Oh! could my lays, like SULMO's minstrel, flow, Eternity might love her BION's name; The muse might give a dignity to woe, And grief's steep path should prove the path to fame: But I have pluck'd no bays from PHOEBUS' bower, My fading garland, form'd of many a flower, May haply smile and bloom to last one little hour. To please that little hour is all I crave, Lov'd by my friends, I spurn the love of fame; High let the grass o'erspread my lonely grave, Let cankering moss obscure the rough-hewn name: There never may the pensive pilgrim go, Nor future minstrel drop the tear of woe, For all would fail to wake the slumbering earth below. Be mine, whilst journeying life's rough road along O'er hill and dale the wandering bard shall go, To hail the hour of pleasure with the song, Or soothe with sorrowing strains the hour of woe; The song each passing moment shall beguile, Perchance too, partial friendship deigns to smile, Let fame reject the lay, I sleep secure the while. Be mine to taste the humbler joys of life, Lull'd in oblivion's lap to wear away, And flee from grandeur's scenes of vice and strife, And flee from fickle fashion's empty sway: Be mine, in age's drooping hour, to see The lisping children climb their grandsire's knee, And train the future race to live and act like me. Then, when the inexorable hour shall come To tell my death, let no deep requiem toll, No hireling sexton dig the venal tomb, Nor priest be paid to hymn my parted soul; But let my children, near their little cot, Lay my old bones beneath the turfy spot: So let me live unknown, so let me die forgot. BION. * * * * * _ROSAMUND TO HENRY._ WRITTEN AFTER SHE HAD TAKEN THE VEIL. HENRY, 'tis past! each painful effort o'er, Thy love, thy ROSAMUND, exists no more: She lives, but lives no longer now for you; She writes, but writes to bid the last adieu. Why bursts the big tear from my guilty eye? Why heaves my love-lorn breast the impious sigh? Down, bosom! down, and learn to heave in prayer; Flow, flow, my tears, and wash away despair: Ah, no! still, still the lurking sin I see, My heart will heave, my tears will fall for thee. Yes, HENRY! through the vestal's guilty veins, With burning sway the furious passion reigns; For thee, seducer, still the tear will fall, And Love torment in Godstow's hallow'd wall.