The [In the original MS. "To Mrs. Musters," &c. reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, No. III.] 2 [In the first copy, "Thus, Mary!"] [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 The following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece:-"Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself.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 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, 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. As still my soul hath been to thee. And from that hour when first thy tongue None, none hath sunk so deep as this- But transient in thy breast alone. And yet my heart some solace knew, Yes; my adored, yet most unkind! Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me, Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW! AND wilt thou weep when I am low? 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 porai, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my siste", 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 eclat." I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married, -with what success it is useless to say."] My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone 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. Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? 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 tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? 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 years? Yet if bless'd to the utmost that love can bestow, For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities pass'd, There we find-do we not?-in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. Some hours of freedom may remain as yet Forget the fair one, and your fate delay; If not avert, at least defer the day, 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."] STANZAS TO A LADY,' ON LEAVING ENGLAND. "Tis done and shivering in the gale But could I be what I have been, "Tis long since I beheld that eye As some lone bird, without a mate, And I will cross the whitening foam, The poorest, veriest wretch on earth I go-but wheresoe'er I flee, To think of every early scene, Of what we are, and what we've been, And who that dear loved one may be I've tried another's fetters too, With charms perchance as fair to view; [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, "Twould soothe to take one lingering view, Yet still he loves, and loves but one. LINES TO MR. HODGSON. WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going, Bend the canvass o'er the mast. Come to task all, Not a corner for a mouse 1809. Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? Of warm water-" "No, a cup "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! As philosophers allow, Let's have laughing Who the devil cares for more ? Some good wine! and who would lack it, Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer-by; Reflect on me as on the dead, And think my heart is buried here. Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 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, The Turkish tyrants now enclose; As spot of thy nativity: And though I bid thee now farewell, 1 TO FLORENCE.' On Lady! when I left the shore, The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more, [Lord Byron's three servants.] [In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron says:-"I leave England without regret-İ all 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."] 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 commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM.' 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."] [This thunder-storm occurred during the night of the 11th October, 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the 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 gloomHow welcome were its shade !—ah, no! "Tis but a Turkish tomb. Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, A shot is fired-by foe or friend? The mountain-peasants to descend, Oh! who in such a night will dare To tempt the wilderness? And who 'mid thunder peals can hear And who that heard our shouts would rise Nor rather deem from nightly cries That outlaws were abroad. Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! Yet here one thought has still the power While wand'ring through each broken path, Not on the sea, not on the sea, Thy bark hath long been gone: Oh, may the storm that pours on me, Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, And long ere now, with foaming shock, Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now And since I now remember thee As in those hours of revelry Which mirth and music sped; Do thou, amid the fair white walls, At times from out her latticed halls 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 And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave of many a Roman; Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd! 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! We madly smile when we should groan; Each lucid interval of thought Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 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 stoppe at last near some Turkish tombstones and a torrent, Wash they saw by the flashes of lightning. They had been this exposed for nine hours. It was long before we ceased to talk of the thunder-storm in the plain of Zitza."] ["These stanzas," says Mr. Moore, "have a music s them, which, independently of all meaning, is enchanting."] |