HOURS OF IDLENESS: A Series of Poems, Original and Translated.* Virginibus puerisque canto.-HORACE, lib. iii., Ode 1. Μήτ' ἄρ με μάλ' αίνει, μήτε τι νείκει.—HOMER, Πιαd, x. 249. TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,† PREFACE. THE AUTHOR. submitting to the public eye the following collection, | even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed. These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depression of spirits: under the former influence, "CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS," in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems have been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, "to do greatly," we must "dare greatly;" and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. "I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand or fall by the “cast of the die." In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, "it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favor, and another to write what may please every body; because they who have no connection, or *First published in 1807. For the famous criticism of the Edinburgh Review upon "Hours of Idleness," and which provoked from Byron "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," see Appendix, Note 47. subscribe: on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed: their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favor which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability. I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation: some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce any thing entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me "to this sin:" little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions; Isabella, the daughter of William, fourth Lord Byron (great-great uncle of the poet), became, in 1742, the wife of Henry, fourth earl of Carlisle, and was the mother of the fifth earl, to whom this dedication was addressed. while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, cer- and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally ab surd. To a few of my own age the contents may afford amusement: I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor, even, in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the Poems of a noble relation of mine,* "That when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed,"† can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical, censors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first triumph in honors granted solely to a title. The passage referred to by Lord Byron occurs in Bos- forgotten the verse; but it would be difficult for me to forget well's Life of Johnson. 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 submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration. "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 granddaughter of the two Admirals Parker), her her dark eyes-her long eye-lashes-her completely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then about twelveshe 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.-Byron's Diary, 1821. 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. EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν ἑπος.—LAERTIUS. The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, A FRAGMENT. [1803.] Of the mail-cover'd barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, [rattle, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd wreath; Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy:† 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 Marston, with Rupert? 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, Till death their attachment to royalty seal’d.|| Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu! Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting New courage, he 'll 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 own! [1803.] LINES *The priory of Newstead, or de 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 monastéries, that, by a royal grant, it was added, with the lands adjoining, to the other possessions of the Byron family. The favorite upon whom they were conferred, was the grand-nephew of the gallant soldier who fought by the side 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. For an illustration of Newstead, see, ante," Life of Byron." + Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serving with distinction in the siege of Calais, under Edward III., and as among the knights who fell on the glorious field of Cressy. The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated. § Son of the elector palatine, and nephew to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. Sir 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. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. EQUAL to Jove that youth must be- That mouth, from whence such music flows, But, at the sight, my senses fly; I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die; My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. HE who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. "Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. 4. CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please? *The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease. Alas! 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. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. Whom dearer than her eyes she loved; 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 ear 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! but sighs in vain. Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave! 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. IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. OH! might I kiss those eyes of fire, TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. [Justum et tenacem propositi virum, etc.] Would awe his fix'd, determined mind in vain. Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, He would unmoved, unawed, behold. 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. |