Page images
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND.

FEW years 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;

[1808.]

[1808.]

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 ebb and flow;
And who would in a breast confide,
Where stormy passions ever glow ?

It boots not that, together bred,
Our childish days were days of joy.
My spring of life has quickly fled;
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy.
And when we bid adieu to youth,
Slaves to the specious world's control,
We sigh a long farewell to truth;
That world corrupts the noblest soul.

Ay, joyous season! when the mind
Dares all things boldly but to lie;
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.

With 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;
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 cherish'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 flies along the gay parterre,

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.

But say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapors move, To flit along from dame to dame,

An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined,
Will deign to own a kindred care?
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-mean.

[ocr errors]

LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP
FORMED FROM A SKULL.*

START not-nor deem my spirit fled;
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee:
I died: let earth my bones resign:
Fill up thou canst not injure me;
The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood; And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of gods, than reptile's food.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst: another race,
When thou and thine, like me, are sped,
May rescue thee from earth's embrace,
And rhyme and revel with the dead."
Why not? since through life's little day
Our heads such sad effects produce?
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,
This chance is theirs, to be of use.
[Newstead Abbey, 1808.]

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.† WELL! 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 't will 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 favorite 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;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

*Lord Byron gives the following account of this cup:"The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled color like tortoise-shell."

A few days before these lines were written, the poet had been invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daughter of Mrs. Musters (formerly Miss Chaworth) being brought into the room, he started involuntarily, and with the utmost difficulty suppressed his emotion. To the sensations of that moment we are indebted for these beautiful stanzas.

This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by which the verses are preceded:

I deem'd that time, I deem'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 look: But now to tremble were a crimeWe 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, 1806.]

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.‡

woe,

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of
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,
Who labors, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonor'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh, man! 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!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on-it honors none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one,-and here he lies.
[Newstead Abbey, November 30, 1808.1

TO A LADY,

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING.

WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, A moment linger'd near the gate,

"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 Vices.
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, November 18, 1808."

8 In the original MS. “To Mrs. Musters," the following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only 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, bui

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 gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief.

Thus, lady! 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, 1808.]

REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT.

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 be 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 back 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.

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 fantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'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.

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.

her marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many years, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any one else,

And from 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 unfelt 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 late 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'er thou art or e'er shalt be,

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AN
LOW?

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.

My heart is sad, my 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, methinks, 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 falls for one who cannot weep;
Such precious drops are doubly dear
To those whose eyes no tear may steep.

Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not soI would not give that bosom pain.

FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN.
A SONG.

FILL the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its

core; Let us drink!-who would not ?—since, through life's varied round,

In the goblet alone no déception is found.

persuaded me not to do it. For,' said she, if you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, et cela fera un éclat. I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married,-with what suc cess it is useless to say." A portrait of this lady may be see ante, in the Life of the Poet.

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

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

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! are 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!-who's not ?-thou hast no such alloy;

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

Then, the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;

There we find do we not ?-in the flow of the soul,
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
kiss,

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
forgiven,

And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

STANZAS TO A LADY* ON LEAVING
ENGLAND.

'TIS done-and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.

But 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.

[blocks in formation]

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;
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 leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

I go-but wheresoe'er I flee,
There's not an eye will weep for me;
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 are, and what we 've 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 feel 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;
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 view,
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.

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

[1809.]

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo 's off at last;
Favorable breezes blowing

Bend the canvas o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal 's streaming,
Hark! 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! that case holds liquor-
Stop the boat-I 'm sick-oh, Lord!"

The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek,
Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique;
Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore,
Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar;
Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance,
Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France,
Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain
Unite Ausonia to the mighty main:

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye,
Break o'er th' Egean, mindful of the day
Of Salamis!-there, there the waves arise,

Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories.

Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need

By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed, The desolated lands, the ravaged isle,

The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile,

The aid evaded, and the cold delay,

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey;

The long degenerate noble; the debased
Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced,
But more degraded; the unpeopled realm;
The once proud navy which forgot the helm;
The once impervious phalanx disarray'd;
The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade;
The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore,
Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore;
The very language which might vie with Rome's,
And once was known to nations like their homes,
Neglected or forgotten :-such was Spain;
But such she is not, nor shall be again.
These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel
The new Numantine soul of old Castile.
Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor!
The bull of Phalaris renews his roar;
Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain
Revive the cry-"Iago! and close Spain !”*

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, show

The false friend worse than the infuriate foe.
But this is well: Greeks only should free Greece,
Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace.
How should the autocrat of bondage be
The king of serfs, and set the nations free?
Better still serve the haughty Mussulman,
Than swell the Cossack's prowling caravan;
Better still toil for masters, than await,
The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate,-
Number'd by hordes, a human capital,
A live estate, existing but for thrall,
Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward
For the first courtier in the Czar's regard;
While their immediate owner never tastes
His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes:
Better succumb even to their own despair,
And drive the camel than purvey the bear.

VII.

But not alone within the hoariest clime
Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time,
And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd
Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud,
The dawn revives: renown'd, romantic Spain
Holds back the invader from her soil again.
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde
Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword;
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth
Pollute the plains, alike abhorring both;
Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears
The warlike fathers of a thousand years.
That seed is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore.
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page
Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage;
The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung

Back to the barbarous realm from whence they

sprung.

But these are gone-their faith, their swords, their sway,

Yet left more anti-christian foes than they;
The bigot monarch and the butcher priest,
The Inquisition, with her burning feast,
The faith's red "auto," fed with human fuel,
While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel,
Enjoying, with inexorable eye,

That fiery festival of agony!

The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both

And form the barrier which Napoleon found,-
The exterminating war, the desert plain,
The streets without a tenant, save the slain;
The wild sierra, with its wilder troop
Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop
For their incessant prey; the desperate wall
Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall;
The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid
Waving her more than Amazonian blade;
The knife of Arragon,† Toledo's steel;
The famous lance of chivalrous Castile;
The unerring rifle of the Catalan ;
The Andalusian courser in the van;
The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;
And in each heart the spirit of the Cid :-
Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance,
And win-not Spain, but thine own freedom,
France!

VIII.

But lo! a Congress! What! that hallow'd name Which freed the Atlantic? May we hope the same For outworn Europe? With the sound arise, Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd far From climes of Washington and Bolivar; Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas; § And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd; And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. But who compose this senate of the few That should redeem the many? Who renew This consecrated name, till now assign'd To councils held to benefit mankind? Who now assemble at the holy call? The blest Alliance, which says three are all! An earthly trinity! which wears the shape Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. | A pious unity! in purpose oneTo melt three fools to a Napoleon. Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these; Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, Cared little, so that they were duly fed;

But these, more hungry, must have something

more,

The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore.
Ah! how much happier were good Æsop's frogs

By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth; Than we! for ours are animated logs,

* "Santiago y serra España!" the old Spanish war-cry. + The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use of this weapon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars.

The Congress of the sovereigns of Russia, Austria, Prussia, etc., etc., etc., which assembled at Verona, in the autumn of 1832.

American Congress, died in June, 1797. Lord Byron alludes to his famous speech in 1765, in which, on saying, “Cresar had his Brutus-Charles the First his Cromwell-and George the Third- Henry was interrupted with shouts of "Trea son! treason!!"-but coolly finished the sentence with"George the Third may profit by their example; if this be

་་

§ Patrick Henry, of Virginia, a leading member of the treason, make the most of it."

« PreviousContinue »