To Him address thy trembling prayer: Father of Light! to Thee I call, My soul is dark within: Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 1807. [First published, 1832.] I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, I swore, in a transport of young indignation, And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention! TO A VAIN LADY. Of those who spoke but to beguile. These tales in secret silence hush, Nor make thyself the public gaze: Her who relates each fond conceit- January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO THE SAME. Он, say not, sweet Anne, that the fates have decreed Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed, Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you. 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, "SAD IS MY Verse,' you say, ' AND YET NO TEAR.'” THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: A devilish deal more sad than witty! Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it: 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; But 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. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that I live but to love? Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast"Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. [Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed;-hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, "Here is a fine young And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, If our songs have been languid, they surely are few TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.1 YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, But thou wert not fated affection to share For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot: Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 1807. [First published, 1832] oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place."-"I hope not, sir," replied the man; "for it's the one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself. The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as "THE BYRON OAK," and promises to share, in alter times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.] ON REVISITING HARROW.1 HERE once engaged the stranger's view Young Friendship's record simply traced; Few were her words,-but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defaced. Deeply she cut-but not erased, The characters were still so plain, That Friendship once return'd, and gazed,Till Memory hail'd the words again. Repentance placed them as before; Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; So fair the inscription seem'd once more That Friendship thought it still the same. Thus might the Record now have been; But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavor, Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, And blotted out the line forever! September, 1807. EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. JOHN ADAMS lies here of the parish of Southwell, TO MY SON.2 THOSE flazen locks, those eyes of blue, And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! And yields thee scarce a name on earth; 1 Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1807, 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, Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace, Although so young thy heedless sire, FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, 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. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel : I only know we loved in vain I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell! 1808. BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. BRIGHT be the place of thy soul! In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine, 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 tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the bless'd? 1808. 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.] It boots not that, together bred, That world corrupts the noblest soul. Ah, joyous season! when the mind 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 I care not when I quit the scene. But thou, with spirit frail and light, Alas! whenever folly calls 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. What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, For friendship every fool may share? In time forbear; amidst the throng Be something, any thing, but-mean. 1808. [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 hac novimus esse m. Right Hon. Sir John) Hobhouse, under the title of "Imita- | hil."] LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL' START not-nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull, I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee: The worm hath fouler lips than thine. Better to hold the sparkling grape, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, Quaff while thou canst: another race, Newstead Abbey, 1808. 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; I kiss'd it, and repress'd my sighs, [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 proprietor of Newstead Abbey. In several of our elder dramatists, 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 Miscellany. A few days before they were written, the Poet had been invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daughter of his fair hostess being brought into the room, he started involuntarily, and with the utmost difficulty suppressed his emotion. To the sensations of that moment we are indected for these beautiful stanzas.] But then it had its mother's eyes, And they 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 be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride My heart in all,-save hope,-the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crimeWe met, and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, 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 NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.3 WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, 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 Are deposited the Remains of one Courage without Ferocity. And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808.” 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 attempting 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.] |