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VOL. II.

He must move on—
Repose but cloys him,
Retreat destroys him,

Love brooks not a degraded throne.

Wait not, fond lover!

Till
years are over,
And then recover

4 [V. L.

As from a dream.
While each bewailing
The other's failing,
With wrath and railing,

All hideous seem-
While first decreasing,
Yet not quite ceasing,
Wait not till teasing,

All passion blight:
If once diminish'd

Love's reign is finish'd

Then part in friendship,—and bid good-night.*

So shall Affection
To recollection

The dear connection

Bring back with joy :
You had not waited
Till, tired or hated,
Your passions sated
Began to cloy.
Your last embraces
Leave no cold traces-
The same fond faces
As through the past:
And eyes, the mirrors
Of your sweet errors,

Reflect but rapture—not least though last.

"One last embrace, then, and bid good night."]

D D

True, separations
Ask more than patience;
What desperations

From such have risen!
But yet remaining,
What is't but chaining
Hearts which, once waning,
Beat 'gainst their prison?
Time can but cloy love
And use destroy love:
The winged boy, Love,

Is but for boys-
You'll find it torture

Though sharper, shorter,

To wean, and not wear out your joys.

ON MY WEDDING-DAY.

HERE's a happy new year! but with reason
I beg you'll permit me to say—
Wish me many returns of the season,
But as few as you please of the day.

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT.

WITH death doom'd to grapple,
Beneath this cold slab, he
Who lied in the Chapel

Now lies in the Abbey.

1819.

January 2, 1820.

January, 1820.

5

EPIGRAM.

IN digging up your bones, Tom Paine,
Will. Cobbett has done well:

[Or,

You visit him on earth again,
He'll visit you in hell."

STANZAS.

WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knock'd on the head for his labours.

To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And is always as nobly requited;
Then battle for freedom wherever you can,
And, if not shot or hang'd, you'll get knighted.

January, 1820.6

"You come to him on earth again,
He'll go with you to hell."]

EPIGRAM.

THE world is a bundle of hay,

Mankind are the asses who pull;

Each tugs it a different way,

And the greatest of all is John Bull.

November, 1820.

6 ["Pray let not these versiculi go forth with my name, except among the initiated, because my friend Hobhouse has foamed into a reformer, and, I greatly fear, will subside into Newgate."-Lord B. to Mr. Moore.]

THE CHARITY BALL.

WHAT matter the pangs of a husband and father,
If his sorrows in exile be great or be small,
So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,
And the saint patronises her "charity ball!"

What matters—a heart which, though faulty, was feeling,
Be driven to excesses which once could appal—
That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing,,

As the saint keeps her charity back for "the ball! ” 7

EPIGRAM.

ON THE BRAZIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO PRESENT AN
ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE.

THE braziers, it seems, are preparing to pass

An address, and present it themselves all in brass ;—
A superfluous pageant-for, by the Lord Harry!
They'll find where they're going much more than they carry.

EPIGRAM ON MY WEDDING-DAY.

TO PENELOPE.

THIS day, of all our days, has done
The worst for me and you :—

"Tis just six years since we were one,
And five since we were two.

January 2, 1821.

7 [These lines were written on reading in the newspapers, that Lady Byron had been patroness of a ball in aid of some charity at Hinckley.]

8 ["There is an epigram for you, is it not?-worthy

Of Wordsworth, the grand metaquizzical poet, A man of vast merit, though few people know it; The perusal of whom (as I told you at Mestri) I owe, in great part, to my passion for pastry." B. Letters, January 22, 1821. The procession of the Braziers to Brandenburgh House was one of the fooleries at the time of Queen Caroline's trial.]

ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY.

JANUARY 22, 1821.9

THROUGH life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
I have dragg'd to three and thirty.
What have these years left to me?
Nothing-except thirty-three.

MARTIAL, LIB. I., EPIG. I.

"Hic est, quem legis, ille, quem requiris,
Tota notus in orbe Martialis," &c.

HE, unto whom thou art so partial,
Oh, reader! is the well-known Martial,
The Epigrammatist: while living,
Give him the fame thou would'st be giving;
So shall he hear, and feel, and know it—
Post-obits rarely reach a poet.

BOWLES AND CAMPBELL.
To the tune of "Why, how now, saucy jade?"

WHY, how now, saucy Tom?
If you thus must ramble,
I will publish some

Remarks on Mister Campbell.

9 [In Lord Byron's MS. Diary of the preceding day, we find the following entry :"To-morrow is my birthday—that is to say, at twelve o' the clock, midnight; i. e. in twelve minutes I shall have completed thirty and three years of age!!! and I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at having lived so long, and to so little purpose.

*

* It is three minutes past twelve-"'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,' and am now thirty-three !

'Eheu, fugaces, Posthume, Posthume,
Labuntur anni; '—

but I don't regret them so much for what I have done, as for what I might have done."]

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