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FAREWELL TO MALTA.
Shall never part from mine,
Untainted back to thine.
An equal love may see:
Can weep no change in me.
In gazing when alone;
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
My pen were doubly weak: Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak ?
That heart, no longer free,
ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET
AND SHOEMAKER. (1)
STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Malta, May 16, 1811,
were otherwise tired of travelling; but I am so convinced of the no journal; nor have I any intention of scribbling my travels. advantages of looking at mankind, instead of reading about I have done with authorship; and is, in my last production, I them, and the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow have convinced the critics or the world I was something more prejudices of an islander, that I think there should be a law than they took me for, I am satisfied ; nor will I hazard that reamongst us to send our young men abroad, for a term, among putation by a future effort. It is true I have some others in the few allies our wars bave left us. Here I see, and have con- manuscripc, but I leave them for those who come after me; and versed with, French, Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, ir deemed worth publishing, they may serve to prolong my Americans, elc. etc. etc.; and, without losing sight of my own, memory, when I myself shall cease to remember. I have a faI can judge of the countries and manners of others. When I mous Bavarian artist taking some views of Athens, etc. etc., for see the superiority of England (which, by the by, we are a me. This will be better than scribbling-a disease 1 hope myself good deal mistaken about in many things), I am pleased; and cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet recluse lise; where I find her inferior, I am at least enlightened. Now, I but God knows, and does best for us all."-E. might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or sogged in your (1) Some notice of this poetaster has been given, ante, p. 69. country, a century, without being sure of this, and without tle died in 1810, and his works have followed him.-E. acquiring any thing more useful or amusing at home. I keep
Her hours can gaily glide along,
When all I loved is changed or gone, Nor ask the aid of idle song.
Mock with such taunts lhe woes of one And now, O Malta ! since thou'st got us,
Whose every thought-but let them passThou little military hothouse!
Thou know'st I am not what I was. I'll not offend with words uncivil,
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold And wish thee rudely at the Devil,
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold, But only stare from out my casement,
By all the powers that men revere, And ask, for what is such a place meant ?
By all unto thy bosom dear, Then, in my solitary nook,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above, Return to scribbling, or a book,
Speak-speak of any thing but love. Or take my physic while I 'm able (Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
'T were long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear; Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'T would suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,
Have seen her seated by his side,UNHAPPY Dives! in an evil hour
Have seen the infant, which she bore, 'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst!
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
When she and I in youll have smiled, Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst.
As fond and faultless as her child ;In wit, in genius, as in wealth, the first,
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose !
Ask if I felt no secret pain; But thou wert smitten with the unhallow'd thirst
And I have acted well my part, Of crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close
And made my cheek belie my heart, In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes. Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave ;ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.
But let this pass—I 'll whine no more,
Nor seek again an Eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,-
I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's “May is in the sere,”
Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTOOR
Suit with the sablest of the times, TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO “BANISH CARE."
Of one, whom love nor pity sways, “Oh! banish care"-such ever be
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, The motto of thy revelry!
One who, in stern ambition's pride, Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Perchance not blood shall turn aside, Renew those riolous delights,
One rank'd in some recording page Wherewith the children of Despair
With the worst anarchs of the age, Lull the lone heart, and “banish care."
Him wilt thou knowo-and knowing pause, But not in morn's reflecting hour,
Nor with the effect forget the cause.(3) When present, past, and future lower,
Newslead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. (4) (1) The opera of M. P.; or the Blue Stocking, came out at startled at any lengths to which the spirit of sell-libelling would the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September.-E.
carry him. It seemed as is, with the power of painting fierce (2) 1. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition io be, himsell,
the dark sublime he drew;' and that, in his fondness for the (3) “The anticipations of his own future career in these con- delineation of heroic crime, he endeavoured to fancy, where he cluding lines are of nature, it must be owned, to awaken could not find in his own character, tit subjects for his pencil." more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by, so Voore. many instances of bis exaggeration in this respect, not to be (4) Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, the poel
The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine!
But where is thine?-Ah! where art thou?
But never bent beneath till now!
Well hast thou left, in life's best bloom,
The cup of woe for me to drain:
I would not wish thee here again;
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,
To wean me from mine anguish here.
To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
October 11, 1811.(2)
WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said, By all, save one perchance, forgot,
Ah! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? By many a shore and many a sea
Divided, yet beloved in vain; The past, the future fled to thee
To bid us meet-no-ne'er again! Could this have been a word, a look,
That softly said, “We part in peace," Had taught my bosom how to brook,
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. And didst thou not, since Death for thee
Prepared a light and pangless dart, Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see,
Who held, and holds thee in his heart?
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,
'Twas thine to reck of human woe, Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er,
Had flow'd as fast-as now they flow. Shall they not flow, when many a day
In these (to me) deserted towers, Ere call'd but for a time away,
Affection's mingling tears were ours ? Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand; The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand; The kiss, so guiltless and refined,
That Love each warmer wish forebore; Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even Passion blush'd to plead for more. The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When pronę, unlike thee, to repine;
Away, away, ye notes of woe!
Be silent, thou once-soothing strain,
I dare not trust those sounds again.
But lull the chords, for now, alas !
On what I am-on what I was.
The voice that made those sounds more sweet
Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;
A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead!
Beloved dust! since dust thou art;
Is worse than discord lo my heart!
The well-remember'd echoes thrill;
says, "I am growing nervous (how you will laugh!)-but it is 1811,writes as follows:-"I have been again shocked with a death, true,-really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervous. and have lost one very dear to me in happier times : but I Your climale kills me; I can neither read, write, nor amuse have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and 'supped full of horrors,' mysell : or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights lill I have become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event restless, I have seldom any society, and, when I have, I run out
which, five years ago, would have bowed my bead to the earth.” of it. I don't know that I sha'n 't end with insanity; for I find
In his reply to this lelter. Mr. Dallas says,-“I thank you for a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me
your confidential communication. How truly do I wish thal strangely.”—E.
that being had lived, and lived yours! What your obligations (1) "The reader will laugh,” says Captain Medwin," when I tell her would have been in that case is inconceivable." Several him, that it was asserted to a spiend of mine, that the lines .To
years after the series of poems on Thyrza were writien, Lord Thyrza,' published with the first Canto of Childe Harold, were
Byron, on being asked to whom they referred, by a person in addressed lo-his bear! There is nothing so malignant that whose lenderness be never ceased to contide, refused to answer, Hatred will not invont or Folly believe."-E
with marks of painful agitation, such as rendered any farther (2) Mr. Moore considers “Thyrza” as if she were a mere recurrence lo the subject impossible. The reader must be leit creature of the poet's brain; but Lord Byron, in a letter to lo form bis own conclusion. The five following pieces are all Mr Dallas, bearing the exact date of these lines, viz. Oct. 11th, devoted to Thyrza.-E.
I hear a voice I would not hear,
A voice that now might well be still: Yet oft my doubting soul't will shake;
Even slumber owns its gentle tone, Till consciousness will vainly wake
To listen, though the dream be town. Sweet Thyrza! waking as in sleep,
Thou art but now a lovely dream; A star that trembled o'er the deep,
Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. But he who through life's dreary way
Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, Will long lament the vanish'd ray, That scatter'd gladness o'er his path.
December 6, 1811.
Like freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 't is idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave
My life, when Thyrza ceased to live! My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new! How different now thou meet’st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue! The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silenl-ah, were mine as still!
It feels, it sickens with the chill.
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Or break the heart to which thou 'rt press'd! Time tempers love, but not removes,
More hallow'd when its hope is fled: Oh! what are thousand living loves
To that which cannot quit the dead ?
One struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain; One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again. It suits me well to mingle now
With things that never pleased before: Though every joy is fled below,
What future grief can touch me more ? Then bring me wine, the banquet bring;
Man was not form’d to live alone: I'll be that light unmeaning thing
That smiles with all, and weeps with none. It was not thus in days more dear,
It never would have been, but thou Hast fled, and left me lonely here;
Thou 'rt'nothing, -all are nothing now. In vain my lyre would lightly breathe!
The smile that sorrow fain would wear
Like roses o’er a sepulchre.
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
The heart-the heart is lonely still!
It sooth'd to gaze upon the sky; For then I deem'd the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Ægean wave, “Now Thyrza gazes on that moon”
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!
When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o'er my dying bed! No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow: No maiden, with dishevell’d hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near: I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle Friendship with a fear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives and him who dies. 'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last
Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,
E’en Pain itself should smile on thee. But vain the wish-for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.
Without regret, without a groan;
And pain been transient or unknown. “Ay, but to die, and go," alas!
Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was
Ere born to life and living woe!
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, "'T is comfort still," I faintly said,
“That Thyrza cannot know my pains :"'
Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been,
'T is something better not to be.
"Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui me
I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
Had worn a deeper shade:
Extinguish’d, not decay'd;
My tears might well be shed,
One vigil o'er thy bed;
Uphold thy drooping head;
Though thou hast left me free,
Than thus remember thee!
Returns again to me.
AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;
Too soon return'd to Earth!
In carelessness or mirth,
Nor gaze upon the spot;
So I behold them not:
Like common earth can rot;
As fervently as thou,
And canst not alter now.
Nor falsehood disavow:
The worst can be but mine:
Shall never more be thine.
Nor need I to repine
Must fall the earliest prey;
The leaves must drop away;
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
If sometimes in the haunts of men
Thine image from my breast may fade, The lonely hour presents again
The semblance of thy gentle shade : And now that sad and silent hour
Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour
The plaint she dare not speak before. Oh, pardon that in crowds a while
I waste one thought I owe to thee,
Unfaithful to thy memory!
That then I secm not to repine;
One sigh that should be wholly thine. If not the goblet pass unquaffd,
It is not drain’d to banish care; The cup must hold a deadlier draught,
That brings a Lethe for despair. And could Oblivion set my soul
From all her troubled visions free, I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee.