FROM ANACREON. [Θέλω λεγεῖν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.] I WISH to tune my quivering lyre How heroes fought and nations fell, Fired with the hope of future fame, FROM ANACREON. [Μεσονυκτίαις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ. λ.] 'TWAS now the hour when Night had driven A hapless infant here I roam, Young Love, the infant, met my sight; Would rankle soon within my heart). His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring: *My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as exercises), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Eschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head "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 flies, Deep in my tortured heart it lies; Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd:"My bow can still impel the shaft: 'T is firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?" FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ESCHYLUS. [Μηδαμ' ὁ παντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.] GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne My voice shall raise no impious strain How different now thy joyless fate, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.* [Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804.] TO EMMA. SINCE now the hour is come at last, Alas! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part to meet no more; Well! we have pass'd some happy hours, Where from this Gothic casement's height, O'er fields through which we used to run, Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 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. master), but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subside into poesy."-Byron Diary. These times are past-our joys are gone, You 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, Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu! TO M. S. G. WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine, Alas! 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 I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou Then let the secret fire consume, Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom, Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortured heart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, At least from guilt shalt thou be free, TO CAROLINE. THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, When love and hope lay both o'erthrown, Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu! Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret; Nor let thy mind past joys review,Our only hope is to forget! TO CAROLINE. WHEN 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; 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. 'Tis 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 skeptic, 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! 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 measure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below. [1805.] TO CAROLINE. OH! when shall the grave hide for ever my sor rows? Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow curses, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, 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; THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. Α. Βαρβιτος δε χορδαίς Ερωτα μουνον ηχεί.-ANACREON. Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with fantasy glow, Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love! If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, I hate you, ye cold compositions of art! court the effusions that spring from the heart, Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move: Arcadia displays but a region of dreams: What are visions like these to the first kiss of love? Love and hope upon earth bring no more consola-Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, tion; In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place From Adam till now, has with wretchedness Some portion of paradise still is on earth, STANZAS TO A LADY, THIS Votive pledge of fond esteem, Who blames it but the envious fool, In single sorrow doom'd to fade? Then read, dear girl! with feeling read, He was in sooth a genuine bard; But not thy hapless fate the same. * "The latter years of Camoëns present a mournful picture, not merely of individual calamity, but of national ingratitude. He whose best years had been devoted to the service of his country, he who had taught her literary fame to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, and who seemed born ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A WHERE are those honors, Ida! once your own, [July, 1805.] to revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and Lusian heroism, was compelled to wander through the streets, a wretched dependent on casual contribution. Camoëns sank beneath the pressure of penury and disease, and died in an almshouse early in the year 1579." TO THE DUKE OF DORSET.* DORSET!†whose early steps with mine have stray'd, Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, But now new scenes invite me far away; Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild, Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favorite child; Though every error stamps me for her own, And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour; To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, With long-drawn names that grace no page beside; Then share with titled crowds the common lotIn life just gazed at, in the grave forgot; While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, Where lords, unhonor'd, in the tomb may find One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. *In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this second edition, I found the above lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my departure from Harrow. They were addressed to a young school fellow of high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through the neighboring country: however, he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a reperusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I have now published them, for the first time, after a slight revision. + George-John-Frederick, fourth duke of Dorset, born November 15, 1793. This amiable nobleman was killed by a fall from his horse, while hunting near Dublin, February 22, 1815, being on a visit at the time to his mother, the duchessdowager, and her second husband, Charles Earl of Whitworth, then lord lieutenant of Ireland. # At every public school the junior boys are completely subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt; but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed. There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant: I merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of preceptors. Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. of Gorboduc, which was played before Queen Elizabeth at While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy Whitehall, in 1561. His tragedy, and his contribution of the Induction and legend of the Duke of Buckingham to the Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was cre'Mirror for Magistrates,' compose the poetical history of ated Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the council table in consequence of a dropsy on the brain." Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, was born in 1637, and died in 1706. He was esteemed the most accomplished man of his day, and alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with considerable gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on the day previous to which he is said to have composed his celebrated song, To all you Ladies now at Land. His character has been drawn in the highest colors by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. GRANTA. A MEDLEY. 'Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα Κρατήσεις. OH! Could Le Sage'st demon's gift Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls Then would I view each rival wight, Who canvass there with all their might, Lo! candidates and voters lie All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number: A race renown'd for piety, [1805.] Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber. Lord H-, indeed, may not demur; They know the Chancellor has got Now from the soporific scene I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, *The circumstances which lent so peculiar an interest to Lord Byron's introduction to the family of Chaworth, are sufficiently explained in the sketch of his life. "The young lady herself combined," says Mr. Moore, "with the many worldly advantages that encircled her, much personal beauty, and a disposition the most amiable and attaching. Though already fully alive to her charms, it was at this period (1804) that the young poet seems to have drunk deepest of that fascination whose effects were to be so lasting; six short weeks which he passed in her company being sufficient to lay the foundation of a feeling for all life. With the summer holidays ended this dream of his youth. He saw Miss Chaworth once more in the succeeding year, and took his last farewell of her on that hill near Annesley, which, in his poem of The Dream,' he describes so happily as 'crowned with a peculiar diadem.'" In August, 1805, she was married to John Musters, Esq., and died at Wiverton Hall, in February, 1832, in consequence, it is believed, of the alarm and danger to which she had been exposed during the sack of Colwick Hall by a party of rioters from Nottingham. The unfortunate lady had been in a feeble state of health for several years, and she and her daughter There, in apartments small and damp, He surely well deserves to gain them, To scan precisely metres Attic; In solving problems mathematic: The square of the hypothenuse.** Still, harmless are these occupations, Which bring together the imprudent; Whose daring revels shock the sight, And for the sins of others pray: 'Tis morn:-from these I turn my sight. Loud rings in air the chapel bell; 'Tis hush'd-what sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. To this is join'd the sacred song, were obliged to take shelter from the violence of the mob in a shrubbery, where, partly from cold, partly from terror, her constitution sustained a shock which it wanted vigor to resist. The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection. On the death of Mr. Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry Petty and Lord Palmerston were candidates to represent the University of Cambridge in parliament. § Edward-Harvey Hawke, third Lord Hawke. His lordship died in 1824. I Seale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy. The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not very intelligible. **The discovery of Pythagoras, that of the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angle triangle. + On a saint's day, the students wear surplices in chapel. |