Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;

And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst another race,
When thou and thine like me are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce;
Redeemed from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.*

*

Newstead Abbey, 1808.

* [Byron gives the following account of this cup:-"The gar dener, in digging, discovered a skull that had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the Abbey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled color like tortoise-shell."]

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.*

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest — and 't will impart
Some pangs to view his happier lot:
But let them pass Oh! how my heart
Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favorite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break;
But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kissed it for its mother's sake.

I kissed it, and repressed my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;

But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine;

But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

[A few days before this poem was written, the poet had been invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daughter of his fair hostess being brought into the room, he started involuntarily, and with difficulty suppressed his emotion.]

I deemed that time, I deemed that pride
Had quenched at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all, save hope,— the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look But now to tremble were a crime

We met, and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling could'st thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake:

Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heart be still, or break.

;

November 2, 1808.

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A
NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.*

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

*[This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by which the verses are preceded:

"Near this spot

Are deposited the Remains of one

Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,

And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808." Byron thus announced the death of his favorite to Mr. Hodgson:-"Boatswain is dead!-he expired in a state of madness, on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have now lost every thing except old Murray." By the will which he executed in 1811, he dìrected that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden near his faithful dog.]

Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonored falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1808.

TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING.

WHEN Man, expelled from Eden's bowers,
A moment lingered near the gate,
Each scene recalled the vanished hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.