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.")

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.

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.