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[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.]
WHEN slow Disease with all her host of pains,
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!
LORD BYRON TO HIS LADY,
ON THE SIXTH ANNIVERSARY OF THEIR MARRIAGE.
How strangely time his course has run, Since first I pair'd with you;
Six years ago we made but ONE,
Now five have made us two.
THE ISLAND OF ST HELENA.
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 fameThe homage of ages shall hallow thy name!
Hail to the chief who reposes
On thee the rich weight of his glory!
Shall hold him the wonder and grace of the earth. The meteors of history before thee shall fallEclipsed by thy splendour-thou meteor of Gaul!
Hygeian breezes shall fan thee-
Pilgrims from nations far distant shall man thee-
On thy far gleaming strand the wanderer shall stay him
Whose were the hands that enslaved him?
Never till now had subdued him!
Monarchs-who oft to his clemency stooping,
Received back their crowns from the plunder of warThe vanquisher vanquish'd-the eagle now droopingWould quench with their sternness the ray of his star! But cloth'd in new splendour thy glory appears-And rules the ascendant-the planet of years!
Pure be the heath of thy mountains! Rich be the green of thy pastures!
Thou wert gay in the smiles of the world,
But now thy bright blossom is shrivell'd and curl'd—
For corruption hath fed on thy leaf,
And bigotry weaken'd thy stem;
Let Edinburgh critics o'erwhelm with their praises
But cheering's the beam, and unfading the splendour
Then fill high the wine cup, e'en virtue shall bless it, And hallow the goblet which foams to her name; The warm lip of beauty shall piously press it,
And Hymen shall honour the pledge to her fame: To the health of the woman, who freedom and life too Has risk'd for her husband, we'll pay the just debt; And hail with applauses the heroine and wife too, The constant, the noble, the fair LAVALETTE.
Her foes have awarded, in impotent malice,
To their captive a doom which all Europe abhors,
Now those who have fear'd thee shall smile at thy grief, And turns from the stairs of the priest-haunted palace, And those who adored thee condemn.
The valley that gave thee thy birth
Shall weep for the hope of its soil;
The legions, that fought for thy beauty and worth, Shall hasten to share in thy spoil.
As a by-word, thy blossom shall be
A mock and a jest among men ;
The proverb of slaves, and the sneer of the free, In city, and mountain, and glen.
Oh! 't was Tyranny's pestilent gale
That scatter'd thy buds on the ground;
That threw the blood-stain on the virgin-white veil, And pierced thee with many a wound!
Then the puny leaf shook to the wind,
Thy stem gave its strength to the blast; Thy full-bursting blossom its promise resign'd, And fell to the storm as it pass'd.
While those who replaced them there blush for their
But in ages to come, when the blood-tarnish'd glory
Of the fond self-devotion of fair LAVALETTE.
ADIEU TO MALTA.
ADIEU the joys of La Valette:
Adieu thou palace, rarely enter'd;
Adieu thou damn'dest quarantine,
That gave me fever and the spleen;
Of all that strut en militaire:
I go-but God knows where or why-
And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,
Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is,
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:
Return to scribbling, or a book;
T WAS whisper'd in heaven, 'twas mutter'd in hell,
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flow'rOh! breathe on it softly-it dies in an hour.
THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE.
Io Pæan! Io! sing
To the finny people's king-
In the vast Atlantic is;
Last, and lowest of his train,
Ink fish, libellers of the main,
Their black liquor shed in spite-
No good thing can ever stay;
Had it been the fortune of it
To have swallow'd the old prophet,
Hapless mariners are they
Footing sure, safe spot and dry land,
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?
By his oily qualities,
This, or else my eye-sight fails,
This should be the-Prince of Whales!
[The following Stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few months before their separation.] THERE is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreathed with mine alone,
That destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both or none.
But little reck'st thou, oh my child!
Little reck'st thou, my earliest born-
But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
Thy tears must flow, as mine have flow'd;
Sorrow must wash the faults away;
Unconscious babe! though on that brow
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,
A parent's love thy peace should free,
Sleep on, my child! the slumber brief
Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
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!
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,
What thou hast done too well, for me-
I have not wept while thou wert gone,
But sought, in many, all that one
To thine-to thee-to man-to God,
But, since my breast is not so pure,
Not thee-oh! dearest as thou art!
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 ask— Ere 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.
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,
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.
Mors Janua vitæ..
WOULD you get to the house through the true gate,
Let Parliament send you to Newgate-
Stated to have been written by Lord Byron, in the
And, should all other pleasures fail,
And commune with the Deity.
Far from the pride and scorn of man,
And sometimes bold, yet fearful, dare
Alone I come! alone I go!
Alike unnoticed and unknown!
Yet why? Why should I thus complain?
To duller, happier souls unknown?