73 

 WHAT YOU PLEASE. No. I. 



MY DEAR MARMADUKE 



I SEND you a poem or two, under the above title, and trust that you 

 will be pleased with them. I am not yet recovered from the ague, induced 

 by the " cold splash " of Robert Montgomery's new poem. I can assure 

 you that my shivering fits are quite awful. I write in great haste, and 

 have only time to add that two or three fellows of Oriel have been pes- 

 tering me during the last week, for an introduction to you, but I hesi- 

 tated, being well aware of your numerous occupations. By the bye, I 

 saw the most beautiful girl yesterday that my eyes ever beheld. Her 



hair is raven-black, her eyes deep hazel, and her name is oh ! no, I 



shall never mention it, till next month, when you shall have certain 

 stanzas in honour of deep-hazeled eyes, and raven-black hair. 



Ever yours, 

 Oxford, June, 20, 1832. ALGERNON SYDNEY. 



P. S. I open my letter to say, that the tutors of Trinity and Jesus 

 have recommended the study of the Monthly Magazine to their pupils, as 

 the means by which they will most readily acquire a knowledge of a pure 

 and elegant English style. After this, who shall presume to question the 

 judgment and taste of our college tutors ? 



LINES 

 Written under the Picture of a Lady in the Library of the Rev. John Mitford. 







I CANNOT guess thy name or race, 

 Lady, and yet I think thy face, 

 Thy cheek so bright, thine eye so free, 

 Thy red-rose lips are known to me. 

 But I am very young, and thou 



Belongest to the bye-gone years, 

 And other lips were on thy brow, 



And other voices in thine eais. 

 Mine eye doth wander from the book, 



To gaze upon each quiet feature ; 

 And well it may thy gleeful look 



Is turn'd on me, sweet unknown creature ! 

 Thy tresses of rich summer brown, 

 Thy sunny cheeks are floating down, 

 Thy hand plays with a rose the while ; 

 Thy heart is in some distant spot, 

 Of that bright rose it thinketh not, 

 I see love in that thoughtful smile. 



I gaze upon thee o'er and o'er, 

 And turn aside and gaze once more, 



Enchantress of the place, 

 My weeping memory fain would would bear 

 The colour of thy cheek, thy hair, 



Thy beauty and thy grace : 

 For weak and dim my eyes may be, 

 E'er they again shall look on thee. 



Yet there is one when I am gone, 



The Poet of this lov'd domain ; 

 Ah ! lady, at thy gentle call, 



He wakes his silent lyre again ; 

 Thy faithful eye, thine angel smile 



Are with him so he fondly dreams, 

 His lonely wanderings to beguile, 



By distant hills and haunted streams ; 

 At eve his twilight lamp doth glow 

 Beneath thy radiant biow of snow. 



