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FROM THE FRENCH.

For wert thou vanish'd from my mind,

Where could my vacant bosom turn? And who would then remain behind

To honour thine abandon'd urn ? No, no—it is my sorrow's pride

That last dear duty to fulfil; Though all the world forget beside,

'T is meet that I remember still.

EGLÉ, beauty and poet, has two little crimes;
She makes her own face, and does not make her

rhymes.

THE CHAIN I GAVE.

FROM THE TURKISH.

For well I know, that such had been

Thy gentle care for him, who now Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,

Where none regarded him, but thou: And, oh! I feel in that was given

A blessing never meant for me; Thou wert too like a dream of heaven, For earthly Love to merit thee.

March 14, 1812.

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS

BROKEN.

The chain I gave was fair to view,

The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,

And ill deserved the fate it found.
These gifts were charm’d by secret spell

Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,

Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet-lill thou couldst think

In other hands its notes were such.
Let him, who from thy neck unbound

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
When thou wert changed, they alter'd 100;

The chain is broke, the music mute. 'T is past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

ILL-FATED Heart! and can it be

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? Have years of care for thine and thee

Alike been all employ'd in vain!

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,

And every fragment dearer grown, Since he who wears thee feels thou art A fitter emblem of his own.

March 16, 1812.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE

“PLEASURES OF MEMORY.”

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING. (1)

WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah! happy if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away!

ABSENT or present, still to thee,

My friend, what magic spells belong! As all can tell, who share, like me,

In turn thy converse, and thy song.
But when the dreaded hour shall come

By friendship ever deem'd too nigh,
And Mernory o'er her Druid's lomb

Shall weep that aught of thee can die,
How fondly will she then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,

Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears

Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in fulure years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles !

March, 1812.

(1) This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the late should have given birth, I really think, 10 eight thousand!" Princess Charlolle of Wales burst inlo lears on hearing that the -E. Whigs had found it impossible to put together a cabinet, at the “The 'Lines to a Lady weeping' must go wilh the Corsair. period of Mr. Perceval's death. They were appended to the first I care nothing for consequences on this point. My politics are edition of the Corsair, and excited a sensalion, as it is called, to me like a young mistress to an old man; the worse they grow, marvellously disproportionate to their length,-or, we may add, the fonder I become of them.” Lord A. lo Mr. Murray, Jan. 2.their merit. The ministerial prints raved for two months on 1814. “On my return, I find all the newspapers in bysteries

, end, in the most soul-mouthed vituperation of the poet, and all and town in an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two that belonged to him-the Morning Post even announced a slanzas on Princess Charlotte's weeping at Regency's speech to motion in the House of Lords—"and all this;" Lord Byron writes Lauderdale in 1812. They are daily at it still:-some of the lo Mr. Moore," as Bedreddin in the Arabian Nighis remarks, abuse good, -all of it hearly. They Lalk of a motion in our House for making a cream lart with pepper; how odd, that eight lines upon it- be it so.” Byron's Diary, 1814.

And blend, while ages roll away,

Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. Her name immortally with thine!

On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art [heart. April 19, 1812.

O’erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm’d the sternest

On Drury Garrick's latest laurels grew;
ADDRESS,

Her your last tears retiring Roscius drew,

Sigh’d his last thanks, and wept his last adieu : SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.(1)

That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. In one dread night our city saw, and sigh’d, Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's lower of pride; One tribute to revive his slumbering Muse; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, With garlands deck your own Menander's head, Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Ye who beheld (ch! sight admired and mourn'd, Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd!) Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley (3) ceased to write. Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; Saw the long column of revolving flames

While thus remembrance borrows Banquo's glass Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,(2) To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, While thousands, throng’d around the burning and we the mirror hold, where imaged shine dome,

Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, Shrank back appalld, and trembled for their home, Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn, As glared the volumed blaze and ghastly shone Reflect how hard the task to rival them! The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,

Friends of the stage! to whom both players and Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall

Must sue alike for pardon or for praise ;

plays Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall;

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,

The boundless power to cherish or reject;
Reard where once rose the mightiest in our isle, If e'er frivolity has led to fame,
Know the same favour which the former knew,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame; A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you?

If e'er the sinking Stage could condescend Yes-it shall be the magic of that name To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, Defies the scythe of time, the torch of Hame; All past reproach may present scenes refute, On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute!(4) And bids the Drama be where she hath been: Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, This fabric's birth attests the potent spell

Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well! So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, As soars this fane to emulate the last,

And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast The Drama's homage by her herald paid,

(1) The theatre in Drury Lane, which was opened, in 1747, "When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.' with Dr. Johnson's masterly address, beginning,

Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and ought not " When Learning's triumph o'er ber barbarous foes,

to be first. Second thoughts in every thing are best; but, in First rear'd the Stage, immortal Shakspeare rose,'

rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I always scrawlin and witnessed the last glories of Garrick, having fallen into this way, and smooth as fast as I can, but never sufficiently; decay, was rebuilt in 1794. The new building perished by fire and latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, in 1811; and the managers, in their anxiety that the opening for which measure I have not the cunning. When I began of the present edifice should be distinguished by some compo- Childe Harold, I had never tried Spenser's measure, and now sition of at least equal merit, advertised in the newspapers for

I cannot scribble in any other. B. to Lord 11.-E. a general competition. Scores of addresses, not one tolerable

(4) The following lines were omitted by the Committee:showered on their desk, and they were in sad despair, when

“ Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores Lord Holland interfered, and, not without difficulty, prevailed

That late she deiga'd to crawl upon all-lours,

When Richard roars at Boswcrth for a horse, on Lord Byron lo write these verses—"at the risk," as he said,

If command, the steed must come in course. * of offending a hundred scribblers and a discerning public.” If you decree, the stage must condescend The admirable jeu d'esprit of the Messrs. Smith will long pre

To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend. serve the memory of the Rejected Addresses.-E.

Blame not our judgment should we arquiesce, (2) “By the by, the best view of the said fire (which I myself

And gratily you more by showing less;

The past reproach let present scenes refute, saw from a house-lop in Covent Garden) was at Westminster Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute." Bridge, from the reflection of the Thames.B. to Lord H.-E. " Is Whitbread," said Lord Byron, “determined to castrale

(3) Originally, “Ere Garrick died,” etc.-"By the by, one of all my cavalry lines? I do implore, for my own gratification, my corrections in the copy sent yesterday has dived into the one lash on those accursed quadrupeds-- a long shot, Sir bathos some sixty fathom

Lucius, if you love me.'”-E.

you

Receive our welcome too, whose every tone (own. "

“Three who have stolen their witching airs from Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your

Cupid" The curtain rises-may our stage unfold

(You all know what I mean, unless you ’re stupid): Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old!

“Harmonious throng” that I have kept in pello, Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Now to produce in a “divine sestetto!!" Still may we please-long, long may you preside!(1) “While Poesy,” with these delightful doxies,

“Sustains her part” in all the “upper” boxes! PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS(2)

“Thus lifted gloriously, you 'll soar along,"

Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song;
BY DR. PLAGIARY,

“Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarti- (For this last line George had a holiday). culale voice by Master B. at the opening of the next new

Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation-tbus “__

So says the manager, and so say I. “WHEN energising objects men pursue,"

“But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast;" Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who.

Is this the poem which the public lost ? (pride;" “A modest monologue you here survey,”

"True-true—that lowers at once our mounting Hiss'd from the theatre the “other day,”

But lo!-the papers print what you deride. As if Sir Fretful wrote “the slumberous” verse,

’T is ours to look on you-you hold the prize," And gave his son “the rubbish” to rehearse.

’T is twenty guineas, as they advertise! “Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,"

A double blessing your rewards imparı”— Knew you the rumpus which the author raised;

I wish I had them, then, with all my heart! “Nor even here your smiles would be represt,"

Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," Knew you these lines—the badness of the best.

Why son and I both beg for your applause. " Flame! fire! and flame!!"(words borrow'd from “When in your fostering beams you bid us live," Lucretius)

[issues! My next subscription-list shall say how much you “Dread metaphors, which open wounds” like

give!

October, 1819. "And sleeping pangs awake-and-but away!” (Confound me if I know what next to say).

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT "Lo, Hope veviving re-expands her wings," And Master G-- recites what Doctor Busby

HALES-OWEN.(3) sings !

WHEN Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he “If mighty things with small we may compare,"

sought,”(6) (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) His hours in whistling spent," for wantofthought," Dramatic“spirit drives a conquering car," This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of “tar.” Supplied, and amply too, by innocence; “This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers, To furnish melo-drames for Drury-Lane.

In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," The offended guests would not, with blushing, see And George and I will dramatise it for ye. These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. “In arts and sciences our isle hath shone"

Severe the fate of modern fools, alas! (This deep discovery is mine alone).

When vice and folly mark them as they pass. "O British poesy, whose powers inspire" Like noxious reptiles o’er the whiten'd wall, My verse-or I'm a fool—and Fame's a liar, The filth they leavestill points out where they crawl. “ Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore" With" smiles," and "lyres" and "pencils," and

VERSES. (5) much more. These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain

REMEMBER thee! remember thee! Disgraces, too!“inseparable train!"

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream (1) “Soon after the Rejecled Addresses scene in 1812, I met was one by Dr. Busby, entitled "A Monologue," of which the Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, “Lord Byron, did above is a parody. It began as follows:you know that amongst the writers of addresses was Whitbread

" When energising objects men pursue, himself?' I answered by an inquiry of what sort of an address

What are the prodigies they canpot do? he had made. Of that,' replied Sheridan, 'I remember little,

A magic edifice you bere survey, except that there was a phanix in it.'-'A phenix!! Well,

Shot from the ruins of the other day!" elc.-E. how did he describe it?'— Like a poulterer,' answered Sheri- (5) In Warwickshire.-E. dan: it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he did not (4) See Cymon and Iphigenia.-E. let us off for a single feather.'” B. Letters, 1821.

(5) “ The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord BỊ (2) Among the addresses sent in to the Drury Lane Committee, ron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned the

And I can smile to think how weak

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak

Must fall upon-a nameless stone.

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE-SONG.

Ah! Love was never yet without
The pang, lhe agony, the doubt
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.
Without one friend to hear my woe,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath sel;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.
A bird of free and careless wing
Was I, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,
I burn, and feebly flutter there.
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melling wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.
My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?
My bird of Love! my beauteous male!
And art thou changed, and canst thou hale ?
Mine eyes like wintry streams o’erflow:
What wretch with me would barter woe?
My bird ! relent: one nole could give
A charm, to bid thy lover live.
My curdling blood, my maddening brain,
In silent anguish I sustain;
And still thy heart, without partaking
One pang, exults—while mine is breaking.
Pour me the poison ; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived lo curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest ?

Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not,

Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

.

ON LORD ELGIN.(1)
Noseless himself, he brings home noseless blocks,
To show al once the ravages of time and pox.

TO TIME.

TIME! on whose arbitrary wing

The varying hours must Nag or fly,
Whose tardy winter, feeling spring,

But drag or drive us on to die-
Hail thou! who on my birth beslow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known;
Yet belter I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share

The bilter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare

All that I loved, to peace or heaven.
To them be joy or rest, un me

Thy fulure ills shall press in vain;
I nothing owe but years to thee,

A debt already paid in pain..
Yet even that pain was soine relief;

It felt, but still forgot, thy power:
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour. In joy l’ve sigh’d to think thy flight

Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night lo woe; For then, however drear and dark,

My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark

To prove thee-not Eternity.
That beam hath sunk, and now thou art

A blank; a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious triling part,

Which all regret, yel ali rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;

The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed :

composition of this Impromptu, On the cessation of the con first page of the volume the words. Remember me!' Byron
bection, the fair one, actualed by jealousy, called one morning iminediately wrote under the ominous warning these iwo stanzas.
at her quondam lover's apartments. His Lordship was from Cuplain Medwin.-E.
home; but finding Pathek on the table, the lady wrote in the l (i) See Curse of Minerra.-E.

914

Alas! too late, I dearly know That joy is harbinger of woe.

STANZAS.

Tuou art not false, but thou art fickle,

To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle

Are doubly bitter from that thought:
'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievesi,
Too well thou lov'st-too soon Thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,

. And spurns deceiver and deceit; But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy, and wake to sorrow,

Is doom'd to all who love or live:
And if, when conscious on the morrow,

We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,
What must they feel whom no false vision,

But truest tenderest passion, warm’d ?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition;

As if a dream alone had charmd ?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming,
And all thy change can be but dreaining!

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE ORIGIN

OF LOVE.”

THE“Origin of Love!”—Ah, why

That cruel question ask of me, When thou mayst read in many an eye

He starts to life on seeing thee? And shouldst thou seek his end to know:

My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He 'll linger long in silent woe;

But live-until I cease lo be.

STANZAS.
REMEMBER him, whom passion's power

Severely, deeply, vainly proved :
Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved. That yielding breast, that melting eye,

Too much invited to be bless'd :
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

The wilder wish reproved, repress’d.

Oh! may

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears: And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years. Yet think of this when many a longue,

Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

And brand a nearly blighted name. Think that, whale'er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: I bless thy purer soul even now,

Even now, in midnight solitude. Oh, God! that we had met in time,

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime,

And I been less unworthy thee! Far may thy days, a, heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be pass'd! And that too bitter moment o'er,

such trial be thy last! This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng,

Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign-such scenes forego,

Where those who feel must surely fall. Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,

Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here bath pass'd, may guess

What there ihy bosom must endure. Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

for me they shall not weep again. Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still, had I loved thee less, my heart

Had then less sacrificed to thine;
It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.

1815,

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS. (1)
When Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent
(I hope I am not violent),
Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

(1} “Lord Thurlow's poems were written prosessedly in imita- with much that was trilling, fantastic, and absurd. In vain di tion of the old English writers, and contained, like many of these Mr. Rogers (10 whom a copy of the work had been presented models, a good deal that was striking and beautiful, mixed up in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to

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