HOURS OF IDLENESS. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.1 HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay, where once such animation beam'd; Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 1 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 submiting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration. But wherefore weep? Her matchles spirit soars And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 1802. 1 ["My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the ebullition 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 any thing 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.] TO E1 LET Folly smile, to view the names And though unequal is thy fate, Thine is the pride of modest worth. Our souls at least congenial meet, Our intercourse is not less sweet, November, 1802. TO D. 2 In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp A friend, whom death alone could sever; Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. [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, of earlier date than any of his school friendships.] 2[The idea of printing a collection of his Poems first occurred to Lord Byron in the parlour of that cottage, which, during his visit to Southwell, had become his adopted home. Miss Pigot, who was not before aware of his turn for versifying, had been reading aloud the Poems of Burns, when young Byron said, that "he, too, was a poet sometimes, and would write down for her some verses of his own which he remembered." He then, with a pencil, wrote these lines, "To D-."] True, she has forc'd thee from my breast, And, when the grave restores her dead, On thy dear breast I'll lay my head- February, 1803. EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.1 Αστὴς πεὶι' μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν έμος.”— LAERTIUS. Он, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! [This poem appears to have been, in its original state, intended to commemorate the death of the same lowly-born youth, to whom the affectionate verses given in the preceding page were addressed: "Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born," &c. But, in the altered form of the Epitaph, not only this passage, but every other containing an allusion to the low rank of his young companion, is omitted; while, in the added parts, the introduction of such language as "What though thy sire lament his failing line," seems calculated to give an idea of the youth's station in life, wholly different from that which the whole tenour of the original Epitaph warrants. "That he grew more conscious," says Mr. Moore," of his high station, as he approached to manhood, is not improbable, and this wish to sink his early friendship with the young cottager may have been a result of that feeling." The following are the lines as they first appeared in the private volume : What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, "Oh, Boy! for ever lov'd, for ever dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier! To me, far dearer was thy artless love, Than all the joys wealth, Jame, and friends could prove: Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive! |