To me in smiles display'd: Till slow Disease resigns his prey To Death, the parent of decay, Thine image cannot fade. And thou, my Friend! (1) whose gentle love All, all, is dark and cheerless now! Can warm my veins with wonted glow, Not e'en the hope of future fame Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. And mingle with the dead. Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; On him who gains thy praise Where once my playful footsteps trod, Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: To bigots and to sects unknown, (1) Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister.-E. 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 conceit- While vanity prevents concealing. January 18, 1807. OH say not, sweet Anne! that the Fates have decreed The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,- As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, The rage of the tempest united must weather, My love and my life were by nature design'd To flourish alike, or to perish together. Then say not, sweet Anne! that the Fates have decreed Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu; Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, His soul, his existence, are centred in you. TO THE 1807. AUTHOR OF A SONNET, BEGINNING "Sad is my verse,' you say, ' and yet no tear.” THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it : For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, May once be read-but never after: Yet their effect's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complain— If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. March 8, 1807. 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 nc'er survive; No touch can bid its warmth return. Not always doom'd its heat to smother; FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 1807. THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's Though simple the themes of my rude-flowing lyre, My visions are flown, to return.-alas. never! When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? I left thee, my Oak! and, since that fatal hour, But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire. But thou wert not fated affection to share For who could suppose that a stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Can I sing of the deeds which my fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my lyre shall reply to the blast-For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, 'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate 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, (4) 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 the lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, look possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, "Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place."-"4 hope not, sir," replied the man; **for it's the one that my Lord was so fond of, because he And still may thy branches their beauty display. 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 O'er the corse of thy lord, in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave. The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, 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. Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 1807. [Now first published." ON REVISITING HARROW. (2) 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, 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.-E. 2. 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. ! THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, And thou canst lisp a father's name- Her lowly grave the turf has press'd, Why, lest the world unfeeling frown 1807. FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell! But in my breast and in my brain The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 1808. BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. No lovelier spirit than thine (1, "Fond as he was of recording every particular of his been a favourite of his late friend Curzon, and who, finding youth, such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated herself after his death in a state of progress towards maternity, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmen- had declared Lord Byron was the father of her child. This, he tioned by him; and yet, neither in conversation nor in any of positively assured his mother, was not the case, but believing, his writings, do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other as he did firmly. that the child belonged to Curzon, it was his hand, so entirely was all that he wrote (making allowance for wish that it should be brought up with all possible care, and he the embellishments of fancy) the transcript of his habitual life therefore entreated that his mother would have the kindness to and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of take charge of it. Though such a request might well have disnatural tenderness, to have been indebted for its origin to ima- composed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she, notgination alone. The only circumstance I know that bears even withstanding, answered her son in the kindest terms, saying remotely on the subject of this poem, is the following. About a that she would willingly receive the child as soon as it was born, year or two before the date affixed to it, he wrote to his mother and bring it up in whatever manner he desired. Happily, howfrom Harrow, to say that he had lately had a good deal of un-ever, the child died in its infancy, and was thus spared the being easiness on account of a young woman, whom he knew to have a tax on the good-nature of any body."-Moore. E'er burst from its mortal control, 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 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, Colder thy kiss ; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er meWhy wert thou so dear? They knew not I knew thee, 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, If I should meet thee After long years, 1808. 1808. (1) This copy of verses, and that which follows, originally appears in the volume published, in 1809, by Mr. (now Sir John) Hobbouse, under the title of Imitations and Translations, with FEW TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND.(1) 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 So frail is early friendship's reign, To mourn the loss of such a heart; Our childish days were days of joy: That world corrupts the noblest soul. 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? Nor be what all in turn must be? No! for myself, so dark my fate Through every turn of life hath been; Man and the world so much 1 hate, I care not when I quit the scene. Original Poems, and bearing the modest epigraph—“ Nos hac novimus esse nihil.”—E. |