[In the original MS. "To Mrs. Musters," &c. The reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, No. III.] [In the first copy," Thus, Mary !"] [In Mr. Hobhouse's volume, the line stood,-" Without a wish to enter there." The following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece: "Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her And then those pensive eyes would close, I dreamt last night our love return'd, For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam Then tell me not, remind me not, Of hours which, though for ever gone, Till thou and I shall be forgot, And senseless as the mouldering stone THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. As still my soul hath been to thee. None, none hath sunk so deep as this- And yet my heart some solace knew, Yes; my adored, yet most unkind! Remembrance of that love remain. AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? AND wilt thou weep when I am low? I would not give that bosom pain. marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many years, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me not to do it. For,' said she, if you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, et cela fera un éclat.' I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married, with what success it is useless to say."] My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace Doth through my cloud of anguish shine; And for awhile my sorrows cease, To know thy heart hath felt for mine. Oh lady! blessed be that tear— It falls for one who cannot weep: Such precious drops are doubly dear To those whose eyes no tear may steep. Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? I would not give that bosom pain. 1 FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. FILL the goblet again! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core ; In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends!-who has not?-but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam- -thou never canst change: Thou grow'st old-who does not?— - but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, We are jealous!-who's not?-thou hast no such alloy; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, There we find-do we not? -in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, Let us drink!-who would not?-since, through And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. life's varied round, Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, forgiven, Some hours of freedom may remain as yet Shall these no more confess a manly sway, Forget the fair one, and your fate delay; If not avert, at least defer the day, In his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's volume, now before us, Lord Byron has here written with a pencil, —“I have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly. 1811. B."] STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 'Tis done - and shivering in the gale But could I be what I have been, As some lone bird, without a mate, I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile or welcome face, And I will cross the whitening foam, I ne'er shall find a resting-place; I go but wheresoe'er I flee, To think of every early scene, Of what we are, and what we've been, And who that dear loved one may be [In the original, "To Mrs. Musters."] 2 [Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany; the two last lines being originally — Fletcher! Murray! Bob!! where are you? Yet here, amidst this barren isle, "What's the matter?" "Zounds! my liver's coming up; Now at length we 're off for Turkey, But, since life at most a jest is, Great and small things, Who the devil cares for more ? — Some good wine! and who would lack it, Falmouth Roads, June 30. 1809. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer-by; Reflect on me as on the dead, And think my heart is buried here. Where panting Nature droops the head, Where only thou art seen to smile, I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore, Divided by the dark blue main ; A few, brief, rolling, seasons o'er, Perchance I view her cliffs again : But wheresoe'er I now may roam, Through scorching clime, and varied sea, Though Time restore me to my home, I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee: On thee, in whom at once conspire All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire, And, oh! forgive the word- to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share, Believe me, what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee, Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less? The Turkish tyrants now enclose; And though I bid thee now farewell, September 14. 1809. TO FLORENCE. On Lady! when I left the shore, The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more, [Lord Byron's three servants.] [In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron says:-"I leave England without regret - 1 shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab; and thus ends my first chapter."] 3 [These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostrophises in the stanzas on the thunderstorm of Zitza and in Childe Harold, is this mentioned in a letter to his mother:-" This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked; and her life has been from its commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance they would appear improbable. STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM. 4 CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast, She was born at Constantinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in point of character; excited the vengeance of Buonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy; several times risked her life; and is not yet five and twenty. She is here on her way to England to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here I have had scarcely any other companion. I have found her very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. Buonaparte is even now so incensed against her, that her life would be in danger if she were taken prisoner a second time."] [This thunderstorm occurred during the night of the 11th October, 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called A shot is fired by foe or friend? The mountain-peasants to descend, Oh! who in such a night will dare And who 'mid thunder peals can hear And who that heard our shouts would rise Nor rather deem from nightly cries Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! Yet here one thought has still the power While wand'ring through each broken path, Not on the sea, not on the sea, Thy bark hath long been gone : Oh, may the storm that pours on me, Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, And long ere now, with foaming shock, Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now And since I now remember thee Which mirth and music sped; Do thou, amid the fair white walls, At times from out her latticed halls Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobhouse, who had rode on before the rest of the party, and arrived at Zitza just as the evening set in, describes the thunder as "roaring without intermission, the echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst over our heads; whilst the plains and the distant hills appeared in a perpetual blaze." "The tempest," he says, "was altogether terrific, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. My Friend, with the priest and the servants, did not enter our hut till three To others give a thousand smiles, And when the admiring circle mark A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun Nor own for once thou thought'st on one, Who ever thinks on thee. Though smile and sigh alike are vain, When sever'd hearts repine, My spirit flies o'er mount and main, And mourns in search of thine. STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF. THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, Full beams the moon on Actium's coast; And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, The ancient world was won and lost. And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook His wavering crown to follow woman. Florence! whom I will love as well As ever yet was said or sung, (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) Whilst thou art fair and I am young; Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes: Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Thy charms might raise new Antonics. Though Fate forbids such things to be Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! I cannot lose a world for thee, But would not lose thee for a world. November 14. 1809. THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16. 1810. Each lucid interval of thought Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, And he that acts as wise men ought, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. in the morning. I now learnt from him that they had lost their way, and that, after wandering up and down in total ig norance of their position, they had stopped at last near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, which they saw by the flashes of lightning. They had been thus exposed for nine hours. It was long before we ceased to talk of the thunderstorm in the plain of Zitza."] 1["These stanzas," says Mr. Moore, "have a music in them, which, independently of all meaning, is enchanting."] |