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FROM THE FRENCH.

For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,
Where could my vacant bosom turn?
And who would then remain behind
To honour thine abandon'd urn?
No, no-it is my sorrow's pride
That last dear duty to fulfil;
Though all the world forget beside,
'Tis meet that I remember still.

For well I know, that such had been Thy gentle care for him, who now Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, Where none regarded him, but thou: And, oh! I feel in that was given

A blessing never meant for me; Thou wert too like a dream of heaven, For earthly Love to merit thee.

March 14, 1812.

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.

ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain? Have years of care for thine and thee

Alike been all employ'd in vain!

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,
And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee feels thou art
A fitter emblem of his own.

March 16, 1812.

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING. (1)

WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah! happy if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away!

Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears-
Auspicious to these suffering isles;
And be each drop in future years
Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!
March, 1812.

(1) This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the late Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hearing that the Whigs had found it impossible to put together a cabinet, at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. They were appended to the first edition of the Corsair, and excited a sensation, as it is called, marvellously disproportionate to their length,-or, we may add, their merit. The ministerial prints raved for two months on end, in the most foul-mouthed vituperation of the poet, and all that belonged to him-the Morning Post even announced a motion in the House of Lords" and all this," Lord Byron writes to Mr. Moore," as Bedreddin in the Arabian Nights remarks, for making a cream tart with pepper; how odd, that eight lines

EGLE, beauty and poet, has two little crimes; She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.

THE CHAIN I GAVE.

FROM THE TURKISH.

THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,-
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute.
'Tis past-to them and thee adieu—
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE "PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

ABSENT or present, still to thee,

My friend, what magic spells belong! As all can tell, who share, like me,

In turn thy converse, and thy song. But when the dreaded hour shall come By friendship ever deem'd too nigh, And Memory o'er her Druid's tomb Shall weep that aught of thee can die,

How fondly will she then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,

should have given birth, I really think, to eight thousand!" E.

"The 'Lines to a Lady weeping' must go wilh the Corsair. ¡ I care nothing for consequences on this point. My politics are to me like a young mistress to an old man; the worse they grow, the fonder I become of them." Lord A. to Mr. Murray, Jan. 22, 1814. "On my return, I find all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two, stanzas on Princess Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to Lauderdale in 1812. They are daily at it still:-some of the abuse good,—all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in our House upon it- be it so." Byron's Diary, 1814.

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SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE,
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. (1)

IN one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd,
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld (ch! sight admired and mourn'd,
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!)
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,(2)
While thousands, throng'd around the burning
dome,

Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home,
As glared the volumed blaze and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall
Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall;
Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you?
Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama be where she hath been:
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell-
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast

(1) The theatre in Drury Lane, which was opened, in 1747, with Dr. Johnson's masterly address, beginning,

"When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes,

First rear'd the Stage, immortal Shakspeare rose," and witnessed the last glories of Garrick, having fallen into decay, was rebuilt in 1794. The new building perished by fire in 1811; and the managers, in their anxiety that the opening of the present edifice should be distinguished by some composition of at least equal merit, advertised in the newspapers for a general competition. Scores of addresses, not one tolerable showered on their desk, and they were in sad despair, when Lord Holland interfered, and, not without difficulty, prevailed on Lord Byron to write these verses-" at the risk," as he said, "of offending a hundred scribblers and a discerning public." The admirable jeu d'esprit of the Messrs. Smith will long preserve the memory of the Rejected Addresses.-E.

(2) "By the by, the best view of the said fire (which I myself saw from a house-top in Covent Garden) was at Westminster Bridge, from the reflection of the Thames." B. to Lord H.-E. (3) Originally, "Ere Garrick died," etc.-"By the by, one of my corrections in the copy sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty fathom

Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art [heart.
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest
On Drury Garrick's latest laurels grew;
Her your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu :
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering Muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's head,
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright,
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley (3) ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs;
While thus remembrance borrows Banquo's glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line,
Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,
Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

plays

Friends of the stage! to whom both players and
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise;
Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
ff e'er the sinking Stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute! (4)
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours!
This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd,
The Drama's homage by her herald paid,

When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.' Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and ought not to be first. Second thoughts in every thing are best; but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I always scrawl in this way, and smooth as fast as I can, but never sufficiently; and latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning. When I began Childe Harold, I had never tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble in any other. B. to Lord II.—E. (4) The following lines were omitted by the Committee:"Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores

That late she deign'd to crawl upon all-fours.
When Richard roars at Bosworth for a horse,
If you command, the steed must come in course.
If you decree, the stage must condescend
To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend.
Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce,
And gratify you more by showing less;
The past reproach let present scenes refute,
Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute."

"Is Whitbread," said Lord Byron, "determined to castrate all my cavalry lines? I do implore, for my own gratification, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds-'a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me.""-E.

Receive our welcome too, whose every tone [own.
Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your
The curtain rises-may our stage unfold
Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide,
Still may we please-long, long may you preside!(1)

PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS(2)

BY DR. PLAGIARY,

Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master B. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation-thus “——”

'WHEN energising objects men pursue,"

"Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid"

(You all know what I mean, unless you 're stupid): "Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, Now to produce in a 66 divine sestetto!!" "While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, "Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes! "Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along," Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; "Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" (For this last line George had a holiday). "Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," So says the manager, and so say I. "But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;"

Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. Is this the poem which the public lost? [pride;"

"A modest monologue you here survey," Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day,"

rumpus

As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse, And gave his son "the rubbish" to rehearse. "Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," Knew you the which the author raised; "Nor even here your smiles would be represt," Knew you these lines-the badness of the best. "Flame! fire! and flame!!" (words borrow'd from [issues! "Dread metaphors, which open wounds" like "And sleeping pangs awake-and-but away!" (Confound me if I know what next to say). "Lo, Hope veviving re-expands her wings," And Master G-recites what Doctor Busby sings!

Lucretius,)

"If mighty things with small we may compare,"
(Translated from the grammar for the fair!)
Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car,"
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of "tar."
"This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,"
To furnish melo-drames for Drury-Lane.
"Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,"
And George and I will dramatise it for ye.
"In arts and sciences our isle hath shone"
(This deep discovery is mine alone).
"O British poesy, whose powers inspire"
My verse or I'm a fool-and Fame's a liar,
"Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore"
With "smiles," and "lyres" and "pencils," and
much more.

These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain
Disgraces, too! "inseparable train!"

(1) "Soon after the Rejected Addresses scene in 1812, I met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, 'Lord Byron, did you know that amongst the writers of addresses was Whitbread himself?' I answered by an inquiry of what sort of an address he had made. 'Of that,' replied Sheridan, 'I remember little, except that there was a phoenix in it.'-'A phoenix!! Well, how did he describe it?'-' Like a poulterer,' answered Sheridan: it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he did not let us off for a single feather.'" B. Letters, 1821.

(2) Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee,

“True—true—that lowers at once our mounting But lo!-the papers print what you deride. "T is ours to look on you-you hold the prize," 'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise! "A double blessing your rewards impart”— I wish I had them, then, with all my heart! "Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," Why son and I both beg for your applause. "When in your fostering beams you bid us live," My next subscription-list shall say how much you give!

October, 1812.

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN. (3)

WHEN Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought," (4)

His hours in whistling spent, "for want of thought,"
This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
Supplied, and amply too, by innocence;
Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers,
In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours,
The offended guests would not, with blushing, see
These fair green walks disgraced by infamy.
Severe the fate of modern fools, alas!
When vice and folly mark them as they pass.
Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten❜d wall,
The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

VERSES. (5)

REMEMBER thee! remember thee!

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream

was one by Dr. Busby, entitled "A Monologue," of which the above is a parody. It began as follows:

"When energising objects men pursue,
What are the prodigies they cannot do?
A magic edifice you here survey,

Shot from the ruins of the other day!" etc.-E. (5) In Warwickshire.-E.

(4) See Cymon and Iphigenia.-E.

(5) "The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord By ron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned the

1

Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not,

Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

ON LORD ELGIN. (1)

NOSELESS himself, he brings home noseless blocks, To show at once the ravages of time and pox.

TO TIME.

TIME! on whose arbitrary wing

The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to dieHail thou! who on my birth bestow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known;

Yet better I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.

I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or heaven.
To them be joy or rest, on me

Thy future ills shall press in vain ;
I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.

Yet even that pain was some relief;
It felt, but still forgot, thy power:
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night to woe;
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark
To prove thee-not Eternity.

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
A blank; a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed:

composition of this Impromptu, On the cessation of the connection, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, called one morning at her quondam lover's apartments. His Lordship was from home; but finding Vathek on the table, the lady wrote in the

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Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

A bird of free and careless wing

Was 1, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,

1 burn, and feebly flutter there.

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.

My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?
My bird of Love! my beauteous mate!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird! relent: one note could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.

My curdling blood, my maddening brain,
In silent anguish I sustain;

And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults-while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?

first page of the volume the words 'Remember me!' Byron immediately wrote under the ominous warning these two stanzas. Captain Medwin.-E.

(1) See Curse of Minerva.-E.

914

Alas! too late, I dearly know That joy is harbinger of woe.

STANZAS.

THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought: 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest. The wholly false the heart despises, . And spurns deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy, and wake to sorrow,
Is doom'd to all who love or live:
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,
What must they feel whom no false vision,
But truest tenderest passion, warm'd?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition;

As if a dream alone had charm'd?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaming!

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE."

THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why

That cruel question ask of me,
When thou mayst read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?

And shouldst thou seek his end to know:
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent woe;

But live-until I cease to be.

STANZAS.

REMEMBER him, whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be bless'd:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.

(1) "Lord Thurlow's poems were written professedly in imitation of the old English writers, and contained, like many of these models, a good deal that was striking and beautiful, mixed up

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears:
And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years.
Yet think of this when many a tongue,
Whose busy accents whisper blame,
Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,
And brand a nearly blighted name.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou
Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even now, in midnight solitude.
Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee! Far may thy days, as heretofore, From this our gaudy world be pass'd! And that too bitter moment o'er, Oh! may such trial be thy last! This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath pass'd, may guess What there thy bosom must endure. Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain,
My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weep again.
Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet;
Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;

It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.

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1815

with much that was trifling, fantastic, and absurd. In vain did Mr. Rogers (to whom a copy of the work had been presented, in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to

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