Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd, Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude It chanced, I pass'd again that way And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray Ah, fond deceit! the rude green bud Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud, Another and the same! 1796. EPIGRAM. HOARSE Mævius reads his hobbling verse To all, and at all times; Yet folks say " Mævius is no ass :"- That he's a monster of an ass, An ass without an ear. VOL. I. E 1797. INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES IN NETHER STOWEY CHURCH. LETUS abi! mundi strepitu curisque remotus; TRANSLATION. DEPART in joy from this world's noise and strife Depart!-Affection's self reproves the tear INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE THE following poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer one. The use of the old ballad word Ladie for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity, as Camden says, will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But alas! explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story, wholly uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible. A cypress and a myrtle-bough This morn around my harp you twin'd, Because it fashion'd mournfully Its murmurs in the wind. And now a tale of love and woe, But most, my own dear Genevieve, 1799. O come and hear the cruel wrongs And now once more a tale of woe, When last I sang the cruel scorn That craz'd this bold and lovely knight, I promised thee a sister tale Of man's perfidious cruelty; Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong Befell the Dark Ladie. EPILOGUE TO THE RASH CONJUROR. AN UNCOMPOSED POEM. WE ask and urge-(here ends the story!) That this unhappy Conjuror may, Instead of Hell, be but in Purgatory,— Long live the Pope! 1805. Here followed the stanzas, afterwards published separately under the title "Love." (Poet. Works, vol. i. p. 145. Pickering, 1834.) and after them came the other three stanzas printed above; the whole forming the introduction to the intended Dark Ladie, of which all that exists is to be found ibid. p. 150. Ed. PSYCHE. THE butterfly the ancient Grecians made Of mortal life! For in this earthly frame Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. 1808. COMPLAINT. How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits REPROOF. FOR shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain! Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain? The good great man ?-three treasures, love and light, 1809. |