CHAPTER XVIII.

Other Contributors to Brummell's Scrap Book-Lord Melbourne-His Lines on the Bust of Fox-The Dream-Translation of an Ode from Anacreon-The Honourable George Lamb—The Robber's Good-Night-R. Payne Knight-The Yellow Leaf-George Canning-His Squib on Mr. Whitbread's Speech at the Impeachment of Lord Melville-The Duchess of Gordon's Salute-Mrs. O'Neill— Stanzas by that Lady.

AMONGST the long list of distinguished persons who sent vers de société to Brummell, Lady Dacre, Lady Granville, and Lord Melbourne, are the only three individuals who now survive, and consequently the only persons to whom it was necessary to apply for permission to publish these evidences of their taste. and accomplishments.1 The reply that I received from Lord Melbourne was couched in terms of amiable circumspection, and perfectly in accordance with his known good-nature; he says, "I can have no objection to your inserting any poetry of mine in your intended work, which you think may add to its interest, provided there be in it nothing discreditable to the writer, nor injurious to the feelings of others; on

1 None of these "distinguished persons" is alive at the time (1885) this new edition is published.

both of which points, you will exercise a sound discretion." No objections of this nature can possibly be urged against the first, or the three succeeding trifles from his lordship's pen: they were probably written very early in life, and had been the elegant occupation of leisure hours passed, in reality, by the side of the tranquil Cam; but, in imagination, reposing on the banks of some streamlet wild in the classic island of Cythera. His lordship had, however, even at this time, not only distinguished himself by his classical, but by other and more solid attainments; and perhaps, the most flattering testimony of this was given by Fox, when he made his celebrated speech on the death of his friend the Duke of Bedford-one of the finest declamations of the heart ever made within the walls of the House of Commons. On that memorable occasion, he finished his painful task by introducing the following passage from the Essay of William Lamb, "Sur l'Avancement Progressif de l'Esprit Humain;" recited at the University of Cambridge in December 1798: "Le crime n'est un fléau que pour le temps où le succès le couronne, tandis que la vertu, soit qu'elle triomphe soit qu'on la persécute, est un bienfait du ciel, non seulement pour l'âge ou nous vivons, mais pour la postérité la plus reculée; elle sert au bonheur des hommes, dans le moment présent par ses actions, et dans l'avenir par ses exemples." Lord Melbourne's admiration for this great, though unsuccessful, statesman, is powerfully and simply expressed in the following apostrophe to his bust.

ON THE BUST OF CHARLES JAMES FOX.

“Live, marble, live! for thine's a sacred trust,
The patriot's name that speaks a noble mind;
Live, that our sons may stand before thy bust,
And hail the benefactor of mankind!

This was the man, who, 'midst the tempest's rage,
A mark of safety to the nation stood;

Warn'd with prophetic voice a servile age,

And strove to quench the ruthless thirst for blood.
This was the man, whose ever deathless name
Recalls his generous life's illustrious scenes;
To bless his fellow-creatures was his aim—
And universal liberty his means!"

The three succeeding pieces were also from his lordship's pen.

66

THE DREAM.

Hide, Sun, thy head! delay thy light,
And yield to Love's befriending night
Some portion of thy sway;

I would not change the airy form,
Which seems to meet me kind and warm,
For all the blaze of day.

In vain I sue-stern Fate denies :
My slumbers break, the Vision flies,
I lose my Laura's charms;

That taper waist, that bosom fair,
Dissolving into empty air,

Eludes my eager arms.

No wretch, his day of respite done,

Who sees his last uprising sun

And only wakes to die,

Curses the light with so much pain,
And weeps, and sighs to sleep again,
So ardently as I.

Invidious light! my hated bane,
Why rudely break the ideal chain

On which my raptures hung?

I saw sweet Laura's angel grace,
My eyes were fix'd upon her face,
My soul upon her tongue.

Her rosy lips I seemed to press,
Nor seemed the maid my fond caress
By frowns to disapprove;

I heard her voice so sweet, so clear,
Sound music to my ravish'd ear,
For it express'd her love.

Smile, then, sweet Laura! let me find,

For once, reality as kind

As golden visions seem;

For it has been my lot to rue,

That all my sorrows still were true,

And all my joys a dream."

The following ode was translated by a Mr. Shepherd -see the "Poetical Register" for 1810-or rather do not see it, for the translation is sadly inferior.

TRANSLATION FROM ANACREON,

WHO CALLS UPON SOME EMINENT ARTIST TO PAINT HIS MISTRESS.

Come, Painter, draw, as I command,
The absent mistress of my heart.

Paint first each soft and jetty tress,

With which her graceful head is crown'd; If colours can so much express,

Oh! paint them breathing odours round.

Above her cheek, full, lovely, fair,

Where modest blushes reddening glow,
Beneath her mildly curling hair,
Describe with skill her ivory brow.

Ah! how to imitate her face

Thy chiefest science will be tried ; Between her brows the middle space

Nor quite confound nor quite divide.

Here let the eyelid's lash be shown ;
Here let her semblance bear complete,
Dark arching eyebrows like her own,
Which meeting, scarcely seem to meet.

But, Painter, do not here forget
To give her eye its native flame,
Azure, Minerva-like, and yet,

As melting as the Paphian dame.

Her nose and cheek then fashion well-
That white as milk, and roseate this :
Her lips, like soft Persuasion's swell,
Pouting and challenging the kiss.

Beneath her chin, where dimples play,
About her neck of Parian stone,
Let all the Loves and Graces stray;
That happy spot is all their own.

But oh! those beauties of my fair,
Which I alone must e'er reveal,
Come, Painter, with the strictest care
Beneath the purple robe conceal.