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'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.

On the ear Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

Brave men were living before Agamemnon.

The truly brave, When they behold the brave oppressed with odds, Are touched with a desire to shield and save:-- A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods Are they--now furious as the sweeping wave, Now moved with pity; even as sometimes nods The rugged tree unto the summer wind, Compassion breathes along the savage mind.

Brave men are all vertebrates; they have their softness on the surface and their toughness in the middle.

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures; And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader; Some by a place--as tend their years or natures; The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.

I am not now That which I have been.

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

Shrine of the mighty! can it be, That this is all remains of thee?

How chang'd since last her speaking eye Glanc'd gladness round the glitt'ring room, Where high-born men were proud to wait-- Where Beauty watched to imitate.

Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.

So well she acted all and every part By turns--with that vivacious versatility, Which many people take for want of heart. They err--'tis merely what is call'd mobility, A thing of temperament and not of art, Though seeming so, from its supposed facility; And false--though true; for surely they're sincerest Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.

With more capacity for love than earth Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, His early dreams of good out-stripp'd the truth, And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth.

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, And mischief-making monkey from his birth.

Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded. That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

And circumstance, that unspiritual god, And miscreator, makes and helps along Our coming evils, with a critch-like rod, Whose touch turns hope to dust--the dust we all have trod.