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To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sank chill on my brow — It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken.

And light Is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me —

Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well: — Long, long shall I rue thee.

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met—

In silence I grieve.
That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee

After long years,
How should I greet thee ? —

With silence and tears.


Fxw yean have pass'd since thou and I

Were firmest friends, at least in name,
And childhood's gay sincerity

Preserved our feelings long the same.

But now, like me, too well thou know'st

What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they loved at all.

And such the change the heart displays,

So frail is early friendship's reign,
A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's,
Will view thy mind estranged again.

If so, it never shall be mine

To mourn the loss of such a heart;
The fault was Nature's fault not thine.
Which made thee fickle as thou art.

As rolls the ocean's changing tide,

So human feelings ehb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide,
Where stormy passions ever glow?

'[This copy of verses, and that which follows, originally appeared in ine volume published, in 1H09, hy Mr. (now the Right Hon. Sir John) HobhouK, under the title of" lmita

Slaves to the specious world's control.
We sigh a long farewell to truth;
That world corrupts the noblest soul

Ah, joyous season! when the mind
Dares all things boldly but to He;

When thought ere spoke is unconfined.
And sparkles in the placid eye.

Not so in Man's maturer years.
When Man himself is but a tool;

When interest sways our hopes and fears
And all must love and hate by rule.

Writh fools in kindred vice the same.
We learn at length our faults to blend;

And those, and those alone, may claim
The prostituted name of friend.

Such is the common lot of man:
Can we then 'scape from folly free?

Can we reverse the general plan.
Nor be what all in turn must be?

No; for myself, so dark my fate

Through every turn of life hath been j

Man and the world so much I hate,
I care not when I quit the scene.

But thou, with spirit frail and light.
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;

As glow-worms sparkle through the night.
But dare not stand the test of day.

Alas! whenever folly calls

Where parasites and princes meet,

(For chcrish'd first in royal halls,
The welcome vices kindly greet),

Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd;

And still thy trifling heart is glad

To join the vain, and court the proud.

There dost thou glide from fair to fair.
Still simpering on with eager haste.

As flics along the gay parterre.

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.

But say, what nymph will prize the flame
Which seems, as marshy vapours move.

To flit along from dame to dame.
An Ignis-latum gleam of love?

What friend for thee, howe'er Inclined,
Will deign to own a kindred cor*?

Who will debase his manly mind.
For friendship every fool may share?

In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen;

No more so Idly pass along;

Be something, anything, but — r

tlons and Translations, together with original Iieartng Che modest epigraph —" Sos k*c


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Well I 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 'twill 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 favourite child,
I thought my jealous heart would break;

But when the unconscious infant smiled,
I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it,—and repress'd my sighs,
Its father in its face to see;

■[Lord Byron gives the following account of this cup: — "The gardener, in digging, discovered a ikull that had probably belonged to somo jolly friar or monk of the abbey, *toot the time it was demonasteriod. Observing it to be of Pint size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange farr seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking caa. 1 accordingly tent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like tortoiseshcll." H U Dow In the possession of Colonel Wildman, the proprietor of Newstead Abbey. In several of our elder dramatists, mention is made of the custom or quaffing wine out of similar cups. For example, in Dckker's " Wonder of a Kbrdom," Torrenti says, —

"Would I had ten thousand soldiers' heads,
Their skulls set all In silver ; to drink healths
To his confusion who first invented war."]

1 tThese lines were printed originally in Mr. Hobhouac's Vlsorllany. A few days before they were written, the Poet Sad hem Invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daughter

of his fair hostess being brought into the room, he started "! utmost difficulty suppressed his l of that moment we are indebted

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

Mary, adieu 1 I must away:

While thou art blest I '11 not repine;

But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I dcem'd that pride
Had quench'd 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 lock;

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 couldst 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.


Whin 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 rest 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,
Whose honest heart Is still his master's own,
WTio labours, -fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect 1 hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man 1 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 1

3 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 Vires. 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, 18C8." Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to his friend Hodgson: — "Boatswain is dead !— he expired in a state of madness, on the lHth, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; never attempting to do tile least Injury to any one near him. 1 have now lost everything, except old Murray." By the will executed in 1H11, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.]

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When Man. expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment UngerM near the gate.

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.

But, wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;

Just Rave a sigh to other times,
And found In busier scenes relief.

Thus, lady 2 ! will It be with me,

And I must view thy charms no more;

For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before.

In flight I shall be surely wise.
Escaping from temptation's snare;

I cannot view my paradise

Without the wish of dwelling there.'

December 2, 1806.


Remind me not, remind me not,

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours.
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never toe forgot.

Till time unnerves our vital powers.
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget—canst thou forget.
When playing with thy golden hair.

How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet.
With eyes so languid, breast so fair.
And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,

Those eyes threw l>ack a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd yet raised desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

1 [ In the original MS. "To Mrs. Morten," *c. The reader will find a portrait of this Udy in Flnuen's Illustration! of Byron, No. III.]

• [In the flrrt copy, '• Thus, Mary I"]

* [In Mr. Hobhouse'l volume, the line stood, —" Without a wish to enter there." The following li an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Myron, written in 1833, iililv three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece: — "Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her

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And then those pensive eyes would close.
And bid their lids each other seek.
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek.
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return'd.
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy.
Than if for other hearts I bum'd.

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not.

Of hours which, though for ever gone. Can still a pleasing dream restore, Till thou and I shall be forgot.

And senseless as the mouldering stone Which tells that we shall be no more.


There was a time, I need not name,

Since it will ne'er forgotten be, When all our feelings were the same

As still my soul hath been to thee.

And front that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine.

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung.
Unknown and thus by thine,

None, none hath sunk so deep as this—
To think how all that love hath flown;

Transient as every faithless kiss.
But transient in thy breast alone.

And yet my heart some solace knew.
When larc I heard thy lips declare.

In accents once imagined true,

Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes; my adored, yet most unkind!

Though thou wilt never love again. To me't is doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me,

Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'cr thou art or e'er shalt be.

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.


And wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so—

I would not give that bosom pain.

marriage was not a happier nne than my own. Her rorahsct. however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her lor mjar vears, when on occasion offered. I was upon the pome, wfenS tier consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, wno has Always had more influence over me than any one rUe. persuaded me not to do It. * For.' said she. • it you go ywa vU fall in love again, and then there will be a scene . one sen will lead to another, et cfta/rra Sot eclat.' I was ■ n'all,1 br those reasons, and shortly alter married,—wan vrbsc tumi It Is useless to say-")



My heart is sad, ray hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast;

And when I perish, thou alone
Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methlnks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:

And for awhile my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine.

Oh lady! blessed be that tear—
It fells for one who cannot weep;

Such precious drops are doubly dear
To those whose eyes no tear may steep.

Sweet lady I once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;

But beauty's self hath ceaseil to charm
A wretch created to repine.

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again: Tet if they grieve thee, say not so —

1 would not give that bosom pain.1


Fill the goblet again! for I never before

Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to Its core;

Let us drink I—who would not ?—since, through

life's varied round,
In the goblet alone no deception is found.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I hare bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have loved!—who has not ?—but what heart can

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

1 [The melancholy which was now gaining fast upon the JtMig poet's mind was a source of much uneasiness to his friends. It was at this period, that the following pleasant 'fries were addressed to him by Mr. Ilobhouse: —



Hail! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame
Inspires and animates to deeds of fame;
Who feel the noble wish before you die
To raise the finger of each passer-by:
Hail 1 may a future age admiring view
A Falkland or a Clarendon in you.

But as your blood with dangerous passion boils,
Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils:
Ah ! let the head protect the weaker heart,
And Wisdom's JEgis turn on Beauty's dart.

But if'tis fix'd that every lord must pair, And you and Newstead must not want an heir. Lose not your pains, and scour the country round, To find a treasurcthat can ne'er be found! No! take the first the town or court affords, • Trick'd out to stock a market for the lords; By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall On one, though wicked, not the worst of all: * • • • •

One though perhaps as any Maxwell free,

Yet scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee:

Not very ugly, and not very old,

A little pert indeed, but not a scold;

One that, in short, may help to lead a life

Not farther much from comfort than from strife;

And when she dies, and disappoints your fears.

Shall leave some joys for your declining years.

Bat, as your early youth some time allows. Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse.

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,

And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends!—who has not?—but what tongue will avow.

That friends, rosy wine! arc so faithful as thou?

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam—thou never

canst change; Thou grow'st old—who does not? — but on earth

what appears. Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our Idol below,
We are jealous I — who's not?—thou hast no such

Jor the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge wc fly to the goblet at last;
There we find—do we not?—in the flow of the

That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left, — was she not? — but the goblet we

And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:
We must die — who shall not? — May our sins be

And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

Some hours of freedom may remain as yet

For one who laughs alike at love and debt;

Then, why in haste ? nut off the evil day.

And snatcli at youthful comforts whilst you may!

Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego

That single souls, and such alone, can know:

Ah ! why too early careless life resign,

Your morning slumber, and your evening wine;

Your loved companion, and ills easy talk:

Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk.

What I can no more your scenes paternal please.

Scenes sacred long to wise, unniated ease?

The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down,

Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own?

What! shall your New stead, shall your clolstcr'd bowers,

The high o'er-hanging arch and trembling towers f

Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife,

And ever fond, or ever angry wife!

Shall these no more confess a manly sway,

Rut changeful woman's changing whims obey?

Who may, perhaps, as varying humour calls,

Contract your cloisters and o erthrow your walls;

Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground.

Change round to square, and square convert to round;

Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom.

And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room;

Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre,

Wimtc gravel'd walks and flowers alternate glare;

And quite transform, In ev'ry point complete,

Your gothic abbey to a country seat.

Forget the fair one. and your f-ite delay;
If not avert, at least defer the day,
When you beneath the female yoke shall bend,
And lose your wit, your temper, and wmr friend.

Trin. Coll. Camb. 1S03.

In his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's volume, now before us, Lord Byron has here written with a pencil,—"/ have lott Vtein all, and shall Wkd accordingly. 1811. B."]


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

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

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 Ionian I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

I go—but wheresoe'er I flee
There's not an eye will weep for mc;
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 arc, and what we 'vc 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 feci 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;

1 [In the original," To Mrs. Musters."]

* [Thus corrected by himself, In his mother'B copy of Mr. Ilobhousu's Miscellany; the two last lines being original)}- —

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.

'T would soothe to take one lingering
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. 2



Hl-zza! Hodgson, we are going,

Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvass o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming.
Hark 1 the farewell gun Is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming.
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal
Come to task all,
Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.

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 I that case holds liquor —

Stop the boat—I'm sick—oh Lord !** "Sick, ma'am, damme, you H be sicker, Ere you've been an hour on board." Thus are screaming Men and women, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling, AU are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax

Such the general nois^ and racket,
Kre we reach the Lisbon Packet.

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 Mao 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 1
Would to God they did so still:
Then I'd scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet"

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