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 firesAs many a boy and girl remembers— While 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, Its former warmth around another. FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 't is time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. 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, Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that I love but to love? Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, 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 "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 no more. [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; And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. 1 YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, 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; 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! tow'r aloft from the weeds, Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, 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. [First published, 1832.] 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.] THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, And thou canst lisp a father's name- Her lowly grave the turf has prest, And yields thee scarce a name on earth; Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 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. ["Whether these verses are, in any degree, founded on fact, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth, Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace, Although so young thy heedless sire, FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. I only feel-Farewell!- Farewell! 1808. BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. BRIGHT be the place of thy soul ! 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? 1808. 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 fancy, -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."-MOORE. But see post, Don Juan, canto xvi. st. 61.] 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 Sunk chill on my browIt 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, If I should meet thee After long years, It boots not that, together bred, 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; And those, and those alone, may claim The prostituted name of friend. Such is the common lot of man: Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan, No; for myself, so dark my fate Through every turn of life hath been; But thou, with spirit frail and light, Alas! whenever folly calls Where parasites and princes meet, (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet) To join the vain, and court the proud. That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. For friendship every fool may share? No more so idly pass along : Be something, any thing, but — mean. 1808. tions and Translations, together with original poems," and bearing the modest epigraph-"Nos hæc novímus esse nihil."] But then it had its mother's eyes, LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL.1 START not- - nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull. 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 reptile's food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, Quaff while thou canst: another race, [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 To his confusion who first invented war."] 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 suppressed his emotion. To the sensations of that moment we are indebted for these beautiful stanzas.] INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, 3 This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by which the verses are preceded : - "Near this spot Are deposited the Remains of one Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18. 1808." Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to his friend Hodgson:-"Boatswain is dead!he expired in a state of madness, on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have now lost every thing, except old Murray." By the will executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.] Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Newstead Abbey, November 30. 1808. TO A LADY,1 ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, But, wandering on through distant climes, And found in busier scenes relief. Thus, lady 2! will it be with me, And I must view thy charms no more; For, while I linger near to thee, I sigh for all I knew before. In flight I shall be surely wise, Escaping from temptation's snare; I cannot view my paradise Without the wish of dwelling there.3 December 2. 1808. REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. REMIND me not, remind me not, Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, When all my soul was given to thee; Hours that may never be forgot, Till time unnerves our vital powers, Can I forget-canst thou forget, When playing with thy golden hair, How quick thy fluttering heart did move? Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet, And lips, though silent, breathing love. When thus reclining on my breast, Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, And still we near and nearer prest, [In the original MS. "To Mrs. Musters," &c. The reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, No. III.] 2 [In the first copy, "Thus, Mary!"] 3 [In Mr. Hobhouse's volume, the line stood," Without a wish to enter there." The following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece:"Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her And then those pensive eyes would close, I dreamt last night our love return'd, For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam Then tell me not, remind me not, Of hours which, though for ever gone, Till thou and I shall be forgot, And senseless as the mouldering stone THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. THERE was a time, I need not name, Since it will ne'er forgotten be, As still my soul hath been to thee. None, none hath sunk so deep as this- And yet my heart some solace knew, Yes; my adored, yet most unkind! Remembrance of that love remain. AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? I would not give that bosom pain. marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many years, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me not to do it. For,' said she, if you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene: one step will lead to another, et cela fera un éclat.' I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married, with what success it is useless to say."] |