Substitute For An Epitaph
Kind Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here HAROLD lies, but where's his Epitaph?
If such you seek, try Westminster, and view
Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.
Athens
On Napoleon's Escape From Elba
Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Making balls for the ladies, and bows tohis foes.
It was one of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of my life to feel that I was no longer a boy. From that moment I began to grow old in my own esteem-and in my esteem age is not estimable.
John Keats
Who killed John Keats?
'I,' says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
''Twas one of my feats.'
Who shot the arrow?
'The poet-priest Milman
(So ready to kill man),
Or Southey or Barrow.
There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
Epigram, On The Braziers' Company Having Resolved To Present An Address To Queen Caroline
The braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass
An address, and present it themselves all in brass,--
A superfluous pageant-for, by the Lord Harry!
They'll find where they're going much more than they carry.
Epigram: From The French Of Rulhières
If, for silver or for gold,
You could melt ten thousand pimples
Into half a dozen dimples,
Then your face we might behold,
Looking, doubtless, much more snugly;
Yet even then 'twould be damned ugly.
August 12, 1819.
My time has been passed viciously and agreeably at thirty-one so few years months days hours or minutes remain that 'Carpe Diem' is not enough. I have been obliged to crop even the seconds-for who can trust to tomorrow
On The Bust Of Helen By Canova
In this beloved marble view,
Above the works and thoughts of man,
What Nature could, but would not, do,
And Beauty and Canova can!
Beyond imagination's power,
Beyond the Bard's defeated art,
With immortality her dower,
Behold the Helen of the heart!
Written Shortly After The Marriage Of Miss Chaworth
Hills of Annesley, bleak and barren,
Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd,
How the northern tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted shade!
Now no more, the hours beguiling,
Former favourite haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling
Makes ye seem a heaven to me.
