ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA.*

In this beloved marble view,

Above the works and thoughts of man,
What Nature could, but would not, do,
And beauty and Canova can!
Beyond imagination's power,
Beyond the Bard's defeated art,
With immortality her dower,

Behold the Helen of the heart!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

["THEY SAY THAT HOPE IS HAPPINESS."]

I.

THEY say that Hope is happiness;

But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose the first they set the last;

*["The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Byron," without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution."]

II.

And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
Hath melted into Memory.

III.

Alas! it is delusion all:

The future cheats us from afar,

Nor can we be what we recall,

Nor dare we think on what we are.

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES.

I.

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea

Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we

Will die fighting, or live free,

And down with all kings but King Ludd!

II.

When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding sheet

O'er the despot at our feet,

And dye it deep in the gore he has poured.

III.

Though black as his heart its hue,
Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew

Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

December, 1816.

VERSICLES.*

I READ the "Christabel; "

Very well:

I read the "Missionary;"

Pretty-very:

I tried at "Ilderim;"

Ahem!

I read a sheet of "Margret of Anjou ;” †

Can
you?

I turned a page of Scott's "Waterloo ;"

Pooh! pooh!

* ["I have been ill with a slow fever, which at last took to flying, and became as quick as need be. But, at length, after a week of half delirium, burning skin, thirst, hot headache, horrible pulsation, and no sleep, by the blessing of barley water, and refusing to see my physician, I recovered. It is an epidemic of the place. Here are some versicles, which I made one sleepless night." ― Byron's Letters. Venice, March, 1817.]

† [The "Missionary," was written by Mr. Bowles; "Ilderim" by Mr. Gally Knight; and "Margaret of Anjou" by Miss Holford.]

I looked at Wordsworth's milk-white "Rylstone

Doe;"
Hillo!

Etc., etc., etc.

March, 1817.

SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.

I.

So we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

III.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon.

1817.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

WHAT are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
What are you doing now,
Oh Thomas Moore?
Sighing or suing now,
Rhyming or wooing now,
Billing or cooing now,

Which, Thomas Moore?

But the Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore !
The Carnival's coming,
Oh Thomas Moore!
Masking and humming,
Fifing and drumming,
Guitarring and strumming,

Oh Thomas Moore !

TO MR. MURRAY.

To hook the reader, you, John Murray, Have published "Anjou's Margaret,"

Which won't be sold off in a hurry

(At least, it has not been as yet);