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Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chase

Our raptured visions as before, Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion; Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of Spring:
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow;
Still, still despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's wo.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
Aud even in age at heart a child.

Though now on airy visions borne,

To you my soul is still the same: Oft has it been my fate to mourn, And all my former joys are tame. But, hence! ye hours of sable hue! Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er; By every bliss my childhood knew,

I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast, When lull'd by zephyr to repose. Full often has my infant Muse

Attuned to love her languid lyre; But now, without a theme to choose, The strains in stolen sighs expire. My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; E is a wife, and C a mother,

And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which rolled on me, Can now no more my love recall;

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And passion's self is now a name."
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,

Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers, With all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers. But now, dear L-, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat Which once contain'd our youth's retreat; And then with those our childhood knew, We'll mingle with the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn

TO *

On! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.

To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving: They know my sins, but do not know

'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.

For once my soul, like thine, was pure,

And all its rising fires could smother; But now thy vows no more endure, Bestow'd by thee upon another.

Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.

Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any; But what is sought in thee alone,

Attempts, alas! to find in many.

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,
"Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory, yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.

• Mias Chaworth. First published in the first edition of Hours of Idleness.

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Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous joy is but a name.
And woman! lovely woman, thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall.
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid wo,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men-
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest.

STANZAS.

I WOULD I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark-blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxont pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound,
I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me along the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ;

I ask but this-again to rove

LINES +

WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD
OF HARROW ON THE HILL, September 2, 1807.
SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm' beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine.
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,

Through scenes my youth hath known before. And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,

Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me: Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead?
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,

• First published in the second edition of Hours of Idleness.

"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When fate shall chill. at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest.
Oft have I thought 'twould soothe my dying hour,
If aught may soothe when life resigns ner power,
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell:
With this fond dream methinks 'twere sweet to die-
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplored by those, in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.

• Psalm iv. ver. 6.-" And I said, Oh! that I had wings like a dove; then would I fly away, and be at rest." This verse also constitutes a pl

↑ Sassenage, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or of the most beautiful anthem in our language. English.

↑ First published in the second edition of the Hours of Idleness.

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CRITIQUE,

EXTRACTED FROM THE EDINBURGH REVIEW, FOR JANUARY, 1808.

Hours of Idleness; a Series of Poems, original and however, does allude frequently to his family and translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a ancestors-sometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; Minor. 8vo. pp. 200.-Newark, 1807. and while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's

THE poesy of this young lord belongs to the class saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, which neither gods nor men are said to permit. his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity truth, it is this consideration only that induces us of verse with so few deviations in either direction to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, from that exact standard. His effusions are spread beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forth over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below with abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. are considerable, and his opportunities, which are As an extenuation of this offence, the noble author great, to better account.

is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We With this view, we must beg leave seriously to have it in the titlepage, and on the very back of the assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final volume; it follows his name like a favorite part of syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the pre-a certain number of feet,-nay, although (which face; and the poems are connected with this general does not always happen) those feet should scan statement of his case, by particular dates, substan- regularly, and have been all counted accurately tiating the age at which each was written. Now, upon the fingers,-is not the whole art of poetry. the law upon the point of minority we hold to be We would entreat him to believe, that a certain perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necesdefendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplement- sary to constitute a poem, and that a poem in the ary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be present day, to be read, must contain as least one brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of thought, either in a little degree different from the compelling him to put into court a certain quantity ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, We put it to his candor, whether there is any thing it is highly probable that an exception would be so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the taken, were he to deliver for poetry the contents of following, written in 1806; and whether, if a youth this volume. To this he might plead minority; of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish it: article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point, and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, "See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!"—But, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his the noble minor's volume. leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to

"Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing

From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu !
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
"Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
"Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret:
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation;
The fame of his father's he ne'er can forget.
"That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own."

Now we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compass of

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting be the most common of all occurrences; that it what the greatest poets have done before him, for happens in the life of nine men in ten who are comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see educated in England; and that the tenth man at his writing-master's) are odious.-Gray's Ode on writes better verse than Lord Byron. Eton College should really have kept out the ten

His other plea of privilege our author rather hobbling stanzas "On a distant View of the Village brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, and School of Harrow."

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