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Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1808.
And then those pensive eyes would close,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on show,
Was sweeter in its fantasy,
In rapture's wild reality.
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Which tells that we shall be no more.
TO A LADY,
IN THE SPRING.
A moment linger'd near the gate,
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.
Escaping from temptation's snare ;
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,
As still my soul hath been to thee.
Confess'd a love which equallid mine,
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.
When all my soul was given to thee;
And thou and I shall cease to be.
How quick thy futtering heart did move?
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
As half reproach'd yet raised desire,
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 The following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece:-“Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself.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.
With every feeling soft as thine ;
A wretch created to repine.
Sweet lady! speak those words again;
I would not give that bosom pain.'
The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,
appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its yoars ?
Yot if bless'd to the utmost that love can bestow,
Then the season of youth and its vanities pass’d,
FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN.
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 :
Some hours of freedom may remain as yet
Forget the fair one, and your fate delay ;
Trin. Coll. Camb. 1808.
But if 'tis fix'd that every lord must pair,
But, as your early youth some time allows,
And I would fain have loved as well,
STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING
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,
And I will cross the whitening foam,
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,
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
“ Did they ? Jesus,
How you squeeze us!
To think of every early scene,
I've tried another's fetters too,
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
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.
As philosophers allow,
Laugh at all things,
Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,
Let's have laughing-
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 ?
The friend of Beauty in distress?
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;
As spot of thy nativity:
When I behold that wondrous scene, Since where thou art I may not dwell, "Twill soothe to be, where thou hast been.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT
Some name arrests the passer-by ;
May mine attract thy pensive eye!
Perchance in some succeeding year,
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.'
The paleness of thy face,
Of melancholy grace,
Some coxcomb's raillery ;
Who ever thinks on thee.
When sever'd hearts repine,
And mourns in search of thine.
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,
Or gild the torrent's spray.
When lightning broke the gloom-
"Tis but a Turkish tomb.
I hear a voice exclaim-
On distant England's name.
Another-'tis to tell
And lead us where they dwell.
To tempt the wilderness?
Our signal of distress?
To try the dubious road ?
That outlaws were abroad.
More fiercely pours the storm!
To keep my bosom warm.
O’er brake and craggy brow; While elements exhaust their wrath,
Sweet Florence, where art thou ?
Thy bark hath long been gone :
Bow down my head alone!
When last I press'd thy lip;
Impeli'd thy gallant ship.
Hast trod the shore of Spain ;
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;
If Cadiz yet be free,
Look o'er the dark blue sea;
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.
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets corld!
November 14, 1809.
THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
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.
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.")