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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 aud 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.

ENIGMA.

'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 passion 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. Jo Paan! 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;
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!

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There is a form, on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight-
By day that form their joy supplies,

And dreams restore it through the night.

There is a voice, whose tones inspire

Such thrills of rapture through my breastI would not hear a seraph choir,

Unless that voice could join the rest.

There is a face, whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek-
But pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words cau speak.

There is a lip, which mine hath prest,
And none had ever prest before,
It vow'd to make me sweetly blest,
And mine-mine only, prest it more.

There is a bosom-all my own

Hath pillow'd oft this aching head; A mouth which smiles on me alone,

An eye, whose tears with mine are shed.

There are two hearts, whose movements thrill
In unison so closely sweet,
That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

They both must heave-or cease to beat.

There are two souls, whose equal low
In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part-they part!-ah, no!
They cannot part-those souls are one.

TO MY DAUGHTER,

ON THE MORNING OF HER BIRTH.

HAIL-to this teeming stage of strife!
Hail, lovely miniature of life!
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 turu idolater to thee!

"T is nature's worship-felt-confest,
Far as the life which warms the breast:--
The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan,
The rudest portraiture of man,
In trackless woods and boundless plains,
Where everlasting wildness reigns,
Owns the still throb-the secret start-
The hidden impulse of the heart.

Dear babe! ere yet upon thy years
The soil of human vice appears-
Ere passion hath disturb'd thy cheek,
And prompted what thou durst not speak-
Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care,
Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair,
Would I could wake thine untuned ear,
And gust it with a father's priyer.

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 weepThe 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
The 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 cf 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-al! 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 ease 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,

A pang beyond this fleeting breath, Een now all future hope resign:

Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death.

THE FAREWELL.

TO A LADY.

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.

LINES

Addressed by Lord Byron to Mr Hobhouse, on his Election for Westminster.

Mors janua vitæ.

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.

TO A LADY.

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 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 so-
I would not give that bosom pain.

STANZAS.

I HEARD thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear-
Too loved of all to die.

I know not what hath sear'd mine eye:

The tears refuse to start;

But every drop its lids deny
Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes-deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink, and turn to care;
As cavern'd waters wear the stone,
Yet, dropping, harden there.—
They cannot petrify more fast
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past,
But never melt again.

LINES,

FOUND IN THE TRAVELLER'S BOOK AT CHAMOUNI.

How many number'd are, how few agreed,
In age, or clime, or character, or creed!
Here wandering genius leaves a deathless name,
And Folly writes-for others do the same.
Italian treachery, and English pride,

Dutch craft, and German dulness, side by side!
The hardy Russian hails congenial snow;
The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow.
Knew men the objects of this varied crew,
To stare how many, and to feel how few!
Here Nature's child, ecstatic from her school;
And travelling problems, that admire by rule.
The timorous poet woos his modest muse,
And thanks his stars he 's safe from all reviews.
The pedant drags from out his motley store
A line some hundred hills have heard before.
Here critics too (for where 's the happy spot
So blest by nature as to have them not?,
Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase
Of foolish wonder or of honest praise;
Some pompous hint, some comment ou mine host,
Some direful failure, or some empty boast.
Not blacker spleen could fill these furious men,
If Jeffrey's soul had perch'd on Gifford's pen.
Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame,
Join'd in one act of wonder when they came :
Bere beauty's worshipper in flesh or rock,
The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block,
Sces the white giant in his robe of light,
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height;
And stops, while hastening to the blest remains
And calmer beauties of the classic plains.

And here, whom hope beguiling bids to seek
Ease for his breast, and colour for his cheek,
Still steals a moment from Ausonia's sky,
And views and wonders on his way to die.

But he, the author of these idle lines, What passion leads him, and what the confines? For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, What joy clates him, and what grief co consumes?

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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 they enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its jollities 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 opened 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! and when summer is flown,
The
age of our nectar shall gladden our own;
We must die!-Who shall not?-
-May our sins be for-

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