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When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh I may my shade behold no sculptured urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:1
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 1803.


"Why doit thou build the hall, Bon of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, It howls in thy empty court."


Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay: In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way.

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, s

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast Are the only sad vestiges now that remain, [rattle,

* [Of the sincerity of this youthful aspiration, the Poet has left repeated proofs. By his will, drawn up in 1811, he directed, that " no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb;" and, in 1819, he wrote thus to Mr. Murray: —" Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance —

* Martini Luigi

Implora pace.'

Can any thing be more full of pathos? I hope whoever may survive me will sec those two words, and no more, put over me."]

* [The priory of New-stead, or do Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II., and dedicated to God and the Virgin. It was in the reign of Henry VIII., on the dissolution of the monasteries, that, by a royal grant, it was added, with the lands adjoining, to the other possessions of the Byron family. The favourite upon whom they were conferred, was the grand-nephew of the gallant soldier who fought bv the Bide of Richmond at Bosworth, and is distinguished from the other knights of the same Christian name, in the family, by the title of " Sir John Byron the Little, with the great beard." A portrait of this personage was one of the few family pictures with which the walls of the abbey, while in the possession of the Poet, were decorated.]

3 [There being no record of any of Lord Byron's ancestors having been engaged In the Holy Wars, Mr. Moore suggests, that the Poet may have had no other authority for this notion, than the tradition which he found connected with certain strange groups of heads, which are represented on the old panel-work in some of the chambers at Newstead. In one of these groups, consisting of three heads, strongly carved and projecting from the panel, the centre figure evidently represents a Saracen or Moor, with an European female on one side of him, and a Christian soldier on the other. In a second group, the female occupies the centre, while on either side is the head of a Saracen, with the eyes fixed earnestly upon her. Of the exact meaning of these figures there is nothing known; but the tradition is, that they refer to a love adventure of the age of the Crusades.]

* [" In the park of Horscley," says Thoroton, " there was a castle, some of the ruins of whirh are yet visible, called Horlstan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de Burun's successors."]

1 [Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serving

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, [wreath;

Raise a name in the breast for the war-laurell'd Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan* slumbers,

Unnerved is the hand of his niinstrel by death.

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Crasy;»

For the safety of Edward and England they fell: My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye;

How you fought, how you died, still her annals can telL

On Marston0, with Rupert 7, 'gainst traitors contending, [field;

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak For the rights of a monarch their country defending,

Till death their attachment to royalty seaTd.*

Shades of heroes, farewell I your descendant, departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu l

Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret;

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation.
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown: Like you will he live, or like you will he perish:

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your

with distinction in the siege of Calais, under Edward III-, and as among the knights who fell on the glorious field of Creasy.]

6 The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated.

7 Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the fleet In the reign of Charles II.

8 £Slr Nicholas Byron served with distinction in the Low Countries; and, In the Great Rebellion, he was one of the first to take up arms in the royal cause. After the battle of Edgehill. he was made colonel-general of Cheshire and Shropshire, and governor of Chester. "He was," says Clarendon, " a person of great affability and dexterity, as weil at martial knowledge, which gave great life to the designs of the well affected; and, with the encouragement of some gentlemen of North Wales, he raised such a power of horse and foot, as made frequent skirmishes with the enemy, sometimes with notable advantage, never with signal loss. —In 1643, Sir John Byron was created Baron Byron of Rochdale m the county of Lancaster ■, and seldom has a title been bestowed for such high and honourable services as those by which be deserved the gratitude of his royal master. Through almost every page of the History of the Civil Wars, we trace his name in connection with the varying fortunes of the king, and find hhn faithful, persevering, and disinterested to the last. "Sir John Biron, says Mrs. Hutchinson, ** afterwards Lord Biron, and all his brothers, bred up in arms, and raliant men in their own persons, were all passionately the king's." We find also, in the reply of Colonel Hutchinson, when

governor of Nottingham, to his cousin-germ an Sir Richard lyron, a noble tribute to the chivalrous fidelity of the race. Sir Richard, having sent to prevail on his relative to surrender the castle, received for answer, that *' except be found his own heart prone to such treachery, he might consider there was, if nothing else, so much of a Byron's hlood tax him, that he should very much scorn to betray or ouit a trust he had undertaken." — On the monument of Richard, the second Lord Byron, who yes buried in the chanrel of Hucknal-Tokard church, there is the following inscription: — " Beneath, in a vault, is interred the body of Richard I-ord Byron, who, with the rest of his famtlv, being seTen nrothers, faithfully served King Charles the First in the dvfl wan. who suffered much for their loyalty, and lost all their pr fortunes; yet it pleased God so to bless the humble « vours of the said Richard Lord Byron, that he re-pure part of their ancient inheritance, which he left to bis p terity, with a laudable memory for his great piety J charity."]



Awat, away, your flattering arts
Miy now betray some simple hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving."


Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts,

Fran which thou'cist guard frail female hearts,

Exist but in imagination,—

Mere phantoms of thine own creation;

For he who views that witching grace,

That perfect form, that lovely face,

With eyes admiring, oh I believe me,

He never wishes to deceive thee:

Once in thy polish'd mirror glance,

Thou It there descry that elegance,

Which from our sex demands such praises,

Bat envy in the other raises:

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,

Believe me, only does his duty:

Ah I fly not from the candid youth;

It is not flattery, — 'tis truth.

July, 1804.

'akistcta I vagula, blandula,

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Paludula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos ?]

Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
So more with wonted humour gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.



Equal to Jove that youth must be—

Greater than Jove he seems to me—

Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,

Securely views thy matchless charms,

That cbeek, which ever dimpling glows,

That mouth, from whence such music flows,

To him, alike, are always known,

Reserved for him, and him alone.

Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,

I cannot choose but look on thee;

But, at the tight, my senses fly;

I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;

Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,

Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,

hty pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,

zty limbs deny their slight support,

Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,

With deadly languor droops ray head,

'CTUs and several little pieces that follow appear to be of school exercises done at Harrow.]

My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.



He who sublime In epic numbers roll'd,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,

By Death's = unequal hand alike controll'd,
Fit comrades In Elysian regions move!

"Sulplcia ad Cerinthum." — Lib. 4.

Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas I I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for love and you again;
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By death alone I can avoid your hate.

[Lugcte, Veneres, Cupldinesque, 4c. J

Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved;
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom moved:

And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her car his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas I but sighs in vain.

Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave 1
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her woe,

Receptacle of life's decay.



Oh I might I kiss those eyes of Are,
A million scarce would quench desire:

9 The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tlbullus at his decease.

Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss:
Nor then my soul should sated be;
Still would 1 kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever;
E'en though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist ?—ah I never—never!

[Justum ct tenacem propositi virum, &c.J

The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow

Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,

By Auster on the billows spent.
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain.

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,

He would unmoved, unawed, behold.
The flames of an expiring world.

Again in crashing chaos roll'd, In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, Might light his glorious funeral pile: Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.


[©I** Xiytit A r;'-.' x;, «. T. A.]

I Wish to tunc my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war.
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name:
The dying chords arc strung anew.
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs rcnown'd in arms 1
Adieu the clang of war's alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel:
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.


'T Was now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bootes, only, seem'd to roll
His arctic charge around the pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep.
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course.
And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,—
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas !" replies the wily child.
In faltering accents sweetly mild,
"A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here.
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light.
Young Love, the Infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung.
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah I little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing.
Which droop with nightly showers, IJ
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow.
Than swift he seized his slender bow: —
"I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, " if this Its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow files.
Deep in my tortured heart it lies;
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : —
"My bow can still impel the shaft:
'Tis firmly flx'd, thy sighs reveal It;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"


[m»j?«^*' « riwrm rifuit, x. T. A.J

Great Jove, to whose almighty throne
Both gods and mortals homage pay.
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown.

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;
My voice shall raise no impious strain
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

How different now thy Joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride. When placed aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Not yet thy doom was flx'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.1

Harrow, Dec. 1.1804.


Since now the hour is come at last,

When you must quit your anxious lover;

Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.

Alas! that pang will be severe,

Which bids us part to meet no more;

Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.

Well I we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;

When thinking on these ancient towers,
The shelter of our infant years;

Where from this Gothic easement's height,
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell;

And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,

O'er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;

O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,

Forgot to scare the hovering flics, Yet envied every fly the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes:

See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake;

See there, high waving o'er the park,
The elm I clamber'd for your sake.

These times are past—our joys are gone,
Ton leave me, leave this happy vale;

These scenes I must retrace alone:
Without thee what will they avail?

Who can conceive, who has not proved,

The anguish of a last embrace? When, torn from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace.

This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew;

This is of love the final close,
On, God! the fondest, last adieu!

■ [" My first Harrow verses (that is, English, at expresses), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Xschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, ray grand patron

TO M. S. G.

Whene'er I view those lips of thine.
Their hue invites my fervent kiss j

Yet I forego that bliss divine,
Alas 1 it were unhallow'd bliss.

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!

Yet is the daring wish represt,

For that — would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear j

Yet I conceal my love, — and why?
I would not force a painful tear.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame loo well;

And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?

No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest's decree:

By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know:

With joy I court a certain doom,
Bather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortured heart,

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine;

Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;

Thy innocence and mine to save, —
I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
And hope no more thy soft embrace;

Which to obtain my soul would dare,
All, all reproach — but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shalt thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove;

Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shalt thou be to love.


Tiunr'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffused in tears, implore to stay;

And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?

Though keen the grief thy tears cxprest,
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown,

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own.

(our head master) but coolly. No one had, nt that time, the least notion that 1 should subside into poesy." — Byron Diary.]

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine,

The tears that from my eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from thine.

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame;

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
In signs alone it breathed my name.

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate In sighs deplore;

Remembrance only can remain, —
But that will make us weep the more.

Again, thou best beloved, adieu 1
Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercome regret;

Nor let thy mind past joys review, —
Our only hope is to forget!


Whbn I hear you express an affection so warm,
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe;

For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.

Yet still this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,

That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sere; That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, - Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear j

That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,

When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

'T is this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my features,

Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his creatures, In the death which one day will deprive you of me.

Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;

He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low, —

Oh I then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,

Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow; Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full meaAnd quaff the contents as our nectar below, [sure,


1 [Lord Strangford's translations of Camocns' Amatory Poems, Verses, and Little's Poems, are mentioned by Mr. Moore as having been at this period the favourite study of Lord Byron.]

a [" The latter years of Camoens present a mournful picture, not merely of individual calamity, hut of national in. gratitude. He whose best years had been devoted to the


Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrows? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?

The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.

'From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses,
I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss:
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this.

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,

Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage, [lightning. On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing.
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation.
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;

Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation; In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.


j Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled » If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee. Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.




This votive pledge of fond esteem.

Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou It prize;

It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme wc never can despise.

Who blames It but the envious fool.

The old and disappointed maid;
Or pupil of the prudish school,

In single sorrow doom'd to fade?

Then read, dear girl I with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those,

To thee in vain I shall not plead
In pity for the poet's woes.

He was in sooth a genuine bard;

His was no faint, fictitious flame:
Like his, may love be thy reward,

But not tby hapless fate the same. *


service of his country, he who had taught her literary fan* to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, and who seemed born to revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and Lusian heroism, was compelled to wander through the streets, a wretched dependent on casual contribution. One n Isssl J alone remained to smooth his downward path, and guide hfes steps to the grave with gentleness and consolation. It was |


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