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To Him address thy trembling prayer:
Although his meanest care.
My soul is dark within :
Avert the death of sin.
Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
1807. [First published, 1832. ]
I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respoct you,
Yet thought that a day's separation was long : When we met, I determined again to suspect you
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. I swore, in a transport of young indignation,
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you: I saw you—my anger became admiration ;
And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention !
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you ;At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you !
January 16, 1807. [First published, 1832.]
TO THE SAME. On, say not, sweet Anne, that the fates have decreed
The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed ;
To bear me from love and from beauty forever. Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone
Could bid me from fond admiration refrain;
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again.
The rage of the tempest united must weather, My love and my life were by nature design'd
To flourish alike, or to perish together. Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed,
Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu ; Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you.
1807. [First published, 1832.)
TO A VAIN LADY.
What ne'er was meant for other ears:
And dig the source of future tears? Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,
While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said
Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl! thy ling'ring woes are nigh,
If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly,
Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,
The words man utters to deceive? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,
If thou canst venture to believe. While now amongst thy female peers
Thou tellist again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sneers
Duplicity in vain would veil ? These tales in secret silence hush,
Nor make thyself the public gaze: What modest maid without a blush
Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise ? Will not the laughing boy despise
Her who relates each fond conceitWho, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,
Yet cannot see the slight deceit? For she who takes a soft delight
These amorous nothings in revealing, Must credit all we say or write,
While vanity prevents concealing. Cease, if you prize your beauty's reign!
No jealousy bids me reprove: One, who is thus from nature vain, I pity, but I cannot love.
January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.)
TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, “SAD IS MY VERSE, YOU AND YET NO TEAR.'' Thy verse is “sad” enough, no doubt:
A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Unless for thee we weep in pity.
And much, alas! I think he needs it :
Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.
May once be read—but never after:
Although by far too dull for laughter.
And of no common pang complain-
March 8, 1807. (First published, 1832.]
TO ANNE. 0. Anne! your offences to me have been grievous ; I thought from my wrath no atonement could save
you; Bat woman is made to command and deceive us—
I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.
ON FINDING A FAN. In one who felt as once he felt,
This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt,
Because that heart is not the same.
As when the ebbing flames are low,
And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, The aid which once improved their light, Since early affection and love are o'ercast : And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Oh! bless'd had my fate been, and happy my lot, Now quenches all their blaze in night,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last! Thus has it been with passion's fires
Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er As many a boy and girl remembers,
meet; While every hope of love expires,
If our songs have been languid, they surely are few Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet
The present—which seals our eternal Adieu, The first, though not a spark survive,
1807. [First published, 1832) Some careful hand may teach to burn; The last, alas! can ne'er survive; No touch cau bid its warmth return.
TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.' Or, if it chance to wake again,
Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, Not always doom'd its heat to smother,
I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine ; It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)
That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, Its former warmth around another.
And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. 1807. [First published, 1832.) Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years,
On the land of my fathers I reard thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,
Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.
hide. Thou Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, days,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part ; | Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.
Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,
Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore theo to sing ;
gently heal : The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, But thou wert not fated affection to share Are wasted far distant on Apathy's wing.
For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel? Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Yet even these themes are departed forever;
Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspiro, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,
My visions are flown, to return,-alas, never ! When Infancy's years of probation are done. When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, For still in thy bosom are life's early sends,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song ? And still may thy branches their beauty display. Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,
Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Though I shall lie low in the cavem of death, Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ? On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine,
Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Uninjured by tine, or the rude winter's breath. Can they speak of the friends that I live but to love ? For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain !
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; But how can my numbers in sympathy inove, While the branches thus gratefully shelter bis grave,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires ? He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires !
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er; Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And those who have heard it will pardon the past, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time When they know that its murniurs shall vibrate no Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.
1807. [First published, 1832 ] [Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that place."-"I hope not, sir," replied the man ; " for it's the as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, one that my lord was so fond of, because he set ii biroseli." during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care o the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed ;-hence it. It is already, inquired after, by strangers, as "THE these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present BYRON OAK,” and promises to share, in alter times, the proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.) to ihe servant who was with him, “ Here is a fine young
ON REVISITING HARROW: Here once engaged the stranger's view
Young Friendship’s record simply tracod; Few were her words,--but yet, though fow,
Resentment's hand the line defaced.
The characters were still so plain,
Till Memory haild the words again.
Forgiveness join'd her gentle namo; So fair the inscription seem'd once more
That Friendship thought it still the same.
But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavor,
Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace,
1807. (First published, 1830.)
FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER.
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
Are in that word-Farewell !-Farewell!
EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTH.
These lips are mute, these eyes are dry :
But in my breast and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
Though grief and passion there rebel:
BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL
No lovelier spirit than thine
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
TO MY SON." Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, Bright as thy mother's in their huo; Those rosy lips, whose dimples play And smije to steal the heart away, Recall a scene of former joy, And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! And thou canst lisp a father's name Ah, William, were thine own the same,No self-reproach-but, let me ceaseMy care for thee shall purchase peace ; Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, And pardon all the past, my Boy! Her lowly grave the turf has pressid, And thou hast known a stranger's breast. Derision sneers upon thy birth, And yields thee scarce a name on earth; Yet shall not these one hope destroy,– A Father's heart is thine, my Boy! Why, let the world unfeeling frown, Must I fond Nature's claim disown? Ah, no-though moralists reprove, I hail thee, dearest child of love, Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joyA Father guards thy birth, my Boy!
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be ; And our sorrow may cease to repine,
When we know that thy God is with thoe.
Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be : There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen treo
May spring from the spoi of thy rest : But nor cypress nor yew let us see ;
For why should we mourn for the bless'd ?
Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few ad litional words, as a memorial. Allerwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in loor, he wrote under it these stanzas.
* Whether these verses are, in any degree, founded on fact, I have no accurate means of determining: Fond as Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth,
such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him; and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote, making allowance for the embellishments of fancy,-the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been indebted for its origin to imagination alone."-MOORE. But see post, Don Juan, canto xvi. st. 61.)
WHEN WE TWO PARTED.
In silence and tears,
To sever for years,
Colder thy kiss ;
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Suuk chill on my browIt felt like the warning
Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mino ear;
Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well : Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In silence I grieve,
Thy spirit deceive.
After long years,
With silence and tears.
It boots not that, together bred,
Our childish days were days of joy : My spring of life has quickly fled;
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. And when we bid adieu to youth,
Slaves to the specious world's control, We sigh a long farewell to truth;
That world corrupts the noblest soul. Ah, joyous season! when the mind
Dares all things boldly but to lie ; When thought ere spoke is unconfined,
And sparkles in the placid eye. Not so in Man's maturer years,
When Man himself is but a tool; When interest sways our hopes and fears,
And all must love and hate by rule. With fools in kindred vice the same,
We learn at length our faults to blend; And those, and those alone, may claim
The prostituted name of friend. Such is the common lot of man:
Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan,
Nor be what all in turn must be ? No; for myself, so dark my fate
Through every turn of life hath been ; Man and the world so much I hate,
I care not when I quit the scene.
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;
But dare not stand the test of day.
Where parasites and princes meet, (For cherish'd first in royal halls,
The welcome vices kindly greet) Ev'n now thou’rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd ; And still thy trifling heart is glad
To join the vain, and court the proud. There dost thou glide from fair to fair,
Still simpering on with eager haste, As flies along the gay parterre,
That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. But say, what nymph will prize the flame
Which seems, as marshy vapors move, To Alit along from dame to dame,
An ignis-fatuus gloam of love ? What friend for thee, howe'er inclined,
Will deign to own a kindred care ? Who will debase his manly mind,
For friendship every fool may share ?
No more so base a thing be seen;
TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND.' Few years have pass'd since thou and I
Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerity
Preserved our feelings long the same. But now, like me, too well thou know'st
What trifles oft the heart recall; And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they loved at all. And such the change the heart displays,
So frail is early friendship’s reign, A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,
Will view thy mind estranged again. If so, it never shall be mine
To mourn the loss of such a heart; The fault was Nature's fault, not thine,
Which made thee fickle as thou art. As rolls the ocean's changing tide,
So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide,
Where stormy passions ever glow?
1[This copy of verses, and that which follows, originally tions and Translations, together with original poems," and appeared in the volume published, in 1809, by Mr. (now the bearing the modest epigraph—"Nos hec novimus esse so Right Hon. Sir John) Hobhouse, under the title of " Imita- hil."]
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And thoy were all to love and me.
Mary, adieu! I must away:
While thou art bless'd I'll not repine ; But near thee I can nover stay;
My heart would soon again bo thine.
I deem'd that time, I decm'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
My heart in all,--save hope,—the same.
LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED
FROM A SKULLSTART not-nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
Whatever flows is never dull.
I died: jet earth my bones resign:
The worm hath fouler lips than thino. Better to hold the sparkling grape,
Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shapo
The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.
Iu aid of others' let me shine;
What nobler substitute than wine?
When thou and thine, like me, are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why no—since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce ? Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use.
Newstead Abbey, 1808.
Yet was I calm: I knew the time
My breast would thrill before thy look ; But now to tremble were a crime
We met,—and not a nerve was shook.
I saw thee gaze upon my face,
Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling couldst thou trace;
The sullen calmness of despair.
Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break.
November 2, 1808.
INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A
WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.? Well! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too ; For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do. Thy husband's bless'd—and 'twill impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass-Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not! When late I saw thy favorite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake. I kiss'd it,
and repress'd my sighs, Its father in its face to see ;
When some proud son of man returns to earth,
(Lord Byron gives the following account of this cup:"The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled color like tortoise-shell." It is now in the possession of Colonel Wildman, the proprelor of Newslead Abbey. In several of our elder dramatests, mention is made of the custom of quaffing wine out of similar cups. For example, in Dekker's Wonder of a Kingdom," Torrenti says,
“Would I had ten thousand soldiers' heads,
Their skulls set all in silver; to drink healths
To his confusion who first invented war."] These lines were printed originally in Mr. Hobhouse's Mis zellany. A few days before they were written, the Poet had been invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daughlet of his fair hostess being brought into the rooin, he started jaroluntarily, and with the utmost difficulty suppressed his enotion. To the sensations of that moment we are indebted for these beautiful stanzas.]
3 [This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by which the verses are preceded :-
“ Near this spot
Strength withogi Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity.
If inscribed over human ashes,
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1805." Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favorite to his friend Hodgson :--- Boatswain is dead !-he expired in a state of madness, on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; never altempting to do the least injury to any one near him, I have now lost every thing, except old Murray." By the will executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.)