But mine has suffered more than well
"T would suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,
Have seen her seated by his side, -
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child; -
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,

And made my cheek belie my heart,
Returned the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;
Have kissed, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And showed, alas! in each caress

Time had not made me love the less.*

I'll whine no more,

But let this pass
Nor seek again an eastern shore;

The world befits a busy brain,

I'll hie me to its haunts again.

But if, in some succeeding year,

When Britain's "May is in the sere,"

Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes,
Suit with the sablest of the times,

[These lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while under the pressure of recent sorrow, the poet reverted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to come. - MOORE.]

Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise,
One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside,
One ranked in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,

Him wilt thou know. and knowing pause,
Nor with the effect forget the cause.'

*

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811.

TO THYRZA.

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one, perchance forgot,

Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid?

By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain;

The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet

Could this have been

no - ne'er again!

a word, a look

That softly said, "We part in peace,"

* [The anticipations of his own future career in these concluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling would carry him. - MOORE.]

Had taught my bosom how to brook,
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release.

And didst thou not, since Death for thee Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart?

Oh! who like him had watched thee here?
Or sadly marked thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,

Till all was past? But when no more
"Twas thine to reck of human woe,
Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flowed as fast- as now they flow.

Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these, to me, deserted towers,
Ere called but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours?

Ours too the glance none saw beside; The smile none else might understand; The whispered thought of hearts allied, The pressure of the thrilling hand;

The kiss, so guiltless and refined

That Love each warmer wish forbore; Those eyes proclaimed so pure a mind, Even passion blushed to plead for more.

The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine;

The pledge we wore I wear it still,

But where is thine? - Ah! where art thou?

Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again;

But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,

Impart some portion of thy bliss,
To wean me from mine anguish here.

Teach me

too early taught by thee! To bear, forgiving and forgiven:

On earth thy love was such to me;

It fain would form my hope in heaven!

October 11, 1811.*

[Moore considers "Thyrza a mere creature of the poet's brain. "It was," he says, "about the time when he was thus bitterly feeling, and expressing, the blight which his heart had suffered from a real object of affection, that his poems on the death of an imaginary one were written;-nor is it any wonder, when we consider the peculiar circumstances under which

AWAY, AWAY! YE NOTES OF WOE!

AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain,
Or I must flee 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.

those beautiful effusions flowed from his fancy, that of all his strains of pathos, they should be the most touching and most pure. They were, indeed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it were, of many griefs; - a confluence of sad thoughts from many sources of sorrow, refined and warmed in their passage through his fancy, and forming thus one deep reservoir of mournful feeling." It is a pity to disturb a sentiment thus beautifully expressed: but Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dallas, bearing the exact date of these lines, namely, Oct. 11, 1811, writes as follows:"I have been again shocked with a death, and have lost one very dear to me in happier times: but 'I have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and 'supped full of horrors,' till I have become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event which, five years ago, would have bowed my head to the earth." In his reply to this letter, Mr. Dallas says, "I thank you for your confidential communication. How truly do I wish that that being had lived, and lived yours! What your obligations to her would have been in that case is inconceivable." Several years after the series of poems on Thyrza were written, Byron, on being asked to whom they referred, by a person in whose tenderness he never ceased to confide, refused to answer, with marks of agitation, such as rendered recurrence to the subject impossible. The five following pieces are all devoted to Thyrza.]