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The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left

Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,

An equal love may see:
The tear that from thine eyelid streams

Can weep no change in me.
I ask no pledge to make me blest

In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale

My pen were doubly weak: Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak ?
By day or night, in weal or woe,

That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

March, 1811.

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!
Adieu, ye mansions where—I've ventured!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs !
(How surely he who mounts you swears !)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets—without letters !
Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters!
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen!
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, sirs,
Adieu his Excellency's dancers!
Adieu to Peter-whom no fault's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces !
Adieu, red coats, and redder faces !
Adieu, the supercilious air
Of all that strut en militaire!”
I go-but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad-but in a different way.



STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You 'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phæbus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella ?”
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to “Black-it.”

Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue!
While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme-because 't is “gratis.”
And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her-
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;

Malta, May 16, 1811,

were otherwise tired of travelling; but I am so convinced of the no journal; nor have I any intention of scribbling my travels. advantages of looking at mankind, instead of reading about I have done with authorship; and is, in my last production, I them, and the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow have convinced the critics or the world I was something more prejudices of an islander, that I think there should be a law than they took me for, I am satisfied ; nor will I hazard that reamongst us to send our young men abroad, for a term, among putation by a future effort. It is true I have some others in the few allies our wars bave left us. Here I see, and have con- manuscripc, but I leave them for those who come after me; and versed with, French, Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, ir deemed worth publishing, they may serve to prolong my Americans, elc. etc. etc.; and, without losing sight of my own, memory, when I myself shall cease to remember. I have a faI can judge of the countries and manners of others. When I mous Bavarian artist taking some views of Athens, etc. etc., for see the superiority of England (which, by the by, we are a me. This will be better than scribbling-a disease 1 hope myself good deal mistaken about in many things), I am pleased; and cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet recluse lise; where I find her inferior, I am at least enlightened. Now, I but God knows, and does best for us all."-E. might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or sogged in your (1) Some notice of this poetaster has been given, ante, p. 69. country, a century, without being sure of this, and without tle died in 1810, and his works have followed him.-E. acquiring any thing more useful or amusing at home. I keep

Her hours can gaily glide along,

When all I loved is changed or gone, Nor ask the aid of idle song.

Mock with such taunts lhe woes of one And now, O Malta ! since thou'st got us,

Whose every thought-but let them passThou little military hothouse!

Thou know'st I am not what I was. I'll not offend with words uncivil,

But, above all, if thou wouldst hold And wish thee rudely at the Devil,

Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, But only stare from out my casement,

By all the powers that men revere, And ask, for what is such a place meant ?

By all unto thy bosom dear, Then, in my solitary nook,

Thy joys below, thy hopes above, Return to scribbling, or a book,

Speak-speak of any thing but love. Or take my physic while I 'm able (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),

'T were long to tell, and vain to hear,

The tale of one who scorns a tear; Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,

And there is little in that tale
And bless the gods-1've got a fever!

Which better bosoms would bewail.
May 26, 1811.

But mine has suffer'd more than well

'T would suit philosophy to tell.

I've seen my bride another's bride,

Have seen her seated by his side,UNHAPPY Dives! in an evil hour

Have seen the infant, which she bore, 'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst!

Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;

When she and I in youll have smiled, Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst.

As fond and faultless as her child ;In wit, in genius, as in wealth, the first,

Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose !

Ask if I felt no secret pain; But thou wert smitten with the unhallow'd thirst

And I have acted well my part, Of crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close

And made my cheek belie my heart, In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. Return'd the freezing glance she gave,


Yet felt the while that woman's slave ;ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR

Have kiss'd, as if without design,

The babe which ought to have been mine,

And show'd, alas! in each caress
Good plays are scarce,

Time had not made me love the less.
So Moore writes farce :
The poet's fame grows brittle-

But let this pass—I 'll whine no more,
We knew before

Nor seek again an Eastern shore;
That Little's Moore,

The world befits a busy brain,-
But now 't is Moore that's lillle.

I'll hie me to its haunts again.
Sept. 14, 1811.

But if, in some succeeding year,

When Britain's “May is in the sere,”

Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTOOR

Suit with the sablest of the times, TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO “BANISH CARE."

Of one, whom love nor pity sways, “Oh! banish care"-such ever be

Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, The motto of thy revelry!

One who, in stern ambition's pride, Perchance of mine, when wassail nights

Perchance not blood shall turn aside, Renew those riolous delights,

One rank'd in some recording page Wherewith the children of Despair

With the worst anarchs of the age, Lull the lone heart, and “banish care."

Him wilt thou knowo-and knowing pause, But not in morn's reflecting hour,

Nor with the effect forget the cause.(3) When present, past, and future lower,

Newslead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. (4) (1) The opera of M. P.; or the Blue Stocking, came out at startled at any lengths to which the spirit of sell-libelling would the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September.-E.

carry him. It seemed as is, with the power of painting fierce (2) 1. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition io be, himsell,

the dark sublime he drew;' and that, in his fondness for the (3) “The anticipations of his own future career in these con- delineation of heroic crime, he endeavoured to fancy, where he cluding lines are of nature, it must be owned, to awaken could not find in his own character, tit subjects for his pencil." more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by, so Voore. many instances of bis exaggeration in this respect, not to be (4) Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, the poel

p. 72.-E


The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine!
The pledge we wore-I wear it still,

But where is thine?-Ah! where art thou?
Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!

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Well hast thou left, in life's best bloom,

The cup of woe for me to drain:
If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again;
But if, in worlds more blest than this,

Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here.
Teach me-100 early taught by thee!

To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
On earth thy love was such to me;
It fain would form my hope in heaven!

October 11, 1811.(2)

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one perchance, forgot,

Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? By many a shore and many a sea

Divided, yet beloved in vain; The past, the future fled to thee

To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! Could this have been a word, a look,

That softly said, “We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook,

With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thee

Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,

Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here?

Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,

When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
Till all was past? But when no more

'Twas thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,

Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow. Shall they not flow, when many a day

In these (to me) deserted towers, Ere call'd but for a time away,

Affection's mingling tears were ours ? Ours too the glance none saw beside;

The smile none else might understand; The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,

The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss, so guiltless and refined,

That Love each warmer wish forebore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,

Even Passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice,

When pronę, unlike thee, to repine;


Away, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once-soothing strain,
Or I most flee from hence-for, oh!

I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days-

But lull the chords, for now, alas !
I must not think, I may not gaze

On what I am-on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee,

Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord lo my heart!
'Tis silent all!-but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill;

says, "I am growing nervous (how you will laugh!)-but it is 1811,writes as follows:-"I have been again shocked with a death, true,-really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervous. and have lost one very dear to me in happier times : but I Your climale kills me; I can neither read, write, nor amuse have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and 'supped full of horrors,' mysell : or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights lill I have become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event restless, I have seldom any society, and, when I have, I run out

which, five years ago, would have bowed my bead to the earth.” of it. I don't know that I sha'n 't end with insanity; for I find

In his reply to this lelter. Mr. Dallas says,-“I thank you for a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me

your confidential communication. How truly do I wish thal strangely.”—E.

that being had lived, and lived yours! What your obligations (1) "The reader will laugh,” says Captain Medwin," when I tell her would have been in that case is inconceivable." Several him, that it was asserted to a spiend of mine, that the lines .To

years after the series of poems on Thyrza were writien, Lord Thyrza,' published with the first Canto of Childe Harold, were

Byron, on being asked to whom they referred, by a person in addressed lo-his bear! There is nothing so malignant that whose lenderness be never ceased to contide, refused to answer, Hatred will not invont or Folly believe."-E

with marks of painful agitation, such as rendered any farther (2) Mr. Moore considers “Thyrza” as if she were a mere recurrence lo the subject impossible. The reader must be leit creature of the poet's brain; but Lord Byron, in a letter to lo form bis own conclusion. The five following pieces are all Mr Dallas, bearing the exact date of these lines, viz. Oct. 11th, devoted to Thyrza.-E.

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I hear a voice I would not hear,

A voice that now might well be still: Yet oft my doubting soul't will shake;

Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake

To listen, though the dream be town. Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,

Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he who through life's dreary way

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray, That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.

December 6, 1811.

Like freedom to the time-worn slave,

A boon 't is idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! My Thyrza's pledge in better days,

When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet’st my gaze!

How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee

Is silenl-ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,

It feels, it sickens with the chill.
Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!

Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,

Or break the heart to which thou 'rt press'd! Time tempers love, but not removes,

More hallow'd when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves

To that which cannot quit the dead ?

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One struggle more, and I am free

From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee,

Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now

With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,

What future grief can touch me more ? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;

Man was not form’d to live alone: I'll be that light unmeaning thing

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,

It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;

Thou 'rt'nothing, -all are nothing now. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!

The smile that sorrow fain would wear
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,

Like roses o’er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o’er the bowl

Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,

The heart-the heart is lonely still!
On many a lone and lovely night

It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,

When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, “Now Thyrza gazes on that moon”

Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring

The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing

Wave gently o'er my dying bed! No band of friends or heirs be there,

To weep, or wish, the coming blow: No maiden, with dishevell’d hair,

To feel, or feign, decorous woe. But silent let me sink to earth,

With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth,

Nor startle Friendship with a fear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour

Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies. 'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last

Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,

E’en Pain itself should smile on thee. But vain the wish-for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will,

Deceive in life, unman in death.
Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan;
For thousands Death hath ceased to lower,

And pain been transient or unknown. Ay, but to die, and go," alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe!

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When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, "'T is comfort still," I faintly said,

“That Thyrza cannot know my pains :"'

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,

Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been,

'T is something better not to be.



"Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui me


I know not if I could have borne

To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last;

Extinguish’d, not decay'd;
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept, if I could weep,

My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep

One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain,

Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,

Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity

Returns again to me.
And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.

February, 1812


AND thou art dead, as young and fair

As aught of mortal birth;
And form so soft, and charms so rare,

Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread

In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low,

Nor gaze upon the spot;
There flowers or weeds at will may grow,

So I behold them not:
It is enough for me to prove
That what I loved, and long must love,

Like common earth can rot;
To me there needs no stone to tell,
'Tis nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love to the last

As fervently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,

And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:
And, what were worse, thou canst not see
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours;

The worst can be but mine:
The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,

Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep
I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine
That all those charms have pass’d away;
I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd

Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,

The leaves must drop away;
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,

Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye butill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

If sometimes in the haunts of men

Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again

The semblance of thy gentle shade : And now that sad and silent hour

Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour

The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds a while

I waste one thought I owe to thee,
And self-condemn’d, appear to smile,

Unfaithful to thy memory!
Nor deem that memory less dear,

That then I secm not to repine;
I would not fools should overhear

One sigh that should be wholly thine. If not the goblet pass unquaffd,

It is not drain’d to banish care; The cup must hold a deadlier draught,

That brings a Lethe for despair. And could Oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free, I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl

That drown'd a single thought of thee.


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