Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:
Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right;
My muse admires digression.

I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;-
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.

Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

From snares may saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you!

Not for a moment may you stray
From truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!

O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;

Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,--
Be still as you are now.1

130

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,
To prove a prophet here.

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE
CHURCHYARD OF HARROW.131

SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,

Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,

"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,— If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,To know some humble grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell; With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to dieAnd here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;

For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd; Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,

Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; Deplored by those in early days allied,

And unremember'd by the world beside.

September 2, 1807

NOTES TO HOURS OF IDLENESS.

1.-Page 13, line 1.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

THE author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration.

2.-Page 14, line 5.
1802.

["My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the cbullition of a passion for my first cousin, Margaret Parker (daughter and grand-daughter of the two Admirals Parker), one of the most beautiful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten the verse; but it would be difficult for me to forget her-her dark eyes-her long eye-lashes-her completely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then about twelve-she rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year or two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine, and induced consumption. Her sister Augusta (by some thought still more beautiful), died of the same malady; and it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met with the accident which occasioned her death. My sister told me, that when she went to see her, shortly before her death, upon accidentally mentioning my name, Margaret coloured, throughout the paleness of mortality, to the eyes, to the great astonishment of my sister, who knew nothing of our attachment, nor could conceive why my name should affect her at such a time. I knew nothing of her illness, being at Harrow and in the country, till she was gone. Some years after, I made an attempt at an elegy-a very dull one. I do not recollect scarcely anything equal to the transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her temper, during the short period of our intimacy. She looked as if she had been made out of a rainbow-all beauty and peace."-Byron Diary, 1821.]

3.-Page 14, line 6.

TO E.

[This little poem, and some others in the collection, refer to a boy of Lord Byron's own age, son of one of his tenants at Newstead, for whom he had formed a romantic attachment, previous to any of his school intimacies.]

4.-Page 15, line 10.

Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight.

[From this point the lines in the private edition were entirely different

"Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born,

No titles did thy humble name adorn,

To me, far dearer was thy artless love,

Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove:
For thee alone I lived, or wish'd to live;

Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive!
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where, this frail form composed in endless rest,
I'll make my last cold pillow on thy breast:
That breast where oft in life I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead:
This life resign'd, without one parting sigh,
Together in one bed of earth we'll lie!

Together share the fate to mortals given;

Together mix our dust, and hope for heaven."

The epitaph is supposed to commemorate the youth who is the subject of the verses "To E-." The latter piece was omitted in the published volume, which, coupled with the obliteration of every allusion to his humble origin in the epitaph, led Mr. Moore to infer that growing pride of rank made Lord Byron ashamed of the plebeian friendship.]

5.-Page 16, line 4.

My epitaph shall be my name alone:

[By his will, drawn up in 1811, Lord Byron directed, that "no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb;" and, in 1819, he wrote thus to Mr. Murray:-" Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance

'Martini Luigi
Implora pace.

Can anything be more full of pathos? I hope whoever may survive me will see those two words, and no more, put over me."]

6.-Page 16, line 10.

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

[The priory of Newstead, or de

Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II. On the dissolution of the monasteries it was granted by Henry VIII. to "Sir John Byron the Little, with the

great beard." His portrait is still preserved at Newstead.]

7.-Page 16, line 19.

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,

[There is no record of the Byrons having assisted in the Holy Wars, and Mr. Moore conjectures that the only authority for the notion was