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I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,10
By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make,
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;
Though, like all things which I have loved, they are
Resign'd for ever, or divided far.


The world is all before me; I but ask

Of Nature that with which she will comply-
It is but in her summer's sun to bask,
To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
To see her gentle face without a mask,
And never gaze on it with apathy.

She was my early friend, and now shall be
My sister--till I look again on thee.


I can reduce all feelings but this one;
And that I would not ;-for at length I see
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun.
The earliest-even the only paths for me-
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,
I had been better than I now can be;

The passions which have torn me would have slept
I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.


With false Ambition what had I to do

Little with Love, and least of all with Fame;
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,
And made me all which they can make-a name.
Yet this was not the end I did pursue;

Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
But all is over-I am one the more

To baffled millions which have gone before.



And for the future, this world's future may From me demand but little of my care; I have outlived myself by many a day; Having survived so many things that were; My years have been no slumber, but the prey Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share Of life which might have fill'd a century, Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.


And for the remnant which may be to come I am content; and for the past I feel Not thankless,-for within the crowded sum Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, And for the present, I would not benumb My feelings farther.-Nor shall I conceal That with all this I still can look around, And worship Nature with a thought profound.


For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
I know myself secure, as thou in mine;
We were and are-I am, even as thou art-
Beings who ne'er cach other can resign;
It is the same, together or apart,

From life's commencement to its slow decline We are entwined--let death come slow or fast, The tie which bound the first endures the last !


AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee;
And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near;
Methought that joy and health alone could be
Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here!
And is it thus?-it is as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,
While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the strife

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.

I am too well avenged!-but 'twas my right;
Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent
To be the Nemesis who should requite-

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.
Mercy is for the merciful!-if thou

Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.

Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep !—
Yes they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,

For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

I have had many foes, but none like thee;
For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,
And be avenged, or turn them into friend;
But thou in safe implacability

Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness shielded,
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare;

And thus upon the world-trust in thy truth,
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth-

On things that were not, and on things that are— Even upon such a basis hast thou built

A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,

And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,

Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life
Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold-
And buying other's grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,

Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence-the pretext
Of prudence, with advantages anned--
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-

All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won-
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!"

September, 1816.


1.-Page 329, line 13.


["I SEND you my last night's dream, and request to have fifty copies struck off, for private distribution. I wish Mr. Gifford to look at them. They are from life."-Lord B. to Mr. Murray, March 30, 1816.]

2.-Page 332, line 4.

And festering in the infamy of years.

[In first draught-"weltering." "I doubt about 'weltering.' We say 'weltering in blood;' but do they not also use 'weltering in the wind,' 'weltering on a gibbet?' I have no dictionary, so look. In the mean time, I have put 'festering;' which, perhaps, in any case is the best word of the two. Shakspeare has it often, and I do not think it too strong for the figure in this thing. Quick! quick! quick! quick!"-Lord B. to Mr. Murray, April 2.]

3.-Page 332, line 5.


[His sister, the Honourable Mrs. Leigh.-These stanzas-the parting tribute to her whose tenderness had been his sole consolation in the crisis of domestic misery-were, we believe, the last verses written by Lord Byron in England.]

4.-Page 334, line 1.


[These beautiful verses, so expressive of the writer's wounded feelings at the moment, were written in July, at the Campagne Diodati, near Geneva. "Be careful," he says, "in printing the stanzas beginning, 'Though the day of my destiny's,' &c., which I think well of as a composition."]

[In the original MS.

5.-Page 334, line 4.

"Though the days of my glory are over,
And the sun of my fame hath declined."]

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