To trace the birth and nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim;
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name.’
BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING.
The modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet, whoe’er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse.
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When Dryden’s fool, ‘unknowing what he sought,’
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of senseSupplied, and amply too, by innocenceDid modern swains, possess’d of Cymon’s powers,In Cymon’s manner waste their leisure hours,Th’ offended guests would not, with blushing, seeThese fair green walks disgraced by infamy.Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!When vice and folly mark them as they pass.Like noxious reptiles o’er the…
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Or, since that has left my breast,Keep it now, and take the rest!Hear my vow before I go,Zoë mou, sas agapo!By those tresses unconfined,Wood by each Ægean wind;By those lids whose jetty fringeKiss thy soft cheeks’ blooming tinge;By those wild eyes like the roe,Zoë mou, sas agapo!By that lip I long to taste;By that zone…
Time! on whose arbitrary wing
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,But drag or drive us on to die—Hail thou! who on my birth bestowedThose boons to all that know thee known;Yet better I sustain thy load,For now I bear the weight alone.I would not one fond heart should shareThe bitter moments thou hast given;And pardon thee—since thou couldst spareAll that I…
Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos.~Virgil
Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblanceOf comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;How welcome to me your ne’er fading remembrance,Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny’d!Again I revisit the hills where…
‘Hic est, quem legis, ille, quern requiris, Tota notus in orbe Martialis,’ &c.
Oh, reader is the well-known Martial,The Epigrammatist: while living,Give him the fame thou wouldst be giving;So shall he hear, and feel, and know it–Post obits rarely reach a poet.
Marion! why that pensive brow?
Change that discontented air;Frowns become not one so fair.‘Tis not love disturbs thy rest,Love’s a stranger to thy breast;He in dimpling smiles appears,Or mourns in weedy timid tears’Or bends the languid eyelid down,But shuns the cold forbidding frown.Then resume thy former fireSome will love, and all admire;While that icy aspect chills us,Nought but cool indifference…