly blowing, With all Heaven's smiles upon thee, The blight has fallen on thee, Every hope of life o'erthrowing, Fair flower ! fair flower ! Dear flower ! dear flower ! Vainly we our sighs breathe o'er thee, No fond breath can e'er restore thee ; Vainly our tears are falling, Thou'rt past the dews' recalling ; We shall live but to deplore thee, Dear flower ! dear flower ! g2 84 Poor flower ! poor flower ! No aid now to health can win thee ; The fatal canker is within thee, Turning thy young heart's gladness To mourning and to madness ! Soon will the cold tomb enshrine thee, Poor flower ! poor flower ! Wan flower ! wan flower ! Oh ! how sad to see thee lying, Meekly— calmly — thus, though dying ; Sweeter, in thy decaying, Than all behind thee staying ! — But vain, alas ! is now our sighing, Lost flower ! lost flower ! 85 STANZAS TO MAIA, LOOKING AT A PICTURE. See, what a lovely picture's here ! Ting'd with rapture's brightest hue, A Lover, sitting by his dear;- — Just, my Love, like me and you. What magic had the painter's hand, For, while we gaze, we scent* the flowers, And almost feel the Zephyrs bland, That seem to cool those trellis'd bowers. Look at the youth ! Love's in his eye, His slender form beams ripe for bliss ; He seems to whisper " No one's nigh,- Then grant, dear maid, the promis'd kiss !" * Philostratus, speaking of a Picture, has a similar idea " eiraivw nou rov evdporrov twv (joZmv kcu <^)T7/x( ytyficKpGai avru ixtra ttjs 007x775/' 86 Look at that maid, what burning blushes Are mantling on her rich young cheek ; See from her eye what brilliance gushes, Ah! more than worlds of words they speak. See his fond arm how gently twining Around her soft retiring waist ; And see his lip, how blandly joining Her melting cheek, so warmly chaste. Ah ! as it glows in colours warm, It is a picture fair to see ; But we a sweeter one could form, One, dearest, in reality! 87 REFLECTIONS. Oh ! where have fled the moments blest,* That pass'd so swift away ; When day still brought us night's sweet rest, And night was bright as day ? Sweet hours of youth and joy, That know no second birth ; Alas ! you ever fly, Ere scarce we've learn'd your worth. And where has fled the power to move, That Nona once possess'd ; That warm'd each icy heart to love, And fir'd each frigid breast ? * Dove sono i bei momenti Di dolcezza e di piacer ! Nozze di Fig auo. 88 Where, too, those graces, fraught With all that hearts could sway ; Which woke each tender thought, And stole our souls away ?* Ah ! with her youth, Experience sighs, Has Nona's beauty flown, For still with youth 'tis beauty flies ; Years ne'er depart alone. In spring our wisdom sleeps ; In winter wakes to truth ; And long the greybeard weeps The folly of the youth. * Quo fugit Venus ? lieu ! quove color ? decens Quo motus ? quid habes illius, illius Quae spirabat amores, Quae me surpuerat mini ? | «Chiama,echi desia, in un giorno s'invecchia/ as Salvini has correctly interpreted it. 119 Yet charge me not with perjury, My oath religiously I kept, love ! That day was a whole year to me, So lingeringly the moments crept, love ! 120 ELEANOR GREY BALLAD. Oh ! long shall I think of the Miller's fair daughter, The flower of the valley, poor Eleanor Grey ; For though Sorrow's sure dart to the dark grave has brought her, Her virtues, in memory, ne'er can decay ! Like the glow-worm, which shines, the night's dark- ness illuming ; Like the breath of the rose, which, though sweet while 'tis blooming, Breathes sweeter when death is its beauty entomb- ing, Is the memory sweet of lost Eleanor Grey ! 121 If to love be a crime, and there's sin in believing, Then greatly a sinner was Eleanor Grey ; For Edwin was tender as well as deceiving, And swore to protect, when he meant to betray. And like the mild night-plant, when some rude foot bends it, Whose only reproach is the perfume it lends it, She sigh'd, " My heart blesses the false youth who rends it !" And died as she bless'd him, poor Eleanor Grey ! 122 SONNET STANZAS. Avefiwv trueotn-wv, ti)v rixw irpocrKvvsi. Pythagoras. Quumjuvat immites ventos uudire cubantem — Aut, gelidus hybernus aquas cum fudeiit Auster, Securem somnos, imbrejuvante, sequi ! TlBULLCS. I love to hear the high winds pipe aloud, When 'gainst the leafy nations up in arms; Now screaming in their rage, now shouting, proud; Then moaning, as in pain at war's alarms : Then softly sobbing to unquiet rest ; Then wildly, harshly, breaking forth again, As if in scorn at having been repress'd ; With marching sweep careering o'er the plain. And, oh ! I love to hear the gusty shower Against my humble casement pattering fast, While shakes the portal of my quiet bower ; For then I envy not the noble's tower. 123 Nor, while my cot thus braves the storm and blast, Wish I the tumult of the heavens past. Yet wherefore joy I in the loud uproar ? Does still life cloy, has peace no charms fbr me ? Pleases calm nook and ancient tome no more, But do I long for wild variety '? Ah ! no ; the noise of elements at jar, That bids the slumbers of the worldling close, Lone Nature's child, does not thy visions mar, — It does but soothe thee to more sure repose. I sigh not for variety nor power, My cot, like castled hall, can brave the storm ; Therefore I joy to list the sweepy shower And piping winds, at home, secure and warm ; While soft to heaven my orisons are sent In grateful thanks for its best boon, content !* * These Stanzas are, it will be perceived, but very little more than an amplification of the well-known lines of Lucretius : Suave mari magno turbantibus sequora ventis, E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem. 124 LOVE'S EMANCIPATION. False girl ! I'll wear thy chains no more, My heart shall be my own ; 'Twas thy neglect left ope the door, — And now, the captive's flown ! Then give me, give me back the tears, That I have shed for thee ; They shall congeal to drops of ice, To show I'm cold to thee ! Once, it was bliss thy chains to wear, For flowerets hid them all ; But, since thy scorn has kill'd the flowers, The unwreath'd fetters gall ! Then give me, give me back the sighs, That I have breath'd for thee ; With them, I'll fan the flames of love In one more true and free. 125 LINES. Give me the lyre my Gracia held so dear, And let me wake the lay that, once, to hear She bent so tenderly, and lov'd so much ; Then place beside the harp she us'd to touch. And, while to mine in soft response it rings, I'll think that still again she sweeps its strings ; The dear deceit will cheat me of my pain, And, in a sound, I'll live o'er life again !* * Kotzebue in his Travels to Paris, vol. 3, p. 166, Eng- lish translation, 1804, gives us the following extract from his ' pocket book.' "Of a girl romantically in love, I have noted an anecdote, which is said to have happened very recently, and which will touch the feelings of most of my readers as it did mine. " She was playing on the harpsichord, and her lover used often to accompany her on the harp. He died, and his harp had remained in her room. After the first access of despair, 126 she sunk into the deepest melancholy, and much time elapsed ere she could sit down to her instrument. At last she did so, gave some touches, and, hark! the harp, tuned alike, re- sounded in echo ! The good girl was at first seized with a secret shuddering, but soon felt a kind of soft melancholy. She thought that the spirit of her lover was softly sweeping the strings of the instrument. The harpsichord from this moment constituted her only pleasure, as it afforded her the joyful certainty that her lover was still hovering about her. One of those unfeeling men, who want to know and clear up every thing, once entered her apartment ; the girl instantly begged him to be quiet, for that very moment the dear harp spoke most distinctly — being informed of the amiable illu- sion which overcame her reason, he laughed, and with a great display of learning, proved to her, by experimental physics, that all this was very natural. From that instant the maiden grew melancholy, drooped, and died." This anecdote has furnished the groundwork of a romantic tale, by the patriotic and heroic poet Korner, entitled " The Harp." 127 PITY'S PEARL. The skies were dark, the wind was high, The foaming* ocean Was all in motion, And threw its billows to the sky, Alas ! Alas ! Too late the life-boat came to save ; The fishers met a watery grave, Before friends', kindred's, children's eyes, Their agony what could surpass ? They, shrieking, shrinking, Saw them sinking, Sinking, ah never more to rise ! Alas ! Alas ! 128 Gracia was walking on the shore, She heard them shrieking, Succour seeking, But, ah ! a tear was all her store ; Alas ! Alas ! And sadly did the maiden sigh, " Ah ! why no other pearl have I, Than that which Pity's eye now gives ; 'When from their hearts will sorrow pass ? The bright tear fell where waves were sighing, Fell where a shell was aptly lying, The shell that virgin tear receives ; Alas! Alas! Shrin'd in the shell, that bright tear there By power, given From bounteous heaven, Became a pearl of value rare : Oh joy ! Oh joy ! The fishers' offspring, toiling, find The pearly tear for them design'd, A mighty sum they by it gain ; 129 It soon o'erthrew each dark annoy, And ere the morrow, Banish'd sorrow — Prov'd Gracia's tear fell not in vain, Oh joy! Oh joy!* * The origin of this Ballad is an Eastern Fable, I believe by Hafiz, which I find translated first in the Spectator, No. 293, vol. 3. The elegant Mancini, Duke de Nivernois, has versified the original so gracefully, in his e Fables,' Livre Second, that I cannot forbear gratifying the French Reader by transcribing it : - LA GOUTTE d'EAU- Du haut de la voute des airs Une goutte d'eau detachee, Tombait dans 1'abime des mers ; Elle en etait sans doute bien touchee, Pour peu qu'elle eut de sentiment : Venir ainsi du firmament Pour se trouver confondue, egaree ; Rouler a jamais ignoree Parmi les flots de ce vaste element Dont notre terre est partout entouree, C'£toit un sort bien triste assurement Quoi qu'il en soit, les lois du mouvement Allant leur train, la goutte est attiree Du haut en bas, et touche a son dernier moment. K 130 Dans cet instant heureusement, Par un huitre elle est aspiree, La, comme en un fort retiree Elle regne a son aise, et profite si bien Qu'elle devient en moins de rien Perle d'une beaute - parfaite. Elle pare d'abord l'ecrin d'un curieux : Bientot d'une princesse elle orne la toilette, Et finit par briller sur les autels des dieux. Qui l'aurait dit, quand la pauvrette Tombait si tristement des cieux ? 131 ODE. NATU It E S S V P R E M ACY! Give me the wild note still, that springs When o'er the harp the minstrel flings His gifted hand, and tries his power In inspiration's mighty hour ! Awakening, from th' unconscious chords, Wild notes that mock the power of words ! In careless untaught circles winding, The soul's most hidden feelings finding, Before the lay of cunning art, Which charms the ear, but leaves the heart. Give me the stream meandering on, O'er many a bed of sedge and stone ; Here brawling loud — now whispering there, But still depriving us of care ; Before the dull, the staid canal That moves without a rise or fall. k2 132 And give me Maia, wild young thing, Whose heart is like the linnet's wing, Once caught and sooth'd with silken sway, She'd charm the live-long hours away ; So wild, so simple is the dear, She's heaven's own inmate wandered here. My young wild thing ! my young wild thing ! Thy heart is like the linnet's wing : But, ah ! once snar'd, my love, by me, So bless'd thy humble home should be, Thou ne'er shouldst sigh, love, to be free : Pure Nature how thou wak'st our sighs, Thou first best blessing of the skies! All that belongs, lov'd power, to thee. Is dear, heaven knows how dear, to me ! The flower, that in the desert blows, The grape, that glad in nature grows, Anacreonting all our fields, A charm, more cool, more blessed, yields, To longing eyes and burning lip, That faint to gaze and die to sip, Than can precocious fruit and flower, Rais'd by the hot-bed's ripening power ! 133 And Maia, wild untutor'd creature, With Nature's speech, and Nature's feature, Is dearer than the polish'd fair, That blooms in cultivated air. Her simple song of artless grace, Far more delights the heart to trace, Than all the scientific strains Of classic Arno's maids and swains. Her careless, playful, artless gait, Her step so light, yet so elate, More fascination has for me Than walk of solemn dignity ; Or all the dancer's artful mazes, Which but surprise the eye that gazes. Pure love from Nature still has birth ; Nature's from Heaven — Art springs from Earth ! 134 THE PILGRIM PRINCE. BALLAD. At blush of morn, the silver horn Was loudly blown at the castle gate ; And, from the wall, the Seneschal Saw there a weary pilgrim wait. " What news — what news, thou stranger bold ? Thy looks are rough, thy raiment old ! And little does Lady Isabel care To know how want and poverty fare." " Ah let me strait that Lady see, For far I come from the North Country !*' " And who art thou, bold wight, I trow. That would to Lady Isabel speak ?" " One who, long since shone as a prince, And kiss'd her damask cheek ! 135 But oh my trusty sword has fail'd, The cruel Paynim has prevail'd, My lands are lost, my friends are few, Trifles all, if my Lady's true !" " Poor Prince ! ah when did woman's truth, Outlive the loss of lands and youth !" 136 STANZAS. Paraphrased from the folloicing distich of the Pkilosoj>her Plato, in Laertius : — " Asepas ticradpeis, asrjp e/ios, eifle yevoifj.T)v Ovpavos, wj iroWois o/j.fxa* Mtmovv of MARY ANNE MONCRIE1 F, Who died May 24, 1828, in her 22 nd Year. Sweet token ! Heaven design'd her not for earth ! She bore an angel's semblance from her birth ; A more than mortal grace, that charm'd all eyes ; A sweetness, that belong'd but to the skies ; Genius, that all perfection's pathways trod ; And virtue, emanation of her God ! Thus gifted, was no other blessing hers ? Yes, one Heaven on its chosen but confers : — That early suffering, which all sin denies, Which timely weans us from all worldly ties, Which in the gently fading look we trace, Yet which but yields its victim milder grace ; Sustain'd for lingering years, without complaint, Till the meek martj r r soar'd into the saint ! 172 Like some pale lily drooping in its prime, Some fleeting being of another clime, Some fair star waning in the morning's beam, Or faint remembrance of a witching dream, Was she ! — So lovely, e'en disease she charm'd, — The beauty it destroy'd it ne'er deform'd ! Death fear'd to strike, although he could not spare, A being both so fragile and so fair : He paus'd, till weariness had hush'd her sighs, Then, imperceptibly, secur'd his prize. Ah ! Mary Anne ! thou spring-day of delight! Lamp of my life ! now quench'd in death's dark night ! Could excellence but lend its own bright rays To light the lines, that fain would hymn its praise, Then would this humble scroll immortal prove As is thy worth — and as will be my love ! 173 RESIGNATION Yes, yes, I will take comfort, I will forbear to sigh, I'll check my sad tears, since I see A tear in every eye. Though hopelessly I languish, I do not mourn alone, In every heart there's anguish, As deep as in my own ! Still, in my love's young morning To suffer such a blight ; — Ere joy was scarcely dawning, To see it set in night ! All life's sweet hopes destroying, Could heavier woe be mine ? (Each bliss of earth enjoying !) Yet why should I repine ! 174 When Macedonia's Hero Saw death approaching near, He breath'd no idle murmur, He shed no fruitless tear ; " Farewell !" he sigh'd, " ye living, Youth's work must finish'd be, Ah ! that spring's plant should perish Like autumn's ripen'd tree." He wrote unto his mother, And these the words she read, — w Your son from earth must sever, And join the silent dead ; When o'er my urn you sorrow, Bestow alms but on those Who ne'er have lost their dearest. Who ne'er have known earth's woe3. The mother sought, but vainly, Though near and far she rov'd, All had endured earth's trials, All lost the friends they lov'd. It gave the consolation Her hero meant ; for she 175 Saw her's was but the portion Of all humanity.* Then, then I will take comfort — I'll balm my bosom's pain, I'll dry my tears, though never Can I know joy again. I'll breathe no fruitless murmur, Whatever pangs are mine ; Since misery's universal, Why, why should I repine ! * " When Alexander saw his death approaching, he ex- claimed, c The prediction of the Astrologer is accomplished ; I no longer belong to the living ! Alas ! that the work of my youth should be finished ! Alas ! that the plant of Spring should be cut down like the ripened tree of Autumn !' He wrote to his mother, saying, he should shortly quit this earth and pass to the regions of the dead. He requested that the alms given on his death should be bestowed on such as had never seen the miseries of this world, and had never lost those who were dear to them. In conformity to his will, his mother sought, but in vain, for such persons : all had tasted the woes and griefs of life; all had lost those whom they loved. She found in this a consolation, as her son had in- tended, for her great loss. She saw that her own was the common lot of humanity." Sir John Malcolm's u History qf Persia." 176 VALEDICTORY SONNET. FROM PETRARCH. Voi cKascolate in rime sparse il suono,"" SfC. Oh ! ye who listen to my wood-notes wild, And count in them the sighs that I have breath'd, When I, in passion's wilds, sad garlands wreath'd; Like my fierce master, Love — a very child ! With all the follies that n^ heart beguil'd, Follies by Heaven in punishment bequeath'd, If in your hearts love's arrows e'er weresheath'd, You then may pity me, from joy exil'd : For, on my cheek the blush of shame oft glows, And sad reflection tells me, but too plain, The vulgar herd still mock my passion's woes ! I reap m} r follies' meed, remorse and pain ; And feel too late the thorn hid in the rose, Finding man's praise a dream as transient as 'tis vain ! THE END. W. T. M. men., ti", T> p. S.iville House, Lambeth. Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 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