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AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WO. Away, away, ye notes of wo!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must fee 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 !

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 poon,

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-woru 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 o'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?

'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


One struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain ;
One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again.
It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before :
Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more ?

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ;

Man was not form'd to live alone: I'll be that light, unmeaning thing,

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;

Thou 'rt nothing,--all are nothing now. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe !

The smile that sorrow fain would wear But mocks the wo that lurks beneath,

Like roses o'er a sepulchre.

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 serepe to see : Forgetful of its struggles past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee.

confide, refused to answer, with marks of painful agitation, such as rendered any farther recurrence to the subject impossible. The reader must be left to form his own conclu

The five following pieces are all devoted to Thyrza.]

1 ["I wrote this a day or two ago, on hearing a song of former days."-Lord Byron to Mr. Hodgson, December 1811.)


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 thino hours have seen,

Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been,

"Tis something better not to be.


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 passid,
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.

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AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAIR. "Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui

meminisse !"
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 lowers 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.


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 wholiy 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 visious 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 prido

That last dear duty to fulfil ;
Though all the world forget beside,

'Tis meet that I remember still.

The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine :
The son 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 ;

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For well I know, that such had been

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy gentle care for him, who now

Thy truth in absence to divine ;
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,

And they have done their duty well,
Where none regarded him, but thou :

Alas! they could not teach thee thino
And, oh! I feel in that was given
A blessing never meant for me;

That chain was firm in every link,
Thou wert too like a dream of Heaven,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;
For earthly Love to merit thee.

That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
March 14, 1812.

In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,

Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
ILL-FATED Heart! and can it bo,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ?

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
Have years of care for thine and thee

The chain is broke, the music mute.
Alike been all employd in vain?

'Tis past—to them and thee adieuYet precious seems each shatter'd part,

False hcart, frail chain, and silent late
And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee feels thou art
A fitter emblem of his own.



Absent or present, still to thee,
Ægle, beauty and poet, has two little crimes ;

My friend, what magic spells belong! Sho makes her own face, and does not make her

As all can tell, who share, like me, rhymes.

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
Weep, daughter of a royal line,
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;

Shall weep that aught of thee can die,
Ah! happy if each tear of thine

How fondly will she then repay
Could wash a father's fault away!

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,

And blend, while ages roll away,
Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-
Auspicious to these suffering isles;

Her name immortally with thine!
And be each drop in future years

April 19, 1919
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !"
March, 1812.


From the Turkish.

The chain I gave was fair to view,

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
The lute I added sweet in sound;

Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;
The heart that offer'd both was true,

In one short hour beheld the blazing falle,
And ill deserved the fate it found.

Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. I[We know not whether the reader should understand 1812. They are daily at it still:-some of the abuse good, the cornelian heart of these lines to be the same with that ---all of it hearly. They talk of a motion in our House upon of which some notices are given at p. 408.)

it-be it so."- Byron Diary, 1814.) [This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the *{** When Rogers does talk, he talks well; and, on all | late Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hearing subjects of taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as his that the Whigs ha'l found it impossible to put together a poetry. If you enter his house-bis drawing room-his cabinet, at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. They were library--you of yourself, say, this is not the diening of a appen led to the first edition of “ The Corsair." and excited common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book that! a sensnlion, as it is called, marvellously disproportionate to aside on his chimney-piece, his sofa, his tabl., that does a their length,-or, we may add, their merit. The ministerial bespeak an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor." prints raved for two months on end, in the most foul Byron Diary, 1813.) monthed vituperation of the poet, and all that belonged to B[The reader will recall Collins's exquisite lines on the him-the Morning Post even announced a motion in the House of Loris "and all this," Lord Byron writes to

tomb of Thomson: “In yonder grave a Druid lies," &e.) Mr. Moore, "as Bedreddin in the Arabian Nights remarks,

[The theatre in Drury Lane, which was opened, in 17€, for making a cream tart with pepper: how odd, that eight with Dr. Johnson's masterly address, beginning,lines should have given birth, I really think, to eight thou " When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes sand!")

First reard the Stage, inmortal Shakspeare rose, ** $(" The Lines to a Lady weeping' must go with. The and witnessed the last glories of Garrick, having fullea into Corsair.' I care nothing for consequences on this point. decay, was rebuilt in 1794. The new building perished My politics are to me like a young mistress to an old man ; fire in 1811; and the Managers, in their anriety that the the worse they grow, the fonder I become of them."--Lord opening of the present edifice shonld be distinguished Byron to Mr. Murray, Jan. 22, 1614. "On my return, I find some composition of at least equal merit, alvertised in the all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, on newspapers for a general competition. Scores of a ldresses the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Princess not one tolerable, showerel on their desk, and they were in Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in sad despair, when Lord Holland interfered, and, not without

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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,
Liko 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 appallid and trembled for their home,
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shono
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 Shakspearo-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 spell-
Indulge our honest pridu, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitions 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, storin'd the sternest heart.
On Drury, Garrick's latest lanrels 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 refuso
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's bead !
Nor hoard your honors idly for the dead !

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

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

Friends of the stage! to whom both Playons 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'or frivolity has led to fame,
And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If o'er the sinking stage could condescend
To sootho the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute !
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,
Aud 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 puid,
Recoive our welcoine too, whose overy 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 guido,
Still may we please—long, long may you preside !"


Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an in-

articulate voice by Master P. at the opening of the next
new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted
commas of quotation-ihus"
“When energizing objects men pursue,"
Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who.
“ A modest monologue you here survey,
Hissd from the theatre the “ other day,"
As if Sir Fretful wrote “the slumberous" verse,
And gave his sou “the rubbish” lo 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 fame!!” (words, borrow'd from

Lucretius) “Dread metaphors which open wounds" like issues !


difficulty, prevailed on Lord Byron to write these verses

ir you decree, the stage must condescend "at the risk," as he said, "of oifending a hundred scribblers To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend. and a discerning public." The admirable jeu d'esprit of the Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce, Messrs. Smith will long preserve the memory of the "Re

And gratify you inore by showing less. jected Addresses.")

The past reproach let present scenes refute, ["* By the by, the best view of the said fire (which I my

Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." sell saw froin a hons-top in Covent Garden) was at West “Is Whitbread," said Lord Byron. “determined to casminster Bridge, from the reflection of the Thames."-Lord trate all my cavalry lines? I do implore, for my own gratiByron to Lord Holland.)

fication, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds -- a long 9 (Originally. ** Ere Garrick died," &c.-"By the by, one shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me.'") of my corrections in the copy seni yesierday has dived into * [** Soon after the · Rejected Addresses' scene in 1821, I the balhos some sixty fathom

met Sheridan In the course of dinner, he said, 'Lord By. When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.' ron. did you know that amongst the writers or addresses was Ceasing to live is a much inore serious concern, and ought

Whitbread himself !' I answered by an inquiry of what not to be arst. Second thoughts in every thug are best ; but, sort of an address be had made. Of that.' replied Sheriin rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I always dan, :I remember little, except that there was a phenit scrawl in this way. and smooth as fast as I can, but never in it.'--* A phenix!! Well, how did he describe it?'sufficiently : and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza Like a poulterer,' answered Sheridan: it was green, and faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the yellow, and redl, and blue : he did not let us off for a single cunning When I began Childe Harold,' I had never feather.!"- Byron Letters, 1821.) tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble in any • (Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Comother."'-- Lord Byron to Lord Holland. 1

mittee was one by Dr. Busby, entitled " A Monologue," of * The following lines were omitted by the Committee: which the above is a pirody. It began as follows:“ Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores

" When energizing objects men pursue, That late the deign'u to crawl upon all-fours.

What are the prodigies they caunot do? When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse,

A magic edifice you liere survey, If you command, the steed must come in course.

Shot from the rums of the other day," &c.)

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REMEMBER thee! remember thee!

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

And haunt thee like a feverish dream!

“ And sleeping pangs awake-and—but away,” (Confound me if I know what next to say.) • Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings,' 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," Aud George and I will dramatize it for ye.

Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not.

Thy husband too shall think of thee : By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

“ 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

TO TIME. Time! on whose arbitrary wing

The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring,

But drag or drive us on to die


Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.

I would not one fond heart should share

The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare

All that I loved, to peace or heaven.

Those, if we win the Graces, too, we gain Disgraces, too! “inseparable train !" [Cupid," “ 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.

To them be joy or rest, on me

Thy future ills shall press in vain: I nothing owe but years to thee,

A debt already paid in pain. Yet even that pain was some relief;

It felt, but still forgot thy power: The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour.


In joy I've sigh’d to think thy flight

Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night to wo;


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.

For then, however drear and dark,

My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark

To prove thee-not Eternity. That beam hath sunk, and now thou art

A blank; a thing to count and curse, Through each dull tedious trifling part,

Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;

The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed: And I can smile to think how weak

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak

Must fall upon--a nameless stone.

"[In Warwickshire.) ? (See Cymon and Iphigenia.] morning at her quondam lover's apartments. His Lordstup

$(" The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord was from home, but finding · Vathck' on the table, the las Byron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned wrote in the first page of the volume the words. Remember! the composition of this Impromptu. On the cessation of the me! Byron immediately wrote under the ominous watir ! connection, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, called one ing these two stanzas."-MEDWIN.)

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