A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED
Virginibus puerisque canto.-HORACE, lib. iii. Ode 1.
Πής ἄρ με μάλ' αἴνεε, μήτε τι νείκει.--HOMER, Iliad, x 249
He whistled as he went, for want of thought.-DRYDEN.
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE,
KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC. ETC.,
THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED,
HIS OBLIGED WARD, AND AFFECTIONATE KINDSMAN,
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,
COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.*
HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret'st tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beamed:
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey;
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate!
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the muse her virtues would relate.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ;-
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear.
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.
*The author claims tne indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest. (being composed at the age of fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration.-B.
Margaret Parker, daughter of Admiral Parker. Byron's first verses were written, In 1800, on this lady, for whom he felt a youthful passion. He was then about twelve, she about thirteen.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But, who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.
WHEN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone;
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.
LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.
"Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookes! from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes it howls in thy empty court."-OSSIAN.
THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle ; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay:
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choked up the rose which late bloomed in the way,
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,
The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath :
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan* slumbers;
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.
* Of Horiston Castle in Derbyshire.
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