But now I think less wildly-it is gone

That dream of fame-and now, perchance again

I learn the truth-that I may live unknown,
And not less happily ;-'twas very vain,
And worse than foolish to suppose a strain,

That scarce might move affection's partial mind,

Could challenge justice;-why should I complain

That I have failed at stranger's hand to find

What friendship might deny-nor yet be deemed unkind?

I have called others proud-and much have borne,

For having dared to say so-be it known

To such as understand me, tho' I scorn

To unsay that saying, I am forced to own

All I have charged on them-to smart and groan Beneath the writhing of that pang-they must

Forgive me now-methinks, it might atone

For such my folly, that I now am thrust

From fancy's airy throne to my too kindred dust.

Yet have I comfort-mid those groves of fir,

That murmur peace around my quiet home, I'll wake my lyre again,-not to the stir

Of mad ambition;-be the sun-writ tome Of nature, all my learning,-the crisped foam Of the free brook, my fame,-thy gentle fire, Devotion, my sweet Muse,-the praise of some Whose smile is all to me, my prize;-aspire To such-and I will love thee still, my lonely lyre!

Cambridge,

May 29, 1827.

EPIGRAM.

ПАӨНМАТА

МАӨНМАТА.

CORRIPUI citharam-lauram dare Granta solebat Vatibus-at lauram non mihi Granta dedit.

Ecce iterum !-fortasse lyram meliora manebunt Fata-iterum damnant tristia fata lyram.

Tertia pugna subit-jacturaque tertia,—Musam Ter-victam ex acie tum revocare licet.

Parce, miser, doceantque Taoyuara bina poetam

Jam sapere !-Ah nunquam, crede, poeta sapit.

TRANSLATION.

GRANTA, with all a mother's eye, regards

The first faint efforts of her embryo bards;

And rears a throne, and twines a deathless bay,

To deck the deftest scribbler of the day.

I wrote,―and failed,-'twas but for scribbling sake;

A freshman never wins-but by mistake.

Again I seized my pen,-invoked amain

Fortune's fair smile,-but fortune frowned again.

Once more. Nay, sir, 'tis folly to keep on,
When fate and reason warn you to have done;

And, by your double failure of the prize,

Might teach the veriest booby to be wise:

Once more?-sheer madness, sir, I'd have you know it, Quite inconsistent.-Not, sir, with a poet.

Cambridge, May, 1827.

FANCY.

Oн, ask me not where fancy lies!
For fancy comes and fancy flies,
And fancy lives, and fancy dies,

A moment's fitful ray:—

Just comes one bright, bright smile to bring,

Just shakes one dew-drop from her wing,

Just strikes one note from airy string,

And then away, away.