[Although never publicly acknowledged by Lord Byron, the following have been generally attributed to his pen: and, aware of the interest attached to his most trifling efforts, the Publishers, without vouching for their authenticity, have not hesitated to add them to this edition.]
I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me.
WHEN slow Disease, with all her host of pains, Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins; When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, And flies with every changing gale of spring; Not to the aching frame alone confined, Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind. What grisly forms, the spectre train of woe, Bids shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow; With Resignation wage relentless strife, While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life! Yet less the pang, when, through the tedious hour, Remembrance sheds around her genial power, Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, When love was bliss, and beauty form'd our heaven: Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm, The orb of day unveils his distant form, Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain; Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams, The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, To scenes far distant points his paler rays, Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, The past confounding with the present day.
Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought; My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, And roams romantic o'er her airy fields; Scenes of my youth developed crowd to view, To which I long have paid a last adieu!
ON THE SIXTH ANNIVERSARY OF THEIR MARRIAGE.
How strangely time his course has run, Siuce first I pair'd with you;
Six years ago we made but ONE, Now five have made us TWO.
PEACE to thee, isle of the ocean!
Hail to thy breezes and billows! Where, rolling its tides in perpetual devotion, The white wave its plumy surf pillows! Rich shall the chaplet be history shall weave thee! Whose undying verdure shall bloom on thy brow, When nations, that now in obscurity leave thee,
To the wand of oblivion alternately bow! Unchanged in thy glory-unstain'd in thy fame- The homage of ages shall hallow thy name!
Hail to the chief who reposes
On thee the rich weight of his glory! When, fill'd to its limit, life's chronicle closes, His deeds shall be sacred in story! His prowess shall rank with the first of all ages, And monarchs hereafter shall bow to his worth- The songs of the poets-the lessons of sages-
Shall hold him the wonder and grace of the earth. The meteors of history before thee shall fallEclipsed by thy splendour-thou meteo of Gaul!
Hygeian breezes shall fan thee- Island of glory resplendent!
Pilgrims from nations far distant shall man thee- Tribes, as thy waves independent!
On thy far gleaming strand the wanderer shall stay him To snatch a brief glance at a spot so renown'd--- Each turf, and each stone, and each cliff, shall delay him Where the step of thy exile hath hallow'd thy ground. From him shalt thou borrow a lustre divine; The wane of his sun was the rising of thine!
Whose were the hands that enslaved him? Hands which had weakly withstood him- Nations which, while they had oftentimes braved
Adieu, thou damn'dest 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 where 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 gaily glide along, Nor ask the aid of idle song.
And now, oh Malta! since thou'st got us, Thou little military hot-house,
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 this label ; Prefer my nightcap to my beaver, And bless my stars I've got a fever.
T WAS whisper'd in heaven, 't was mutter'd in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell: On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confest.
'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. 'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth, and awaits him in death; It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth: Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passiou be drown'd: T will not soften the heart, and, though deaf to the car, 'T will make it acutely and instantly hear.
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flowerOh! breathe on it softly—it dies in an hour.
THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE, Io Pran! Io! sing
To the finny people's king- Not a mightier whale than this
In the vast Atlantic is ; Not a fatter fish than he Flounders round the Polar sea;
By Chas Lamb. (See Crabb Revinson's
Diary, 1175.)
See his blubber-at his gills What a world of drink he swills! From his trunk as from a spout, Which next moment he pours out. Such his person: next declare, Muse! who his companions are. Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside or slinks behind, But about his person keep All the monsters of the deep; Mermaids, with their tales and singing, His delighted fancy stinging;- Crooked dolphins, they surround him; Dog-like seals, they fawn around him : Following hard, the progress mark Of the intolerant salt sea shark- For his solace and relief Flat fish are his courtiers chief;- Last and lowest of his train, Ink-fish, libellers of the main, Their black liquor shed in spite-
(Such on earth the things that write.) In his stomach, some do say,
No good thing can ever stay;
Had it been the fortune of it To have swallow'd the old prophet, Three days there he 'd not have dwell'd, But in one have been expell'd. Hapless mariners are they,
Who, beguiled, as seamen say, Deeming it some rock or island, Footing sure, safe spot, and dry land, Anchor in his scaly rind;
Soon the difference they find,
Sudden, plump, he sinks beneath them— Does to ruthless waves bequeath them. Name or title, what has he?
Is he regent of the sea? From the difficulty free us, Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnæus! With his wondrous attributes Say-what appellation suits? By his bulk and by his size, By his oily qualities,
This, or else my eye-sight fails,
This should be the- Prince of Whales!
But little reck'st thou, oh my child! Of travel on life's thorny wild; Of all the dangers-all the woes Each tottering footstep which inclose- Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene So darkly wrought that spreads between The little all we here can find, And the dark mystic sphere behind!
Little reck'st thou, my earliest born, Of clouds which gather round thy morn- Of arts to lure thy soul astray- Of snares that intersect thy way— Of secret foes-of friends untrue- Of fiends, who stab the hearts they woo: Little thou reck'st of this sad store- Would thou might'st never reck them more!
But thou wilt burst this transient sleep, And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep- The tenant of a frail abode,
Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd; Beguiled by follies, every day, Sorrow must wash the faults away; And thou mayst wake, perchance, to prove pang of unrequited love.
Unconscious babe! though on that brow No half-fledged misery nestles now— Scarce round those placid lips a smile Maternal fondness shall beguile, Ere the moist footsteps of a tear Shall plant their dewy traces there, And prematurely pave the way For sorrows of a riper day.
Oh! could a father's prayer repel
The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell!
Or could a father hope to bear
A darling child's allotted care,
Then thou, my babe, shouldst slumber still, Exempted from all human ill,
A parent's love thy peace should free, And ask its wounds again for thee.
Sleep on, my child! the slumber brief Too soon shall melt away to grief; Too soon the dawn of woe shall break, And briny rills bedew that cheek : Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes- That breast be agonized with sighs- And anguish o'er the beams of noon Lead clouds of care--ah! much too soon!
Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown, Of wants and sorrows all their own- Of many a pang, and many a woe, That thy dear sex alone can know- Of many an ill, untold, unsung, That will not, may not find a tongue- But, kept conceal'd, without control, Spread the fell cancers of the soul!
Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest: May joy still animate thy breast! Still, midst thy least propitious days, Shedding its rich inspiring rays!
A father's heart shall daily bear Thy name upon its secret prayer, And as he seeks his last repose, Thine image case life's parting throes. Then hail, sweet miniature of life! Hail to this teeming stage of strife! Pilgrim of many cares untold! Lamb of the world's extended fold! Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears! Sweet promise of ecstatic years! How could I fainly bend the knee, And turn idolater to thee!
TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB.
AND say'st thou that I have not felt,
Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt
On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be,
And I will learn to prize thee less; As thou hast fled, so let me flee,
And change the heart thou mayst not bless. They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd,
Of late, another's charms to woo, Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd
That thou wert banish'd from my view. Clara! this struggle-to undo
What thou hast done too well, for me- This mask before the babbling crew- This treachery-was truth to thee!
I have not wept while thou wert gone, Nor worn one look of sullen woe; But sought, in many, all that one
(Ah! need I name her?) could bestow. It is a duty which I owe
To thine-to thee-to man-to God, To crush, to quench this guilty glow,
Ere yet the path of crime be trod. But, since my breast is not so pure Since still the vulture tears my heart Let me this agony endure,
Not thee-oh! dearest as thou art! In mercy, Clara! let us part,
And I will seek, yet know not how, To shun, in time, the threatening dart; Guilt must not aim at such as thou.
But thou must aid me in the task,
And nobly thus exert thy power; Then spurn me hence-'t is all I askEre time mature a guiltier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower Remorse redoubled on my head; Ere fires unquenchably devour
A heart, whose hope has long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me,
Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee, From woe like ours-from shame like thine? And, if there be a wrath divine,
WHEN man, expell'd from Eden's bower, A moment linger'd near the gate, Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hour, And bade him curse his future fate.
But wandering on through distant climes, He learn'd to bear his load of grief,
And gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief.
Thus, lady, will it be with me,
And I shall view thy charms no more; For whilst 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 a wish to enter there.
Addressed by Lord Byron to Mr Hobhouse, on his Election for Westminster.
WOULD you get to the house through the true gate, Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went Let Parliament send you to Newgate- And Newgate will send you to-Parliament.
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 a while 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 eye no tear may steep.
Sweet Lady! once my heart was warm With every feeling soft 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 so- I would not give that bosom pain.
« PreviousContinue » |