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Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on--it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ;
I never knew but one,—and here he lies.

Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1808.

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,

Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,

Like raven's plumage smooth'd on show,
I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream

Was sweeter in its fantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam

In rapture's wild reality.
Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though forever gone,

Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless as the mouldering stone

Which tells that we shall be no more.

TO A LADY,
ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND

IN THE SPRING.
When Man, expell’d from Eden's bowers,

A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,

And bade him curse his future fate.

But, wandering on throngh distant climes,

He learnt to bear his load of grief; Just gave a sigh to other times,

And found in busier scenes relief.

Thus, lady!' will it be with me,

And I must view thy charms no more ; For, while I linger near to thee,

I sigh for all I knew before.
In flight I shall be surely wise,

Escaping from temptation's snare ;
I cannot view my paradise
Without the wish of dwelling there."

December 2, 1808.

THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. There was a time, I need not name,

Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same

As still my soul hath been to thee.
And from that hour wheu first thy tongue

Confess'd a love which equallid mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,

Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, None, none hath sunk so deep as this

To think how all that love hath flown; Transient as every faithless kiss,

But transient in thy breast alone. And yet my heart some solace knew,

When late I heard thy lips declare, In accents once imagined true,

Remembrance of the days that were. Yes; my adored, yet most unkind !

Though thou wilt never love again, To me 'tis doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,

Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT.
REMIND me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,

When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,

And thou and I shall cease to be.
Can I forget-canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,

How quick thy futtering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,

And lips, though silent, breathing love.
When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,

As half reproach'd yet raised desire,
And still we near and nearer press’d,
And still our glowing lips would meet,

As if in kisses to expire.

AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? And wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again : Yet if they grieve thee, say not so

I would not give that bosom pain.

1[In the original MS. “To Mrs. Musters," &c. The reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Ilustrations of Byron, No. III.)

? [In the first copy, “ Thus, Mary !!]

3 [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 mar

riage was not a happier one than my own. Her onduct, 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 purní, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any de else, persuaded me not to do it. Por,' said she. 11 you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be scene; one step will lead to another, et cela fare un eclat. I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married, -with what success it is useless to say.")

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 tonguo will

avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast ; And when I perish, thou alono

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.
Sweet lady! once my heart was warm

With every feeling soft as thine ;
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm

A wretch created to repine.
Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again;
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so—

I would not give that bosom pain.'

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 yoars ?

Yot if bless'd to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous !—who is not ?—thou hast no such

alloy ;
For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its vanities pass’d,
For refuge wo fly to the goblet at last ;
There we find-do we not ?--in the flow of the

soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN.

A SONG.

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, Fill the goblet again! for I never before

And Misery's triumph conimenced over Mirth, Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; Hope was left,—was sho not?—but the goblet we Let us drink !—who would not ?-since, through life's

kiss, varied round,

And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. In the goblet aloue no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply ; Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, I have bask'd in the beam of a dark-rolling eye ; The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : I have loved !-who has not ?—but what heart can We must die-who shall not ?—May our sins be declare,

forgiven, That pleasure existed while passion was there? And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

*[The melancholy which was now gaining fast upon the oling poet's mind was a source of much uneasiness to his friends. It was at this period, that the following pleasant Ferses were addressed to him by Mr. Hobhouse :

EPISTLE
TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN IN LOVE.
Hail! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame
Inspires and animates to deeds of fame;
Who feel the noble wish before you die
To raise the finger of each passer-by:
Hail! may a future age admiring view
A Falkland or a Clarendon in you.
But as your blood with dangerous passion boils,
Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils :
Ah! let the head protect the weaker heart,
and Wisdom's Egis turn on Beauty's dart.

Some hours of freedom may remain as yet
For one who laughs alike at love and debt ;
Then, why in haste? put off the evil day,
And snatch at youthful comforts whilst you may !
Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego
That single souls, and such alone, can know :
Ah! why too early careless life resign,
Your morning slumber, and your evening wine ;
Your loved companion, and his easy talk ;
Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk.
What! can no more your scenes paternal please,
Scenes sacred long to wise, uninated ease ?
The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down,
Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own?
What! shall your Newsiead, shall yourcloister'd bowers,
The high o'erhanging arch and trembling towers !
Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife,
And ever fond, or ever angry wife!
Shall these no more confess a manly sway,
But changeful woman's changing whims obey?
Who may, perhaps, as varying humor calls,
Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls ;
Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground,
Change round to square, and square convert to round;
Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom,
And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room;
Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre,
Where gravellid walks and flowers alternate glare ;
And quite transformn, in ev'ry point complete,
Your gothic abbey to a country seat.

Forget the fair one, and your fate delay ;
If not avert, at least defer the day,
When you beneath the female yoke shall bend,
And lose your wit, your temper, and your friend.

Trin. Coll. Camb. 1808.
In his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's volume, now be-
fore us, Lord Byron has here written with a pencil,—“I
have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly. 1811. B."]

But if 'tis fix'd that every lord must pair,
And you and Newstead must not wani an heir,
Lose not your pains, and scour the country round,
To find a Treasure that can ne'er be found!
No! take the first the town or court atfords,
Trick'd out io stock a market for the lords ;
By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall
On one, though wicked, not the worst of all:
One though perhaps as any Maxwell free,
Yei scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee :
Not very ugly, and not very old,
A little pert indeed, but not a scold :
One thai, in short, inay help to lead a life
Not farther inuch froin corufort than from strife;
And when she dies, and disappoints your fears,
Shall leave some joys for your declining years.

But, as your early youth some time allows,
Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse,

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And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu ;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.

1809.

STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING

ENGLAND.
"Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen-
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes bless'd-
I should not seek another zone
Because I cannot love but one.
"Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery ;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again :
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

LINES TO MR. HODGSON. WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. Huzza! Hodyson, we are going,

Our embargo 's off at last ; Favorable breezes blowing

Bend the canvass o'er the mast. From aloft the signal 's streaming,

Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blasphoming, Tell us that our time's expired.

Here 's a rascal

Come to task all,
Prying from the custom-house ;

Trunks unpacking

Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where friendship’s or love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in wo;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.
I go—but wheresoe'er I floe,
There's not an eye wil] weep for me ;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part ;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,

And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering,

We're impatient,-push from shore. “ Have a care! that case holds liquor

Stop the boat-I'm sick-oh Lord!" “ Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker, Ere you've been an hour on board."

Thus are screaming

Men and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;

Here entangling,

All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax.Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet. Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,

Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapp'd in,

Some to grumble, some to spew. * Hey day! call you that a cabin ?

Why 'tis hardly three feet square ; Not enough to stow Queen Mab in Who the deuce can harbor there ?"

Who, sir ? plenty

Nobles twenty
Did at once my vessel fill.”—

“ Did they ? Jesus,

How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still :
Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.”

To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with wo-
But mine, alas ! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see,
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view ;

1[In the original, “ To Mrs. Musters.")

? [Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany ; the two last lines being originally

“Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,

I love but thee, I love but one."}

Fletcher! Murray! Bob !! where are you?

Stretch'd along the deck like logsBear a hand, you jolly tar, you!

Here's a rope's end for the dogs. Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,

As the hatchway down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth-and damns our souls.

“ Here's a stanza

On Braganza-
Help!"_“A couplet ?”—“ No, a cup

Of warm water”

“What's the matter ?” • Zounds! my liver's coming up; I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.” Now at length we're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back! Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on-as I do now.

Laugh at all things,

Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or shore;

While we're quaffing,

Let's have laughing-
Who the devil cares for more ?
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet ??

Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.

(First published, 1830.)

Yet here, amidst this barren isle,

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 ?
Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had pass'd

Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,

And ’scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath ? Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose, And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; Though mightiest in the lists of fame,

That glorious city still shall be;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,

As spot of thy nativity:
And though I bid thee now farewell,

When I behold that wondrous scene, Since where thou art I may not dwell, "Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been.

September, 1809.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT

MALTA.
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by ;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,

May mine attract thy pensive eye!
And when by thee that name is read,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.

September 14, 1809.

TO FLORENCE.' Oh Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more,

To quit another spot on earth :

STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM. Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast

The vengeance of the skies.

(Lord Byron's three servants.]

they would appear improbable. She was born at Constan. In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, tinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian amLord Byron says :-“I leave England without regret-Í

bassador ; married unhappily, yet has never been imshall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the peached in point of character ; excited the vengeance of first convict sentenced to transportation ; but I have no

Bonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy ; several Ese, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab;

times risked her life, and is not yet five-and-iwenty. She and thus ends my first chapter.")

is here on her way to England to join her husband, being

obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to "[These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostro

her mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks phizes in the stanzas on the thunder-storm of Zitza and in

soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here I have had Childe Harold, is thus mentioned in a letter to his mother:

scarcely any other companion. I have found her very - This letter is committed to the charge of a very extra

pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. Bonaordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs.

parte is even now so incensed against her, that her life Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo pub

would be in danger if she were taken prisoner a second bished a narraure a few years ago. She has since been

time."] abipwrecked ; and her life has been from its commence. * (This thunder-storm occurred during the night of the dient so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance 11th October, 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the

To others give a thousand smiles,'

To me a single sigh.'
And when the admiring circle mark

The paleness of thy face,
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark

Of melancholy grace,
Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun

Some coxcomb's raillery ;
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 GOLF.

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.

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,

And lightnings, as they play,
But show where rocks our path have cross'd,

Or gild the torrent's spray.
Is yon a cot I saw, though low?

When lightning broke the gloom-
How welcome were its shade -ah, no!

"Tis but a Turkish tomb.
Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,

I hear a voice exclaim-
My way-worn countryman, who calls

On distant England's name.
A shot is fired—by foe or friend ?

Another-'tis to tell
The mountain-peasants to descend,

And lead us where they dwell.
Oh! who in such a night will dare

To tempt the wilderness?
And who ’mid thunder peals can hear

Our signal of distress?
And who that heard our shouts would rise

To try the dubious road ?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries

That outlaws were abroad.
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!

More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought bas still the power

To keep my bosom warm.
While wand'ring through each broken path,

O’er brake and craggy brow; While elements exhaust their wrath,

Sweet Florence, where art thou ?
Not on the sea, not on the sea,

Thy bark hath long been gone :
Oh, may the storm that pours on me,

Bow down my head alone!
Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,

When last I press'd thy lip;
And long ere now, with foaming shock,

Impeli'd thy gallant ship.
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now

Hast trod the shore of Spain ;
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou

Should linger on the main. And since I now remember theo

In darkness and in dread, As in those hours of revelry

Which mirth and music sped;
Do thou, amid the fair white walls,

If Cadiz yet be free,
At times from out her latticed halls

Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Then think upon Calypso's isles,

Endear'd by days gone by ;

And now upon the scene I look,

The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook

His wavering crown to follow wonjan. Florence! whom I will love as well

As ever yet was said or sung, (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from bell,)

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 raiso new Antonies.
Though Fate forbids such things to be

Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets corld!
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

FLOWN!
WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810.
The spell is broke, the charm is flown!

Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan;

Delirium is our best deceiver.

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.

1

road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called hut till three in the morning. I now learned from him uut Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobhouse, who had rode on be they had lost their way, and that, after wandering up at fore the rest of the party, and arrived at Zitza just as the down in total ignorance of their position, they had stopped evening set in, describes the thunder as “roaring without at last near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, was intermission, the echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in they saw by the flashes of lightning. They bad been to us the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst over exposed for nine hours. It was long before we ceased to our heads : whilst the plains and the distant hills appeared talk of the thunder-storm in the plain of Zitza.") in a perpetual blaze." " The tempest,” he says, “ was 1 [" These stanzas," says Mr. Moore "have a music! together terrific, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. My them, which, independently of all meaning, is enchaalFriend, with the priest and the servants, did not enter our ing.")

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