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: To bigots and to sects unknown, Will not reject a child of dust, Although his meanest care. 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. [Now first published.] TO A VAIN LADY. An, 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 lingering 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? Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost, If thou canst venture to believe. While now amongst thy female peers Thou tell'st again the soothing tale, Canst thou not mark the rising sneers Duplicity in vain would veil? These tales in secret silence hush, 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 conceitWho, thinking heaven is in her eyes, Yet cannot see the slight deceit ? For she who takes a soft delight These amorous nothings in revealing, Must credit all we say or write, While vanity prevents concealing. One, who is thus from nature vain, January 15, 1807. [Now first published.] TO ANNE. OH, Anne! your offences to me have been grievous; I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, I swore, in a transport of young indignation, TO THE SAME. Оn say not, sweet Anne! that the Fates have decreed The rage of the tempest united must weather, Then say not, sweet Anue! that the Fates have de- TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET, BEGINNING "Sad is my verse,' you say, and yet no tear.'" THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: And much, alas! I think he needs it: Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, Although by far too dull for laughter. March 8, 1807. [Now first published.] ON FINDING A FAN. IN one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same. 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 fires As many a boy and girl remembersWhile 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, It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) 1807. Now first published.] FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days, This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude-flowing lyre, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? (1) 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; Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Untouch'd, then, my lyre shall reply to the blast- more. And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. (1) YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, 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, Oh! hardy thou wert-even now little care Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh! live then, my Oak! tower aloft from the weeds That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display. 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.-L. E. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, 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 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, 1807. [Now first published.] ON REVISITING HARROW.(1) HERE once engaged the stranger's view Young Friendship's record, simply traced; Few were her words,-but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defaced. Deeply she cut-but not erased The characters were still so plain, That Friendship once return'd, and gazed,Till Memory hail'd the words again. Repentance placed them as before; Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; So fair the inscription seem'd once more, That Friendship thought it still the same. Thus might the Record now have been; But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour, Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, And blotted out the line for ever! EPITAPH September, 1807. ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell, (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) "Fond as he was," says Moore, "of recording every particular of his youth, 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 faucy) 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. The only circumstance I know that bears even remotely on the subject of this poem, is the following. About a year or two before the date affixed to it, he wrote to his TO MY SON. (2) THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, Her lowly grave the turf has press'd, 1807. FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! mother from Harrow, to say that he had lately bad a good deal of uneasiness on account of a young woman, whom he knew to have been a favourite of his late friend Curzon, and who, finding herself after his death in a state of progress towards maternity, had declared Lord Byron was the father of her child. This, he positively assured his mother, was not the case, but believing, as he did firmly, that the child belonged to Curzon, it was his wish that it should be brought up with all possible care, and he therefore entreated that his mother would have the kindness to take charge of it. Though such a request might well have discomposed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she, notwithstanding, answered her son in the kindest terms, saying that she would willingly receive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in whatever manner he desired, Happily, however, the child died in its infancy, and was thus spared the being a tax on the good-nature of any body." We find, however, some allusion to this circumstance in Don Juan, Canto XVI. Stanza 61.-P. E. These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell! If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears. 1808. 1808. BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. BRIGHT be the place of thy soul ! In the orbs of the blessed to shine. On earth thou wert all but divine, As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, 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? WHEN WE TWO PARTED. WHEN We two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, The dew of the morning It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. And share in its shame. Who knew thee too well;Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, 1808. (1) This copy of verses, and that which follows, originally appeared in the volume published, in 1809, by Mr. (now Si John) Hobhouse, under the title of Imitations and Transla TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. (1) Few 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 To mourn the loss of such a heart; So human feelings ebb and flow; Our childish days were days of joy: 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; Can we then 'scape from folly free? I care not when I quit the scene. But thou, with spirit frail and light, tions, together with Original Poems, and bearing the modest epigraph-"Nos hæc novimus esse nihil."-L. E. As glow-worms sparkle through the night, But dare not stand the test of day. Alas! wherever Folly calls, Where parasites and princes meet To join the vain, and court the proud. Still simpering on with eager haste; As flies along the gay parterre, That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. But say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapours move, To flit along, from dame to dame, An ignis-fatuus gleam of love? What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, For friendship every fool may share? In time forbear; amidst the throng No more so base a thing be seen; No more so idly pass along: Be something, any thing, but-mean. 1808. LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL. (1) START not-nor deem my spirit fled : I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee; The worm hath fouler lips than thine. Better to hold the sparkling grape, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of gods, than reptiles' food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, In aid of others' let me shine; (1) Lord Byron gives the following account of this cup: "The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking-cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like tortoiseshell." It is now in the possession of Colonel Wildman, the proprietor of Newstead Abbey. In several of our elder dramatists, mention is made of the custom of quaffing wine out of similar cups. For example, in Dekker's Wonder of a Kingdom, Torrenti says: "Would I had ten thousand soldiers' heads, Their skulls set all in silver; to drink healths Byron appears to have had a singular predilection for skulls. Moore, in his Life, states that among the orna. ments of his study were a number of skulls, highly polished, And when, alas! our brains are gone, What nobler substitute than wine? Quaff while thou canst: another race, When thou and thine, like me, are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why no-since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce? Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. Newstead Abbey, 1808. WELL! THOU ART HAPPY. (2) WELL! thou art happy, (3) and I feel That I should thus be happy too; Thy husband's blest--and 't will impart I thought my jealous heart would break; While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay; My heart would soon again be thine. I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride My heart in all,-save hope,—the same. Yet was I calm: I knew the time My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crimeWe met,--and not a nerve was shook. I saw thee gaze upon my face, Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling couldst thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair. and placed on light stands round the room. He also established, at Newstead Abbey, a new order. "The members," says he, "consisted of twelve, and I elected myself Grand Master, or Abbot of the Skull: a grand heraldic title. A set of black gowns, mine distinguished from the rest, was ordered, and, from time to time, when a particularly hard day was expected, a chapter was held, the crane was filled with claret, and, in imitation of the Goths of old, passed about to the Gods of the Consistory, whilst many a grim joke was cut at its expense." Medwin.-P. E. (2) These lines were printed originally in Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany. A few days before they were written, the poet had been invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daughter of his fair hostess being brought into the room, he started involuntarily, and with the utmost difficulty sup pressed his emotion. To the sensations of that moment we are indebted for these beautiful stanzas-and for several of the following pieces.-L. E. (3) The contrary, however, appears to have been the fact. The lady's marriage was an unhappy one.-P. E. |