[Footnote viii:
The "reward"s" scarce equal to the "price" they pay.
[4to]]
TO MARY,
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. [1]
1.
This faint resemblance of thy charms, (Though strong as mortal art could give,) My constant heart of fear disarms, Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
2.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold Which round thy snowy forehead wave; The cheeks which sprung from Beauty"s mould, The lips, which made me "Beauty"s" slave.
3.
Here I can trace--ah, no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter"s art defy, And bid him from the task retire.
4.
Here, I behold its beauteous hue; But where"s the beam so sweetly straying, [i.]
Which gave a l.u.s.tre to its blue, Like Luna o"er the ocean playing?
5.
Sweet copy! far more dear to me, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be, Save her who plac"d thee next my heart.
6.
She plac"d it, sad, with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there Held every sense in fast controul.
7.
Thro" hours, thro" years, thro" time,"twill cheer-- My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; In life"s last conflict "twill appear, And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
[Footnote 1: This "Mary" is not to be confounded with the heiress of Annesley, or "Mary" of Aberdeen. She was of humble station in life.
Byron used to show a lock of her light golden hair, as well as her picture, among his friends. (See "Life", p. 41, "note".)]
[Footnote i.:
"But Where"s the beam of soft desire?
Which gave a l.u.s.tre to its blue, Love, only love, could e"er inspire.--"
[4to. "P. on V, Occasions]]
ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX,[1]
THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE "MORNING POST."
"Our Nation"s foes lament on _Fox"s_ death, But bless the hour, when PITT resign"d his breath: These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, We give the palm, where Justice points its due."
TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY [i]
FOR INSERTION IN THE "MORNING CHRONICLE."
Oh, factious viper! whose envenom"d tooth Would mangle, still, the dead, perverting truth; [ii]
What, though our "nation"s foes" lament the fate, With generous feeling, of the good and great; Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name [iii]
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When PITT expir"d in plenitude of power, Though ill success obscur"d his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For n.o.ble spirits "war not with the dead:"
His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave, As all his errors slumber"d in the grave; [iv]
He sunk, an Atlas bending ""neath the weight" [v]
Of cares o"erwhelming our conflicting state.
When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear"d, Who for a time the ruin"d fabric rear"d: He, too, is fall"n, who Britain"s loss supplied, [vi]
With him, our fast reviving hopes have died; Not one great people, only, raise his urn, All Europe"s far-extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth undue, To give the palm where Justice points its due;" [vii]