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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 conceit-
Who, 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.]

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I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect 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.]


Он, 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;
By these, every hope, every wish were o'erthrown,
Till smiles should restore me to rapture again.

As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,

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.]


A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can't find out,
Unless for thee we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more;

And much, alas! I think he needs it: For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, May once be read-but never after: Yet their effect's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complainIf you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you'll read them o'er again.

March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.]


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,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,

Now quenches all their blaze in night,
Thus has it been with passion's fires-
As many a boy and girl remembers-
While every hope of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

The first, though not a spark survive, Some careful hand may teach to burn; The last, alas! can ne'er survive;

No touch can bid its warmth return.

Or, if it chance to wake again,

Not always doom'd its heat to smother, It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) Its former warmth around another. 1807. [First published, 1832.]


THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,

The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

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,
Yet even these themes are departed forever;
No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,
My visions are flown, to return,―alas, never!

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

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


[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,
Since early affection and love are o'ercast:
Oh! bless'd had my fate been, and happy my lot,
Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last!

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;

If our songs have been languid, they surely are few Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet— The present-which seals our eternal Adieu. 1807. [First published. 1832.)

TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD.' 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,

A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire; Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power, But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.

Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care

Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal:

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,

That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early sends,

And still may thy branches their beauty display.

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

O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter bis grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

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 be 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 after times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.]

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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.



JOHN ADAMS lies here of the parish of Southwell,
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well;
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more-so was carried at last;
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one,
He could not carry off,-so he 's now carri-on.
September, 1807.


THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile 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 cease-
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!

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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.

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 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?


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.]

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START not-nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign:
Fill up thou canst not injure me;
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,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst: another race,
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.

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;

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 Misellany. 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 indebted 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
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,
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,

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.


WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the
of wo,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

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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.]

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