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And then those pensive eyes would close,
I dreamt last night our love return'd,
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.
THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME
THERE was a time, I need not name,
And from that hour when first thy tongue Confess'd a love which equall'd 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.
AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW?
I would not give that bosom pain.
riage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct. 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 point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any be else, persuaded me not to do it. For,' said she. if you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, et cela fera un éciat?” I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married, | -with what success it is useless to say.")
Some hours of freedom may remain as yet
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 before us, Lord Byron has here written with a pencil,-"I have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly. 1811. B."]
1 [In the original, "To Mrs. Musters."]
2 [Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany; the two last lines being originally
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.
Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
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 inWho the deuce can harbor there?" "Who, sir? plentyNobles 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."
"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run, I love but thee, I love but one."]
[Lord Byron's three servants.]
[In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron says:-"I leave England without regret-Í shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab; and thus ends my first chapter."]
Yet here, amidst this barren isle,
Where panting Nature droops the head,
I view my parting hour with dread.
Through scorching clime, and varied sea,
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;
Believe me, what I am, thy friend.
Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less?
The friend of Beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had pass'd
Lady! when I shall view the walls
Where free Byzantium once arose,
The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM.
CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
they would appear improbable. She was born at Constantinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in point of character; excited the vengeance of Bonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy; several times risked her life; and is not yet five-and-twenty. She is here on her way to England to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since my arrival here I have had scarcely any other companion. I have found her very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. Bonaparte is even now so incensed against her, that her life. would be in danger if she were taken prisoner a second time."]
These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostrophizes in the stanzas on the thunder-storm of Zitza and in Childe Harold, is thus mentioned in a letter to his mother: -"This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo pubished a narrative a few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked, and her life has been from its commence- 4 [This thunder-storm occurred during the night of the ment so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance 11th October, 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
When lightning broke the gloomHow 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
And who 'mid thunder peals can hear
And who that heard our shouts would rise
Nor rather deem from nightly cries
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
Yet here one thought has still the power
While wand'ring through each broken path,
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,
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
And since I now remember thee
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;
road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobhouse, who had rode on before the rest of the party, and arrived at Zitza just as the evening set in, describes the thunder as "roaring without intermission, the echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst over our heads: whilst the plains and the distant hills appeared in a perpetual blaze." "The tempest," he says, "was altogether terrific, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. My Friend, with the priest and the servants, did not enter our
hut till three in the morning. I now learned from him that they had lost their way, and that, after wandering up a down in total ignorance of their position, they had stopped at last near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, which they saw by the flashes of lightning. They had been thes exposed for nine hours. It was long before we ceased to talk of the thunder-storm in the plain of Zitza."]
1["These stanzas," says Mr. Mc "have a music s them, which, independently of all meaning, is encha ing."1