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ON PARTING.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;

Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak?
By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.

March, 1811.

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET
AND SHOEMAKER. (1)

STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella ?"
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to

Black-it."

Malta, May 16, 1811.

were otherwise tired of travelling; but I am so convinced of the advantages of looking at mankind, instead of reading about them, and the bitter effects of staying at home with all the narrow prejudices of an islander, that I think there should be a law amongst us to send our young men abroad, for a term, among the few allies our wars have left us. Here I see, and have conversed with, French, Italians, Germans, Danes, Greeks, Turks, Americans, etc. etc. etc.; and, without losing sight of my own, I can judge of the countries and manners of others. When I see the superiority of England (which, by the by, we are a good deal mistaken about in many things), I am pleased; and where I find her inferior, I am at least enlightened. Now, I might have stayed, smoked in your towns, or fogged in your country, a century, without being sure of this, and without acquiring any thing more useful or amusing at home. I keep

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FAREWELL TO MALTA.

ADIEU, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!
Adieu, ye mansions where-I've ventured!
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs!

(How surely he who mounts you swears!)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing!
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing!
Adieu, ye packets-without letters!
Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters!
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,
That gave me fever, and the spleen!
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, sirs,
Adieu his Excellency's dancers!
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;

no journal; nor have I any intention of scribbling my travels. I have done with authorship; and if, in my last production, I have convinced the critics or the world I was something more than they took me for, I am satisfied; nor will I hazard that reputation by a future effort. It is true I have some others in manuscript, but I leave them for those who come after me; and if deemed worth publishing, they may serve to prolong my memory, when I myself shall cease to remember. I have a famous Bavarian artist taking some views of Athens, etc. etc., for me. This will be better than scribbling-a disease I hope myself cured of. I hope, on my return, to lead a quiet recluse life; but God knows, and does best for us all."-E.

(1) Some notice of this poetaster has been given, ante, p. 69. He died in 1810, and his works have followed him.-E.

Her hours can gaily glide along, Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, O 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!

TO DIVES.

A FRAGMENT.

UNHAPPY DIVES! in an evil hour

May 26, 1811.

'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 arese!
But thou wert smitten with the unhallow'd thirst
Of crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.

1811.

ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA. (1)

GOOD plays are scarce,

So Moore writes farce:

The poet's fame grows brittle

We knew before

That Little's Moore,

But now 't is Moore that's little.

Sept. 14, 1811.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, (2)

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR
TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE."
"OH! banish care"-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
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,

(1) The opera of M. P.; or the Blue Stocking, came out at the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September.-E. (2) I. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See

p. 72.-E

(5) "The anticipations of his own future career in these con

cluding lines are of nature, it must be owned, to awaken

more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be

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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 any thing 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.(3)

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811.(4)

startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling would carry him. It seemed as if, with the power of painting fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition to be, himself, the dark sublime he drew:' and that, in his fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endeavoured to fancy, where he could not find in his own character, fit subjects for his pencil";

Moore.

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(4) Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, the poet

TO THYRZA. (1)

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?
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 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;

says, "I am growing nervous (how you will laugh!)-but it is true, really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fine-ladically nervous. Your climate kills me; I can neither read, write, nor amuse myself or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights restless, I have seldom any society, and, when I have, I run out of it. I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity; for I find a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely."-E.

(1) The reader will laugh," says Captain Medwin," when I tell him, that it was asserted to a friend of mine, that the lines To Thyrza,' published with the first Canto of Childe Harold, were addressed to-his bear! There is nothing so malignant that Hatred will not invent or Folly believe."-E

(2) Mr. Moore considers "Thyrza" as if she were a mere creature of the poet's brain; but Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr Dallas, bearing the exact date of these lines, viz. Oct. 11th,

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.(2)

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1811,writes as follows:-"I have been again shocked with a death, and have lost one very dear to me in happier times: but '1 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, five years ago, would have bowed my head to the earth." In his reply to this letter. Mr. Dallas says,-"I thank you for your confidential communication. How truly do I wish that that being had lived, and lived yours! What your obligations to her would have been in that case is inconceivable." 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 rendered any farther recurrence to the subject impossible. The reader must be left to form his own conclusion. The five following pieces are all devoted to Thyrza.-E.

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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 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 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:"

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 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. 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.

STANZAS.

"Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui 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 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 butill 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,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee!
The all of thine that cannot die
Through dark and dread Eternity

Returns again to me.

And more thy buried love endears
Than aught, except its living years.
February, 1812.

STANZAS.

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,
And self-condemn'd, appear to smile,
Unfaithful to thy memory!
Nor deem that memory less dear,

That then I seem not to repine;

I would not fools should overhear
One sigh that should be wholly thine.

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,

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.

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