: Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs; 1 To furnish articles for the " Débats; " Enough of this a sight more mournful woos to Christianity in France. Lord Byron perhaps alludes to the well-known joke of Talleyrand, who, meeting the Duke of Montmorenci at the same party with M. Rothschild, soon after the latter had been ennobled by the Emperor of Austria, is said to have begged leave to present M. le premier baron Juif to M. le premier baron Chrétien.] 1 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign: "Ah! Monsieur C., are you related to that Chateaubriand who-who-who has written something?" (écrit quelque chose!) It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy. [Count Capo d'Istrias-afterwards President of Greece. The count was murdered in September, 1831, by the brother and son of a Mainote chief whom he had imprisoned.] [The Duke de Montmorenci-Laval.] [From Pope's verses on Lord Peterborough: The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, To note the trappings of her mimic court. while nations gaze and mournEre yet her husband's ashes have had time To chill in their inhospitable clime; (If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold; Do more? or less? - and he in his new grave! XVIII. But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, and lo! it was no dream! Here, reader, will we pause: - if there's no harm in This first- you'll have, perhaps, a second "Carmen." "And he, whose lightning pierced the Iberian lines, 5 [Napoleon François Charles Joseph, Duke of Reichstadt, died at the palace of Schönbrunn, July 22, 1832, having just attained his twenty-first year.] 6 [Count Neipperg, chamberlain and second husband to Maria-Louisa, had but one eye. The count died in 1831. See antè, p. 461.] 7 [George the Fourth is said to have been somewhat annoyed, on entering the levee-room at Holyrood (Aug. 1822) in full Stuart tartan, to see only one figure similarly attired (and of similar bulk) that of Sir William Curtis. The city knight had every thing complete-even the knife stuck in the garter. He asked the King, if he did not think him well dressed. "Yes!" replied his Majesty, "only you have no spoon in your hose." The devourer of turtle had a fine exgraving executed of himself in his Celtic attire.] Occasional Pieces. 1807-1824. THE ADIEU. WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. ADIEU, thou Hill 1! where early joy Spread roses o'er my brow; No more through Ida's paths we stray; Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, Ye spires of Granta's vale, Where Learning robed in sable reigns, Ye comrades of the jovial hour, On Cama's verdant margin placed, Adieu, ye mountains of the clime Where grew my youthful years; Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime His giant summit rears. Why did my childhood wander forth Hall of my Sires! a long farewell Yet why to thee adieu ? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, And former glories of thy Hall, 2 Forgets its wonted simple note— But yet the Lyre retains the strings, And sometimes, on Æolian wings, In dying strains may float. Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, To retrospection dear. Streamlet 3 along whose rippling surge At noontide heat their pliant course; And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? To Him address thy trembling prayer: Father of Light! to Thee I call, My soul is dark within: Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO A VAIN LADY. Aн, heedless girl! why thus disclose What ne'er was meant for other ears: Why thus destroy thine own repose, And dig the source of future tears? Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid, While lurking envious foes will smile, For all the follies thou hast said Of those who spoke but to beguile. Vain girl! thy ling'ring woes are nigh, If thou believ'st what striplings say: Oh, from the deep temptation fly, Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. The words man utters to deceive? Nor make thyself the public gaze : Her who relates each fond conceit - While vanity prevents concealing. January 15, 1807. [First published, 1832.] Он, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed The heart which adores you should wish to dissever; Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed, To bear me from love and from beauty for ever. As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed, THY verse is "sad" enough, no doubt: Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it; For he, I'm sure, will suffer sore, Who, to his own misfortune, reads it. Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic, May once be read- but never after : Yet their effect's by no means tragic, Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complain— If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. March 8, 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO ANNE. Оn, Anne! your offences to me have been grievous: I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you; But woman is made to command and deceive us I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. ON FINDING A FAN. In one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same. As when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their blaze in night. Thus has it been with passion's firesAs many a boy and girl remembersWhile every hope of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers. The first, though not a spark survive, Some careful hand may teach to burn; The last, alas ! can ne'er survive ; No touch can bid its warmth return. Or, if it chance to wake again, Not always doom'd its heat to smother, It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) Its former warmth around another. 1807. [First published, 1832.] FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days. Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart. This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain ! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again ? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er ; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. [Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed; - hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him," Here is a fine young oak; And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Since early affection and love are o'ercast: Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot, Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last. Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Let us hope that the present at least will be sweetThe present-which seals our eternal Adieu. 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. 1 YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground. I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, But thou wert not fated affection to share For who could suppose that a stranger would feel? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave C'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot : Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 1807. [First published, 1832.] but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place.” I hope not, sir," replied the man; "for it's the one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as "THE BYRON OAK," and promises to share, in after times, the celebrity of Shak speare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.] And yields thee scarce a name on earth; Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1-07, he wrote under it these stanzas. ["Whether these verses are, in any degree, founded on fact, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth, Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace, Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face, Ere half my glass of life is run, At once a brother and a son ; And all my wane of years employ In justice done to thee, my Boy! Although so young thy heedless sire, FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer But waft thy name beyond the sky. The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel: I only know we loved in vain — I only feel-Farewell! Farewell! 1808. BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. BRIGHT be the place of thy soul! On earth thou wert all but divine, As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest? 1808. such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him; and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote,-making allow. ance for the embellishments of fancy, -the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been indebted for its origin to imagination alone."- MOORE. But see post, Don Juan, canto xvi. st. 61.] |