AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WO.

AWAY, away, ye notes of wo!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee from hence-for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days-
But lull the chords, for now, alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,

On what I am-on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee,
Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart!

"Tis silent all!-but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill; I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still: Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake; Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be flown.

Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream;
A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam.
But he who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath,
Will long lament the vanish'd ray

That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. December 6, 1811.1

Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night
It soothed to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deem'd the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Egean wave,
"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon-"
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ""Tis comfort still," I faintly said, "That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" Like freedom to the time-worn slave, A boon 'tis idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days, When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet'st my gaze! How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e'en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill.

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,
Or break the heart to which thou'rt press'd!
Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled:
Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead?

EUTHANASIA.

WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed!

No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep or wish the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevell'd hair,

To feel, or feign, decorous wo.
But silent let me sink to earth,

With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear.
Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies.
"Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last
Thy features still serene to see:
Forgetful of its struggles past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish-for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan;

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, And pain been transient or unknown. "Ay, but to die, and go," alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living wo!

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
"Tis something better not to be.

AND thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!

Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,

There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell, 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou.

Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away,
I might have watch'd through long decay

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;

Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;

The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:

Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, And thou wert lovely to the last;

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity
Returns again to me,

And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

February, 1812.

IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN.

IF sometimes in the haunts of men

Thine image from my breast may fade,
The lonely hour presents again

The semblance of thy gentle shade:
And now that sad and silent hour
Thus much of thee can still restore,
And sorrow unobserved may pour

The plaint she dare not speak before.

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile

I waste one thought I owe to thee,
And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory!

Nor deem that memory less dear,
That then I seem not to repine;

I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,
It is not drain'd to banish care;
The cup must hold a deadlier draught,
That brings a Lethe for despair.
And could Oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free,
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee.
For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,
Where could my vacant bosom turn?
And who would then remain behind
To honor thine abandon'd Urn?
No, no-it is my sorrow's pride
That last dear duty to fulfil;
Though all the world forget beside,
"Tis meet that I remember still.

March 16, 1812.

FROM THE FRENCH.

ÆGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes;

She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.2

WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;

Ah! happy if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away!

Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-
Auspicious to these suffering isles;

And be each drop in future years
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!"

LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE "PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

ABSENT or present, still to thee,

My friend, what magic spells belong!

As all can tell, who share, like me,
In turn thy converse, and thy song.

But when the dreaded hour shall come
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh,
And" MEMORY" o'er her Druid's tomb
Shall weep that aught of thee can die,

How fondly will she then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,
And blend, while ages roll away,
Her name immortally with thine!

April 19, 1812

March, 1812.

THE CHAIN I GAVE.
From the Turkish.

THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.

1[We know not whether the reader should understand the cornelian heart of these lines to be the same with that of which some notices are given at p. 408.]

[This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the late Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hearing that the Whigs had found it impossible to put together a cabinet, at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. They were appended to the first edition of "The Corsair," and excited a sensation, as it is called, marvellously disproportionate to their length,-or, we may add, their merit. The ministerial prints raved for two months on end, in the most foulmouthed vituperation of the poet, and all that belonged to him-the Morning Post even announced a motion in the House of Lords-" and all this," Lord Byron writes to Mr. Moore, "as Bedreddin in the Arabian Nights remarks, for making a cream tart with pepper: how odd, that eight lines should have given birth, I really think, to eight thousand!"]

["The Lines to a Lady weeping' must go with 'The Corsair.' I care nothing for consequences on this point. My politics are to me like a young mistress to an old man ; the worse they grow, the fonder I become of them."-Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Jan. 22, 1814. "On my return, I find all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Princess Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE,

SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,

Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

1812. They are daily at it still:-some of the abuse good, -all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in our House upon it-be it so."-Byron Diary, 1814.]

["When Rogers does talk, he talks well; and, on all subjects of taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as bes poetry. If you enter his house-his drawing room-his library-you of yourself, say, this is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book throwa aside on his chimney-piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor."Byron Diary, 1813.]

[The reader will recall Collins's exquisite lines on the tomb of Thomson: "In yonder grave a Druid lies," &c.)

[The theatre in Drury Lane, which was opened, in 1747, with Dr. Johnson's masterly address, beginning,"When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes First rear'd the Stage, immortal Shakspeare rose," and witnessed the last glories of Garrick, having fallen into decay, was rebuilt in 1794. The new building perished by fire in 1811; and the Managers, in their anxiety that the opening of the present edifice should be distingirshed by some composition of at least equal merit, advertised in the newspapers for a general competition. Scores of addresses, not one tolerable, showered on their desk, and they were sad despair, when Lord Holland interfered, and, not without

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, Lake Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,' While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, Shrank back appall'd and trembled for their home, As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall; Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favor which the former knew, A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you? Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame; On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spellIndulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart. On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, That only waste their odors o'er the tomb. Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander's head! Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. Heirs to their labors, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line,

difficulty, prevailed on Lord Byron to write these verses"at the risk," as he said, "of offending a hundred scribblers and a discerning public." The admirable jeu d'esprit of the Messrs. Smith will long preserve the memory of the "Re|jected Addresses."]

"By the by, the best view of the said fire (which I myself saw from a house-top in Covent Garden) was at Westminster Bridge, from the reflection of the Thames."-Lord Byron to Lord Holland.)

[Originally, "Ere Garrick died," &c.-"By the by, one of my corrections in the copy sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty fathom

When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.' Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and ought not to be first. Second thoughts in every thing are best; but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I always scrawl in this way, and smooth as fast as i can, but never sufficiently; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning. When I began Childe Harold,' I had never tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble in any other."-Lord Byron to Lord Holland.)

[The following lines were omitted by the Committee:--
"Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores
That late she deign'd to crawl upon all-fours.
When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse,
If you command, the steed must come in course.

Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn, Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!3
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours!

This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,
The Drama's homage by her herald paid,
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own.
The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,
Still may we please-long, long may you preside!"

PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS.

BY DR. PLAGIARY.

Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation-thus "———”.

"WHEN energizing objects men pursue,"
Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who.
"A modest monologue you here survey,"
Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day,"

As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse,
And gave his son "the rubbish" to rehearse.

Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," Knew you the rumpus which the author raised;

'Nor even here your smiles would be repress'd,"
Knew you these lines-the badness of the best.
Flame! fire! and flame!!" (words, borrow'd from
Lucretius,)

66

"Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues!

If you decree, the stage must condescend
To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend.
Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce,
And gratify you more by showing less.

The past reproach let present scenes refute,

Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." "Is Whitbread," said Lord Byron. "determined to castrate all my cavalry lines? I do implore, for my own gratification, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds-' a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me.'"]

4 [" Soon after the Rejected Addresses' scene in 1821, I met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, 'Lord Byron, did you know that amongst the writers of addresses was Whitbread himself? I answered by an inquiry of what sort of an address he had made. Of that.' replied Sheridan, I remember little, except that there was a phaniz in it.'- A phœnix!! Well, how did he describe it ?Like a poulterer,' answered Sheridan: it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he did not let us off for a single feather."-Byron Letters, 1821.]

[Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee was one by Dr. Busby, entitled "A Monologue," of which the above is a parody. It began as follows:-

"When energizing objects men pursue,
What are the prodigies they cannot do?
A magic edifice you here survey,
Shot from the rums of the other day," &c.]

"And sleeping pangs awake-and-but away," (Confound me if I know what next to say.) "Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings,"

66

And Master G-recites what Doctor Busby sings!—
If mighty things with small we may compare,'
(Translated from the grammar for the air!)
Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car,"
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of "tar."
"This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,"
To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane.
"Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,"
And George and I will dramatize it for ye.

"In arts and sciences our isle hath shone,"
(This deep discovery is mine alone.)
"Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire"
My verse or I'm a fool-and Fame's a liar,
"Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore"

With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and much

more.

[Cupid,"

These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain Disgraces, too! "inseparable train !" "Three who have stolen their witching airs from (You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid :) "Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, Now to produce in a "divine sestetto"!! "While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, "Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes! "Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song;

"Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play," (For this last line George had a holiday.) "Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," So says the manager, and so say I.

"But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" Is this the poem which the public lost?

[pride;"

"True true that lowers at once our mounting

But lo!-the papers print what you deride.
""Tis ours to look on you-you hold the prize,"
"Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise!
"A double blessing your rewards impart❞—

I wish I had them, then, with all my heart.
"Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause,"
Why son and I both beg for your applause.
"When in your fostering beams you bid us live,"
My next subscription list shall say how much you give!
October, 1812.

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE
AT HALES-OWEN.'

WHEN Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought,"
His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought,"
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence;

Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,
Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass.
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

1 [In Warwickshire.] 2 [See Cymon and Iphigenia.] [ The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord Byron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned the composition of this Impromptu. On the cessation of the connection, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, called one