Your worth a lasting love insures, From smooth deceit and terror sprung, With joy elate, by snares beset, We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget "Friendship is Love without his wings!" Fictions and dreams inspire the bard Friendship and Truth be To me no bays belong; my reward If laurelled Fame but dwells with lies, Whose heart and not whose fancy sings; Simple and young, I dare not feign; 66 Friendship is Love without his wings!" THE PRAYER OF NATURE.* [WRITTEN DECEMBER 29, 1806.] FATHER of Light! great God of Heaven! *[It is difficult to conjecture for what reason these stanzas, which surpass any thing that Byron had yet written, were not included in the publication of 1807. Written when the author was not nineteen years of age, "this remarkable poem shows," says Moore, "how early the struggle between natural piety and doubt began in his mind."] Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Father of Light, on thee I call! Thou see'st my soul is dark within; Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert from me the death of sin. No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, Shall man confine his Maker's sway Earth, ocean, heaven thy boundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to hell, Tell us that all, for one who fell, Shall each pretend to reach the skies, Or doctrines less severe inspire? Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, Shall those, who live for self alone, And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet's laws I seek, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Thou, who canst guide the wandering star Through trackless realms of æther's space; Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, To Thee, my God, to thee I call! If when this dust to dust's restored, How shall thy glorious name adored But, if this fleeting spirit share With clay the grave's eternal bed, To Thee I breathe my humble strain, TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.* "Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.". -HOR. DEAR Long, in this sequestered scene, Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye; * [This gentleman, who was with Byron both at Harrow and Cambridge, entered the Guards, and served in the expedition to Copenhagen. He was drowned in 1809, when on his way to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed being run down in the night by another of the convoy. "Long's father," says Byron," wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised but I had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being as rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too, to make him the more regretted." Diary, 1821.] Thus if amidst the gathering storm, Some lurking envious fear intrude, In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore; Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, |