STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND.S

'Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.

But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen-
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest-
I should not seek another zone
Because I cannot love but one.

'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;

I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,

I ne'er shall find a resting-place;

My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.

S [In the original MS., "To Mrs. Musters."]

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where friendship's or love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

I go-but whereso'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for me;
There's not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

To think of every early scene,

Of what we are, and what we've been, Would whelm some softer hearts with woe

But mine, alas! has stood the blow;

Yet still beats on as it begun,

And never truly loves but one.

And who that dear loved one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view ;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

"Twould soothe to take one lingering view, And bless thee in my last adieu;

Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;

His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one."

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient, push from shore.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor-

Stop the boat-I'm sick-oh Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker

Ere you've been an hour on board."

[Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany; the two last lines being originally—

"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,

I love but thee, I love but one."]

Thus are screaming
Men and women,

Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,

All are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax.— Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

66

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
Heyday! call you that a cabin?
Why 'tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in—
Who the deuce can harbour there?"
"Who, sir? plenty—

Nobles twenty

Did at once my vessel fill.”-
"Did they? Jesus,

How you squeeze us!

Would to God they did so still: Then I'd scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob!' where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs-

Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth-and damns our souls.
"Here's a stanza

On Braganza

Help!"-"A couplet ?"-"No, a cup
Of warm water—”

"What's the matter?"

"Zounds! my liver's coming up;

[Lord Byron's three servants.]

I shall not survive the racket

Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.

But, since life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on- -as I do now.
Laugh at all things,

Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,

Let's have laughing

Who the devil cares for more?

Some good wine! and who would lack it,

Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?

2

Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.

TO FLORENCE.3

OH Lady! when I left the shore,
The distant shore which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more,
To quit another spot on earth:

-“I

2 [In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron says:leave England without regret—I shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was as sour as a crab; and thus ends my first chapter."]

3 [These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostrophises in the stanzas on the thunderstorm of Zitza, and in Childe Harold, is thus described in a letter to his mother :-"This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked; and her life has been from its commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance they would appear improbable. She has born at Constantinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian Ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in point of character excited the vengeance of Bonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy; several times risked her life; and is not yet five and twenty. She is here on her way to