Adieu to Peter-whom no fault's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!
Adieu red coats, and redder faces!
Adieu the supercilious air

Of all that strut "en militaire!"
I go-but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad-but in a different way.

Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue!
While either Adriatic shore,

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme-because 't is "gratis."
And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her—
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art
Her hours can gayly glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, oh, Malta! since thou 'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse!
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the devil,
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask, for what is such a place meant ?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I 'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods-I've got a fever.
[May 26, 1811. First published, 1833.]

TO DIVES.

A FRAGMENT.

UNHAPPY Dives! in an evil hour

'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst!
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,
How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose !
But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst
Of Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.
[1811. First published, 1832.]

ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA.

GOOD plays are scarce,

So Moore writes farce:

The poet's fame grows brittleWe knew before

That Little 's Moore,

But now 't is Moore that 's little.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,*

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AU-
THOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO
CARE."

Он! "banish care"-such ever be The motto of thy revelry!

BANISH

Perchance of mine, when wassail nigh
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought-but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,

Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of anything but love.

"T were long to tell, and vain to hear
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
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,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
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
Suit with the sablest of the times;
Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise;
One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside;
One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,
Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause,
Nor with the effect forget the cause.

[Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811. First published, 1830.]

[September 14, 1811. First published, 1830.]

TO THYRZA.†

WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot,

And say, what Truth might well have said,

+ Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dallas, bearing the exact date of these lines, viz., October 11, 1811, writes as follows:

very dear to me in happier times: but I have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and 'supped full of horrors,' till I have become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event which,

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?

Oh! who like him had watch'd thee here
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,
In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,

Till all was past! But when no more
'T was 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 forbore;
Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even Passion blush'd to plead for more.

The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;
The song, celestial from thy voice,

But sweet to me from none but thine;

The pledge we wore-I wear it still,

But where is thine ?-Ah! where art thou? Oft have I borne the weight of ill,

But never bent beneath till now!

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.

If rest alone be in the tomb,

I would not wish thee here again; But if in worlds more blest than this Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, Impart some portion of thy bliss,

To wean me from mine anguish here.

Teach me too early taught by thee!
To bear, forgiving and forgiven:
On earth thy love was such to me;
It fain would form my hope in heaven!
[October 11, 1811.]

AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE.* AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain,

five years ago, would have bowed my head to the earth." Several years after the series of poems on Thyrza were written, Lord Byron, on being asked to whom they referred, by a person in whose tenderness he never ceased to confide, refused to answer, with marks of painful agitation, such as

Or I must flee from hence-for, oh!
I dare not trust those sounds again.
To me they speak of brighter days-
But lull the chords, for now,
alas!
I must not think, I may not gaze,
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;
And now their softest notes repeat

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead! Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, Beloved dust! since dust thou art; And all that once was harmony

Is worse than discord to my heart! 'Tis silent all !-but on my ear

The well-remember'd echoes thrill;
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 flown.
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.]

ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE.

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
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath,
Like roses o'er a sepulchre.
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill:
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still!

On many a lone and lovely night

It soothed 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 Egean wave,
"Now Thyrza gazes on that moon
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!

rendered any further recurrence to the subject impossible. The reader must be left to form his own conclusion. The five following pieces are all devoted to Thyrza.

"I wrote this a day or two ago, on hearing a song of former days."-Lord Byron to Mr. Hodgson, December 8, 1811.

When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, ""Tis comfort still," I faintly said,

"That Thyrza cannot know my pains: " 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 silent-ah, were mine as still! Though cold as e'en the dead can be, It feels, it sickens with the chill.

Thou bitter pledge! thou mournful token!
Though painful, welcome to my breast!
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken,

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?

EUTHANASIA.

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 tear.

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.

Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan;

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 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!

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o'er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
'Tis something better not to be.

AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR.

“Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tuí meminisse!

AND thou art dead, as young and fair
As aught of mortal birth;

And form so soft, and charms so rare,
Too soon return'd to Earth!
Though Earth received them in her bed,
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread
In carelessness or mirth,
There is an eye which could not brook
A moment on that grave to look.

I will not ask where thou liest low,
Nor gaze upon the spot;

There flowers or weeds at will may grow,
So I behold them not:

It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved, and long must love,
Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell,
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last

As fervently as thou,

Who didst not change through all the past,

And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see

Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

The better days of life were ours;
The worst can be but mine:

The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers,
Shall never more be thine.

The silence of that dreamless sleep

I envy now too much to weep;

Nor need I to repine

That all those charms have pass'd away

I might have watch'd through long decay.

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd
Must fall the earliest prey;
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd,
The leaves must drop away:
And yet it were a greater grief
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf,
Than see it pluck'd to-day;
Since earthly eye but ill can bear
To trace the change to foul from fair.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn
Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last;

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,