Occasional Pieces. 1807-1824. THE ADIEU. WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. ADIEU, thou Hill!! where early joy No more through Ida's paths we stray; Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, Ye spires of Granta's vale, Ye comrades of the jovial hour, On Cama's verdant margin placed, Adieu, ye mountains of the clime Where grew my youthful years; Why did my childhood wander forth Hall of my Sires! a long farewell Yet why to thee adieu ? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy Hall Forgets its wonted simple note. Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, To retrospection dear. At noontide heat their pliant course; And shall here forget the scene, Rocks rise, and rivers roll between The spot which passion blest; And thou, my Friend 5! whose gentle love, How much thy friendship was above All, all is dark and cheerless now ! Not e'en the hope of future fame, Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; But me she beckons from the earth, When I repose beneath the sod, By nightly skies, and storms alone; No mortal eye will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown. Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight, If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; [Mary Duff. See ante, p. 416. note.] [Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. See antè, p. 398.] To Him address thy trembling prayer: Father of Light! to Thee I call, My soul is dark within: Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 1807. [First published, 1832.] I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, I swore, in a transport of young indignation, And now, all my wish, all my hope, 's to regain you. TO A VAIN LADY. Aн, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears: Why thus destroy thine own repose, And dig the source of future tears? Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl thy ling'ring woes are nigh, If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly, Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. Dost thou repeat, in childish boast, The words man utters to deceive? Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, Nor make thyself the public gaze: What modest maid without a blush Recounts a flattering coxcomb's praise? Will not the laughing boy despise Her who relates each fond conceit While vanity prevents concealing. One, who is thus from nature vain, January 15. 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO THE SAME. Он, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, "SAD IS MY VERSE,' YOU SAY, AND YET NO TEAR.' THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it: Although by far too dull for laughter. March 8. 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO ANNE. OH, Anne! your offences to me have been grievous; I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you; But woman is made to command and deceive us I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. ON FINDING A FAN. IN one who felt as once he felt, As when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their blaze in night, Thus has it been with passion's firesAs many a boy and girl remembers— While every hope of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. The first, though not a spark survive, Some careful hand may teach to burn; The last, alas! can ne'er survive ; No touch can bid its warmth return. Or, if it chance to wake again, Not always doom'd its heat to smother, Its former warmth around another. -- Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. [Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed; hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him," Here is a fine young oak; And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. 1 YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, But thou wert not fated affection to share- Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot: Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 1807. [First published, 1832.] but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place." "I hope not, sir," replied the man; "for it's the one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as "THE BYRON OAK," and promises to share, in after times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.] THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! Her lowly grave the turf has prest, And yields thee scarce a name on earth; Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 1 Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas. 2 ["Whether these verses are, any degree, founded on fact, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth, Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace, At once a brother and a son; Although so young thy heedless sire, FAREWELL IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. I only feel-Farewell!— Farewell! 1808. BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. As thy soul shall immortally be; When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest ? 1808. such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him; and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote,-making allowance for the embellishments of fancy,-the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been indebted for its origin to imagination alone."-MOORE. But see post, Don Juan, canto xvi. st. 61.] TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 1 Frw years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerity Preserved our feelings long the same. But now, like me, too well thou know'st If so, it never shall be mine To mourn the loss of such a heart; The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, Which made thee fickle as thou art. As rolls the ocean's changing tide, So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide, Where stormy passions ever glow? 1808. [This copy of verses, and that which follows, originally appeared in the volume published, in 1809, by Mr. (now the Right Hon. Sir John) Hobhouse, under the title of" Imita It boots not that, together bred, That world corrupts the noblest soul. Not so in Man's maturer years, When Man himself is but a tool; When interest sways our hopes and fears, And all must love and hate by rule. With fools in kindred vice the same, We learn at length our faults to blend ; And those, and those alone, may claim The prostituted name of friend, Such is the common lot of man: Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan, Nor be what all in turn must be? No; for myself, so dark my fate Through every turn of life hath been; Man and the world so much I hate, I care not when I quit the scene. But thou, with spirit frail and light, Alas! whenever folly calls Where parasites and princes meet, (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet) To join the vain, and court the proud. That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. For friendship every fool may share? Be something, any thing, but -mean 1808. tions and Translations, together with original poems," and bearing the modest epigraph-"Nos hæc novimus esse nihil."] |