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To dream of joy and wake to sorrow

Is doom'd to all who love or live; And if, when conscious on the morrow,

We scarce our fancy can forgive, That cheated us in slumber only, To leave the waking soul more lonely, What must they feel whom no false vision,

But truest, tenderest passion warm’d ? Sincere, but swift in sad transition ;

As if a dream alone had charm'd ? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaining!


Ah! Lore was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends iny heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.
Without one friend to hear my wo,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew;
Alas! I find thern poison'd too.
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,
Your hearts shall bum, your hopes expire.
A bird of free and careless wing
Was I, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare
I burn, and feebly flutter there.
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.
My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?
My bird of love! my beauteous mate !
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter wo?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.
My curdling blood, my madd’ning brain,
In silent anguish I sustain ;
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults—while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison ; fear not thou !
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest ?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of wo.


THE “Origin of Love !"—Ah, why

That cruel question ask of me,
When thou mayst read in many an eye

He starts to life on seeing thee?
And shouldst thou seek his end to know:

My heart forbodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent wo;

But live-until I cease to be.


POWER REMEMBER him, whom passion's power

Severely, deeply, vainly proved : Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved. That yielding breast, that melting eye,

Too much invited to be bless'd: That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears ; And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a tongue,

Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whate'er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even now, in midnight solitude. Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime,

And I been less unworthy thee! Far may thy days, as heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be pass'd! And that too bitter moment o'er,

Oh! may such trial bo thy last ! This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; To meet thee in the glittering throng,

Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.


Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought :
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou loy'st—too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,

And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet, When she can change who loved so truly, It feels what mine has felt so newly.

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Then to the things whose bliss or wo,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego,

Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,

Thy soul from long seclusion pure ;
From what even here hath pass'd, may guess

What there thy bosom must endure.
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My phrensy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weop again. Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine ;
It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.


Then thus to form Apollo's crown."
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,

Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phæbus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

Let every other bring his own."
When coals to Newcastle are carried,

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders,
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried,

Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,

When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.' When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent,)

TO THOMAS MOORE Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise

To common sense his thoughts could raise-
Why would they let him print his lays ?

Oh you, who in all names can tickle the town,
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,-
For haug me if I know of which you may most brag,

Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post To me, divine Apollo, grant-0!

Hormilda's first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau ;

But now to my letter,-to yours 'tis an answer
And thus to furnish decent lining,

To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir, My own and others' bays I'm twining All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phæbus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!

I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some

codgers, “I lay my branch of laurel down,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Roger;
Then thus to form Apollo's crown

And I, though with cold I have nearly my death
Let every other bring his own."
Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers. Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote,

I lay my branch of laurel down." ,

But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurta, Thou “lay thy branch of laurel down !"

And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra."
Why, what thou'st stole is not enow;

(First published, 1830.)

1 [" Among the many gay hours we passed together in the first two words. Our laughter had now increased to sh spring of 1813, I remember particularly the wild flow of his a pitch that nothing could restrain it. Two or three times spirits one evening, when we had accompanied Mr. Rogers he began ; but no sooner had the words . When Roger home from some early assembly. It happened that our host passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh,-ull ever: Mr. had just received a presentation copy of a volume of poems, Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, fou writien professedly in iinitation of the old English writers, it impossible not to join us. A day or two alier, Lord Br. and containing, like many of these models, a good deal that ron sent me the following:— My dear Moore was striking and beautiful, mixed up with much that was Rogers" must not see the enclosed, which I send for yoer trifling, fantastic, and absurd. In vain did Mr. Rogers, in perusal.'"-MOORE.) justice to the author, endeavor to direct our attention to

a [The reader who wishes to understand the fun force of some of the beauties of the work. In this sort of hunt

this scandalous insinuation is referred in Muretus's potes og through the volume, we at length lighted on the discovery

a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled In Cosurem; bi that our host, in addition to his sincere approbation of some

consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the favorite of its contents, had also the motive of gratitude for standing

Mamurra: by its author, as one of the poems was a warm and, I need not add, well-deserved panegyric on hinself. The opening "Quis hoc potest videre ? quis potest pati, Jine of the poem was, as well as I can recollect, "When

Nisi impudicus et vorax et helluo? Rogers o'er ihis labor bent:' and Lord Byron undertook to

Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia read it aloud ;-but he found it impossible to get beyond the

Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia !" &c.]

WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits,

Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And v'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink :

My thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the wanderers shrink,
And droop within their silent cell.'

September, 1813.


“ TU MI CHAMAS." In moments to delight devoted,

“ My life!" with tenderest tone, you cry; Dear words ! on which my heart had doted,

If youth could neither fade nor die.
To death even hours like these must roll,

Ah! then repeat those accents never ;
Or change “my life!" into “my soul!"

Which, like my love, exists forever.



You call me still your life.—Oh! change the word

Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh :
Say rather I'm your soul; more just that name,

For, like the soul, my love can never die.

Tuine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,

And the wan Justre of thy features-caught

From contemplation—where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm’d from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught

With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-
I should have deemd thee doom'd to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colors blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent,)

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn-
Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!
With naught Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.

December 17, 1813.2


Tuy cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo,

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow: And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but, oh!

While gazing on them steruer eyes will gush,

And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,

The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

December 17, 1813.


The Devil return'd to hell by two,

And he stay'd at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragoût,

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew-
And bethought himself what next to do,

And," quoth he, “ I'll take a drive.
I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,

And I'll see how my favorites thrive.
“And what shall I ride in ?” quoth Lucifer then-

“ If I follow'd my taste, indeed,
I should mount in a wagon of wounded men,

And smile to see them bleed.
But these will be furnish'd again and again,

And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.
“ I have a state-coach at Carlton House,

A chariot in Seymour Place;
But they're lont to two friends, who make me amends

By driving my favorite pace:
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.
“So now for the earth to take my chance."

Then up to the earth sprung he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France,

He stepp'd across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.

(These verses are said to have dropped from the Poet's ing to a character whose tints were otherwise romantic.pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy wluch SIR WALTER Scott.) Overclouded the general gayety. It was impossible to ob ? [" Redde some Italian, and wrote two sonnets. I never serve his interesting countenance, expressive of a dejection wrote but one sonnet before, and that was not in earnest, belonging weither to his rank, luis age, nor his success, with and many years ago, as an exercise-and I will never write out feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether it another. They are the most puling, petrifying, stupidly had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional tempera- platonic compositions."Byron Diary, 1513.) ment. It was obviously of a degree incalculably inore sesious than that alluded io by Prince Arthur

: ["I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished

rhapsody, called . The Devil's Drive,' the notion of which I " I remember when I was in France

took from Porson's • Devil's Walk.'”-Byron Dary, 1812. Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,

“ Of this strange, wild poem,” says Moore, "the only copy Only for wantonness."

that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord

Holland. Though with a good deal of vigor and imaginaBut, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of tion, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wantmingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned ing the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. them, and felt that his sphere was far above the frivolous Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevacrowd which surrounded him, gave a strong effect of color lent, has attributed to Professor Porson.”)

But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hover'd a moment upon his way

To look upon Leipsic plain ;
And so sweet to his oye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain ;
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had be seen such a sight,

Nor his work done half as well :
For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,

That it blush'd like the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he:
“ Methinks they have here little need of me?"

And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,

Because the Catholics would not rise,

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies ;
And he heard—which set Satan hinjself a staring-
A certain Chief Justice say something like surearing.
And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, “ I must go,
For I find we have much better manners below:
If thus he harangues when he passes my border,
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."

But the softest note that soothed his ear

Was the sound of a widow sighing:
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear

Of a maid by her lover lying-
As round her fell her long fair hair;
And she look’d to heaven with that phrensied air,
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,
With its hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,

A child of famine dying:
And the carnage begun, when resistance is done,

And the fall of the vainly flying!

Lines composed on the occasion of his Royal Highness the

Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of
Henry VIII. and Charles 1 , in the royal vault ai Windsor.
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles soe heartless Henry lies;
Between them stands another sceptred thiug-
It moves, it reigns—in all but name, a king :

Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
-In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
Each royal vampire wakes to life again.
Ah, what can tombs avail!-since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both-to mould a George.

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,

And what did he there, I pray?
If his oyes were good, he but saw by night

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, What we see every day:

There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: But he made a tour, and kept a journal

But the tear which now burns on my cheek rnay impart Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,

The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row,

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Who bid pretty well—but they cheated him, though! Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness

cease ? The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,

(chain, Its coachman and his coat;

We repent-we abjure -We will break from our So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,

We will part,—we will fly to—unite it again! And seized him by the throat:

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! Aha!" quoth he, “what have we here?

For me, adored one !—forsake, if thou wilt ;'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!"

But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, So he sat him on his box again,

And man shall not break it—whatever thou mayst. And bade him have no fear,

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, But be true to his club and stanch to his rein,

This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ; His brothel, and his beer;

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more “ Next to seeing a lord at the council board,

sweet, I would rather see him here."

With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, The Devil gat next to Westminster,

Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove; And he turn'd to “the room" of the Commons;

And the heartless may wonder at all I resignBut he heard, as he purposed to enter in there,

Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. That “the Lords" had received a summons;

May, 1814. And he thought, as quondam aristocrat,"

(flat; He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own, ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.

THE CALEDONIAN MEETING. He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,

Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name; And Johnny of Norfolk-a man of some size

The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain, And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;

And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,

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1 ["I cannot conceive how the Vault has got about ; but experiment, which has cost me something more than trouso it is. It is too farouche ; but truth to say, my sallies are ble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking not very playful."- Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, March 12, any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into 1814.)

the fire without phrase."Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, May 10, 2 (“Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an 1614.)


Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,
No foe could tame--no tyrant could command ? For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty.
That race is gone-but still their children breathe, You kuow, we are used to quite different graces,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath :
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine. TheCzar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee!

And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-
Oh! pass not by the porthern veteran's claim, -mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the
But give support—the world hath given him fame!


Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled With majesty's presence as those she invited.
While cheerly following where the mighty led-
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,

June, 1814.
To us bequeath—'tis all their fate allows
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse :
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raiso
The tearful eye iu melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose

The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form

TO SARAH COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REDim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ;

GENT'S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE. While sad, she chants the solitary song,

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, The soft lament for him who tarries long

Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr’d, For him, whose distant relics vainly cravo

Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave !

That left a likeness of the brave, or just ;

What most admired each scrutinizing eye "Tis Heaven—not man-must charm away the wo, Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry? Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;

What spread from face to face that wondering air ? Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear

The thought of Brutus—for his was not there! Of half its bitterness for one so dear;

That absence proved his worth,—that absence fix’d A nation's gratitude perchance may spread

His memory on the longing mind, unmix’d; A thornless pillow for the widow'd head;

And more decreed his glory to endure, May lighten well her heart's matemal care,

Than all a gold Colossus could secure.
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
May, 1814.

Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness,

Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less; FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits,

If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits

If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart, “What say I ?"-not a syllable further in prose ; Could with thy gentle imago bear de part; I'm your man “ of all ineasures,” dear Tom, -50 That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, here goes!

To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief : Hero goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? flood,

A garden with all flowers-except the rose ;We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, A fount that only wants its living stream; Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. And Southoy's last Pæan has pillow'd his sleep; Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, That" Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, Than all he shall not force on our applause. The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never Long may thy yet meridian Justre shine,

With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine :

The symmetry of youth—the grace of mienThe papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, The eye that gladdens—and the brow serene; The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,– The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het- Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair! man,

Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws And what dignity decks the flat face of the great man. A spell which will not let our looks repose,

man saw.

" ("The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of emperors, &c. They have dined and supped, and shown their flat suces in all thoroughfares and several saloons. Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short in the skirts; and their conversation is a catechism, for which, and the answers, I refer you to those who have heard it." Lord Byron to Mr. Moore, June 14, 1614.)

9 [" The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-abduction by our Regent, and have published them-with my name, too, smack-without even asking leave, or inquiring whether or no! D-n their impudence, and d-n every thing. It has put me out of patience, and so-I shall say no inore about it."-Byron Letters.]

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