die." In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, "it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biased in our favor, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no connection, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can." To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe: on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed: their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favor which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability. I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation: some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce any thing entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be an Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me "to this sin:" little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others "virum volitare per ora." I look to the few who will hear with patience "dulce est desipere in loco." To the former worthies I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst "the mob of gentlemen who write ;"-my readers must determine whether I dare say "with ease," or the honor of a posthumous page in "The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors,"-a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers. With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this 1 first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age the contents may afford amusement: I trust they will. at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor, even, in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine.1 That when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed," can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical censors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honors granted solely to a title. HOURS OF IDLENESS. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM. HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay, where once such animation beam'd: The King of Terrors seized her as his prey; Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place. 1802. 1 The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applause, to which, by their intrinsic worth, they were well entitled. [The passage referred to by Lord Byron occurs in Boswell's Life of Johnson, vol. viii. p. 91, ed. 1835. Dr. Johnson's letter to Mrs. Chapone, criticising, on the whole favorably, the Earl's trage ly of The Father's Revenge," is inserted in the same volume, p. 242.] 3 The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection: but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest, being composed at the age of fourteen,) and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration. 4 ["My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Margaret Parker daughter and grand-daughter of the two Admirals Parker,) ce of the most beautiful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten the verse, but it would be difficult for me to forget Berber dark eyes-her long eyelashes-her completely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then about twelvehe rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year or two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her Stone, and induced consumption. Her sister Augusta, (by ce thought still more beautiful.) died of the same malady; and it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met With the accident which occasioned her death. My sister To me, that when she went to see her, shortly before der death, upon accidentally mentioning my name, Margaret colored, throughout the paleness of mortality, to the eyes, to the great astonishment of my sister, who knew nothing four attachment, nor could conceive why my name should fect her at such a time. I knew nothing of her illnesstag at Harrow and in the country-till she was gone. Sone years after, I made an attempt at an elegy-a very dll one. I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to the transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her temper, during the short period of our intimacy. She looked As if she had been made out of a rainbow-all beauty and peace."-Byron Diary, 1821.] This little poem, and some others in the collection, refer to a boy of Lord Byron's own age, son of one of his tenants at Newstead, for whom he had formed a romantic attachment, of earlier date than any of his school friendstaps.) (Lord Delawarr. The idea of printing a collection of bis Poems first occurred to Lord Byron in the parlor of that entage, which, during his visit to Southwell, had become adopted home. Miss Pigot, who was not before aware of his turn for versifying. had been reading aloud the Poems of Burns, when young Byron said, that he, too, was a poet sometimes, and would write down for her some verses of his own which he remembered." He then, with a pencil, wrote these lines. "To D-." A fac-simile of the first four Laes of this pencilling fronts p. 1.] (This poem appears to have been, in its original state, inteaded to commemorate the death of the same lowly-born youth, to whom the affectionate verses given in the opposite column were addressed : EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. ̓Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν έῷος.-LAERTIUS. Он, Friend! forever loved, forever dear! 1803 "Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born," &c. But, in the altered form of the Epitaph, not only this passage, but every other containing an allusion to the low rank of his young companion, is oinitted; while, in the added parts, the introduction of such language as "What though thy sire lament his failing line," seeins calculated to give an idea of the youth's station in life, wholly different from that which the whole tenor of the original Epitaph warrants. "That he grew more conscious," says Mr. Moore, "of his high station, as he approached to manhood, is not improbable, and this wish to sink his early friendship with the young cottager inay have been a result of that feeling." The following is a copy of the lines as they first appeared in the private Volume: "Oh, Boy! forever loved, forever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honor'd bier! To me, far dearer was thy artless love A FRAGMENT. WHEN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 1803. ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.2 "Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court." -OSSIAN. THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay: In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,3 The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. [rattle, [Of the sincerity of this youthful aspiration, the Poet has left repeated proofs. By his will, drawn up in 1811, he directed, that "no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb;" and, in 1819, he wrote thus to Mr. Murray :-"Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance 'Martini Luigi Implora pace.' Can any thing be more full of pathos? I hope whoever may survive me will see those two words, and no more, put over me."] 2 [The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II., and dedicated to God and the Virgin. It was in the reign of Henry VIII., on the dissolution of the monasteries, that, by a royal grant, it was added, with the lands adjoining, to the other possessions of the Byron family. The favorite upon whom they were conferred, was the grand-nephew of the gallant soldier who fought by the side of Richmond at Bosworth, and is distinguished from the other knights of the same Christian name, in the family, by the title of "Sir John Byron the Little, with the great beard." A portrait of this personage was one of the few family pictures with which the walls of the abbey, while in the possession of the Poet, were decorated.] 3 [There being no record of any of Lord Byron's ancestors having been engaged in the Holy Wars, Mr. Moore suggests, that the Poet may have had no other authority for this notion, than the tradition which he found connected with certain strange groups of heads, which are represented on the old panel-work in some of the chambers at Newstead. In one of these groups, consisting of three heads, strongly carved and projecting from the panel, the centre figure evidently represents a Saracen or Moor, with a European female on one side of him, and a Christian soldier on the other. In a second group, the female occupies the centre, while on either side is the head of a Saracen, with the eyes fixed earnestly upon her. Of the exact meaning of these figures there is nothing known; but the tradition is, that they refer to a love adventure of the age of the Crusades.] 4[" In the park of Horseley," says Thoroton, “there was a castle, some of the ruins of which are yet visible, called Horistan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de Burun's successors."] [Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serving No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laureli'd wreath ; Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan' slumbers; Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy For the safety of Edward and England they fell My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell. On Marston, with Rupert,' 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd.* 8 Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. [Sir Nicholas Byron served with distinction in the Low Countries; and, in the Great Rebellion, he was one of the first to take up arms in the royal cause. After the battle of Edgehill, he was made colonel-general of Cheshire and Shropshire, and governor of Chester. "He was," says C.arendon," a person of great affability and dexterity, as well as martial knowledge, which gave great life to the designs of the well affected; and, with the encouragement of some geatlemen of North Wales, he raised such a power of horse and foot, as made frequent skirmishes with the enemy, someures with notable advantage, never with signal loss."-In 1643, Sir John Byron was created Baron Byron of Rochdale in the county of Lancaster; and seldom has a title been bestowed for such high and honorable services as those by which be deserved the gratitude of his royal master. Through ales every page of the History of the Civil Wars, we trace tas name in connection with the varying fortunes of the king, and find him faithful, persevering, and disinterested to the last. "Sir John Biron," says Mrs. Hutchinson, afterwards Lord Biron, and all his brothers, bred up in arms, and valmi men in their own persons, were all passionately the king's " We find also, in the reply of Colonel Hutchinson, wt i governor of Nottingham, to his cousin-german Sir Richari Byron, a noble tribute to the chivalrous fidelity of the race. Sir Richard, having sent to prevail on his relative to surrender the castle, received for answer, that except Le found his own heart prone to such treachery, he might cone sider there was, if nothing else, so much of a Byron's blood in him, that he should very much scorn to betray or qu't a trust he had undertaken."-On the monument of Richard. the second Lord Byron, who lies buried in the chance of Hucknal-Tokard church, there is the following inscription: Beneath, in a vault, is interred the body of Richard Lord Byron, who, with the rest of his family, being sertã brothers faithfully served King Charles the First in the cast wars, who suffered inuch for their loyalty, and lost all the r present fortunes; yet it pleased God so to bless the huaraendeavors of the said Richard Lord Byron, that he repurchased part of their ancient inheritance, which he let to his posterity, with a laudable memory for his great paty and charity."] LINES WRITTEN IN "LETTERS TO AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN BY J. J. ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS." "AWAY, away, your flattering arts May now betray some simple hearts; ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, Mere phantoms of thine own creation; Which from our sex demands such praises, Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, Ah! fly not from the candid youth; July, 1804. My ears with tingling echoes ring, My eyes refuse the cheering light, TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. "Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. 4. CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease That I might live for love and you again: But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate; By death alone I can avoid your hate. ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING.1 [ANIMULA! vagula, blandula, Hospes comesque corporis, AH! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humor gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. EQUAL to Jove that youth must be- My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, [This and several little pieces that follow appear to be fragments of school exercises done at Harrow. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. [Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.] YE Cupids, droop each little head, Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : But lightly o'er her bosom moved: And softly fluttering here and there, He never sought to cleave the air, But cherup'd oft, and, free from care, Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne From whence he never can return, His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! cursed be thou, devouring grave! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save, For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her wo, Receptacle of life's decay. IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. TO ELLEN. OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire, The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease. Still would I steep my lips in bliss, TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. [Justum et tenacem propositi virum, &c.] THE man of firm and noble soul Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, He would, unmoved, unawed behold. In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile. FROM ANACREON. Θέλω λεγεῖν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.] I WISH to tune my quivering lyre FROM ANACREON. [Μεσονυκτίαις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ. λ.] Twas now the hour when Night had driven His arctic charge around the pole; His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; And now reviving from the storm, FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ESCHYLUS. [Μηδαμ' ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.] GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne My voice shall raise no impious strain 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. |