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" [". My school-friendships were with me passions (for I was always violent); but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be sure some have been cut short by death) till now." - Dyrun Diary, 1821.]

2 (" At Harrow I fought my way very fairly. I think I lost but one battle out of seven." - - Ibid.)

3 [They show a tomb in the churchyard at Harrow, commanding a view over Windsor, which was so well known to be his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it " Byron's Toml);" and here, they say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought.)

* (For the display of his declamatory powers, on the speech-days, he selected always the most vehement passages : such as the speech of Zanga over the body of Alunzo, and Lcar's address to the storm.)

s Mossop, a cotcmporary of Garrick, famous for his per formance of Zanga.

$(" My grand patron, Dr. Drury, had a great notion that I should turn out an orator, from my fluency, my turbulence, my voice, my copiousness of declamation, and my action." Byron Diary.)

[In the private volume the two last stanzas ran "I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness,

or tears, as of reason, for ever was drain'd; But the drops which now How down this bosom of sadness,

Convince me the springs have some moisture rctain'd. “ Sweet scenes of my childhood ! your blest recollection

Has wrung from these eyelids, to werping lung dead,
In torrents the tears of my warmest alection,
The last anú the fondesi I ever shall shed."')

For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear: E'en suns, which systems now control, Would twinkle dimly through their sphere. 1

1806.

TO WOMAN.

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WOMAN! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thce :
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought :
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, bul to adore thee.
Oh memory! thou choicest blessing
When join'd with hope, when still possessing ;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is Aed and passion 's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplicgs to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we vicw
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows !
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 't will last for aye,
When lo ! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
“ Woman, thy vows are traced in sand." 2

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TO M. S. G.

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;

Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live, -

I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast,

Shed o'er me your languor benign ; Should the dream of to-night but reseinble the last,

What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

Mortality's emblem is given ; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,

Nor deem me too happy in this ;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in vision's sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,

Oh! think not my penance deficient ! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,

To awake will be torture sufficient.

1" Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do intreat her eyes,

To twinkle in their spheres till they return."-SHAKS. ? The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.

3 [Of this " Mary," who is not to be confounded with the heiress of Annesley, or “ Mary" of Aberdeen, all that has been ascertained is, that she was oí an huinble, is not cqui.

TO MARY,

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE. S

This faint resemblance of thy charms,

Though strong as mortal art could give, My constant heart of fear disarms,

Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Here I can trace the locks of gold

Which round thy snowy forehead wave,
The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould,

The lips which made me beauty's slave.

Here I can trace - ah, no! that eye,

Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy,

And bid him from the task retire.

Here I behold its beauteous hue;

But where's the beam so sweetly straying, Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ?

Sweet copy ! far more dear to me,

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be,

Save her who placed thee next my heart.

She placed it, sad, with needless fear,

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there

Held every sense in fast control.

Through hours, through years, through time, 't will

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise ; (cheer; In life's last conflict 't will appear,

And meet my fond expiring gaze.

TO LESBIA.
LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged,

Our souls with fond affection glow not ;
You say 't is I, not you, have changed,

I'd tell you why, - but yet I know not.

Your polish'd brow no cares have crost;

And Lesbia! we are not much older Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.

Sixteen was then our utmost .age,

Two years have lingering past away, love ! And now new thoughts our minds engage,

At least I feel disposed to stray, love !

'Tis I that am alone to blame,

I, that am guilty of love's treason ; Since your sweet breast is still the same,

Caprice must be my only reason,

vocal, station in life, – and that she had long light golden
hair, “ of which," says Mr. Moore, “ the Poet used to show a
lock, as well as her picture, among his friends.")
+ [In the private volume -

But where's the beam of soft desire ?
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Love, only love, could e'er inspire.]

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I do not, love ! suspect your truth,

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not ; Warm was the passion of my youth,

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.

No, no, my flame was not pretended ;

For, oh! I loved you most sincerely ; And—though our dream at last is ended

My bosom still esteems you dearly.

No more we meet in yonder bowers ;

Absence has made me prone to roving ; But older, firmcr hearts than ours

Have found monotony in loving.

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,

New beauties still are daily bright’ning, Your eye for conquest beams prepared,

The forge of love's resistless lightning.

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,

Many will throng to sigh like me, love! More constant they may prove, indeed ;

Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love !

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY. (As the author was discharging his pistols in a garden, two ladies passing near the spot were alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing near them ; to one of whom the following stanzas were addressed the next morning.)'

DOUBTLESS, sweet girl ! the hissing lead,

Wafting destruction o'er thy charms,
And hurtling 2 o'er thy lovely head,

Has fil'd that breast with fond alarms.

Surely some envious demon's force,

Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impell’d the bullet's viewless course,

Diverted from its first career.

Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; But Heaven, with interposing power,

In pity turn'd the death aside.

Yet, as perchance one trembling tcar

Upon that thrilling bosom fell; Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear,

Extracted from its glistening cell : Say, what dire penance can atone

For such an outrage done to thee ? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,

What punishment wilt thou decree ?

Might I perform the judge's part,

The sentence I should scarce deplore ; It only would restore a heart

Which but belong'd to thee before.

The least atonement I can make

-Is to become no longer free ; Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake,

Thou shalt be all in all to me.

! [The occurrence took place at Southwell, and the brau. tilul lady to whom the lines were addressed was Miss lloucon.)

But thou, perhaps, may'st now reject

Such expiation of my guilt :
Come then, some other mode elect;

Let it be death, or what thou wilt.

Choose then, relentless ! and I swear

Nought shall thy dread decree prevent ;
Yet hold one little word forbear!

Let it be aught but banishment.

LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.
Au, di abi jus cluyu.. - ANACREON.

The roses of love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent

dew,
Till time crops the leaves with unmcrciful knife,

Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adicu !

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart,

In vain do we vow for an age to be true ;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,

Or death disunite us in love's last adieu !

Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen

breast, Will thisper, “Our meeting we yet may renew :" With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt,

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu !

Oh! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth Love twined round their childhood his fiow'rs as

they rew; They flourish awhile in the season of truth,

Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu !

Sweet lady ! why thuş doth a tear steal its way

Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? Yet why do I ask ? — tò distraction a prey,

Thy reason has perish V with love's last adieu !

Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ?

From cities to caves of the forest he flew : There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;

The mountains reverberate love's last adicu !

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chaios

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew; Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ;

He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu !

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel !

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu !

Youth fies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ;

No more with love's former devotion we sue : He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu !

2 This word is used by Gray, in his poem to the Fatal Sisters :

" Iron slee: of arrowy shower

Ilurtles through the darken d air."

In this life of probation for rapture divine,

Astrea declares that some penance is due ; From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine,

The atonement is ample in love's last adieu !

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light

Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: Ilis myrtle, an emblem of purest delight;

His cypress the garland of love's last adieu !

DAMETAS.

In law an infant ?, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy ;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ;
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school ;
Damætas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin :
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
and bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane. ?

TO MARION.

MARION ! why that pensive brow ?
What disgust to life hast thou ?
Change that discontented air ;
Frowns become not one so fair.
'Tis not love disturbs thy rest,
Love's a stranger to thy breast;
He in dimpling smiles appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears,
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding frown.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire ;
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool indifference thrills us.
Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile,
Smile at least, or seem to smile.
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint ;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips — but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse :
She blushes, curt'sies, frowns — in short she
Dreads lest the subject should transport me ;
And flying off in search of reason,
Brings prudence back in proper season.

I In law every person is an infant who has not attained the age of twenty-one.

? (" When I went up to Trinity, in 1805, at the age of seventeen and a hall, I was miserable and untoward to a degree. I was wretched at leaving Harrow --- wretched at going to Cambridge instead of Oxford – wretched from some private domestic circumstances of different kinds; and, consequently, about as unsocial as a wolf taken from the troop." - Diary. Mr. Moore adds, " The sort of life which young Byron led at this period, between the dissipations of London and of Cambridge, without a home to welcome, or cven the roof of a single relative to receive him, was but little calculated

All I shall therefore say (whatc'er
I think, is neither here nor there)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form'd for better things than sucering:
Of smoothing compliments divested,
Advice at least 's disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of flattery frce ;
Counsel like mine is like a brother's
My heart is given to some others ;
That is to say, unskill'd to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not ;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing
To those who think remonstrance teasing,
At once I 'll tell thee our opinion
Concerning woman's soft dominion :
Howe'er we gaze with admiration
On eyes of blue or lips carnation,
Howe'er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe'er those beauties inay distract us,
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love :
It is not too severe a stricture
To say they form a pretty picture ;
But wouldst thou see the secret chain
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you queens of all creation,
Know, in a word, 't is ANIMATION.

TO A LADY

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR

BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT
IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEX. 3

These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th' unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,
With silly wbims and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic ?
Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leatless shades to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene 's a garden ?
For gardens seem, hy one consent,
Since Shakspeare set the precedent,
Since Juliet first declared her passion
To form the place of assignation. +

to render him satisfied either with himself or the world. Unrestricted as he was by deference to any will but his own, even the pleasures to which he was naturally most inclined prematurely palled upon him, for want of those best zests of all enjoyment - rarity and restraint."]

3 [See antè, p. 387. note.)

• In the abore little piece the author has been accused by some candid readers of introducing the name of a lady from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the time this was written ; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in " the tomb of all the Capulets," has been converted, with a triding

Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire ;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain,
He surely, in commiseration,
Had changed the place of declaration.
In Italy I've no objection ;
Warm nights are proper for reflection ;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation ;
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun ;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you :
There we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves
That cver witness'd rural loves ;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze ;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after. 1

OSCAR OF ALVA. 3

A TALE.

How sweetly shines through azure skies,

The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore ; Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,

And hear the din of arins no more.

But often has yon rolling moon

On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; And view'd, at midnight's silent noon,

Her chiefs in gleaming mail array'd :

And on the crimson'd rocks beneath,

Which scowl o'er occau's sullen flow Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death,

She saw the gasping warrior low;

While many an eye which ne'er again

Could mark the rising orb of day, Turn'd feebly from the gory plain,

Bebeld in death her fading ray.

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love,

They blest bör dear propitious light; But now she glimmerd vom above,

A sad, funereal torch of night.

Faded is Alva's noble race,

And gray her towers are seen afar

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No more her heroes urge the chase,

Or roll the crimson tide of war.

But who was last of Alva's clan?

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ?
Her towers resound no steps of man,

They echo to the gale alure.

And when that gale is fierce and high,

A sound is heard in yonder hall;
It rises hoarsely through the sky,

And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall.

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs,

It shakes the shield of Oscar brave;
But there no more his banners rise,

No more his plumes of sable wave.

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth,

When Angus haild his eldest born ; The vassals round their chieftain's hearth

Crowd to applaud the happy inuin.

They feast upon the mountain deer,

The pibroch raised its piercing note : 3 To gladden more their highland cheer,

The strains in martial numbers float:

And they who heard the war-notes wild

Hored that one day the pibroch's strain Should play before the hero's child

While he should lead the tartan train.

Another year is quickly past,

And Angus hails another son ;
His natal day is like the last,

Nor soon the jocund feast was done.

Taught by their sire to bend the bow,

On Alva's dusky hills of wind,
The boys in childhood chased the roe,

And left their hounds in speed behind.

But ere their years of youth are o'er,

They mingle in the ranks of war;
They lightly wheel the bright claymore,

And send the whistling arrow far.

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair,

Wildly it stream'd along the gale ;
But Allan's locks were bright and fair,

And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale.

But Oscar own'd a hero's soul,

His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd control,

And smooth his words had been from youth.

alteration of her name, into an English damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month of December, in a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some ingenious critics. We would advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of decorum to read Shakspeare.

Having heard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed on the above poem, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, " Carr's Stranger in France." -“ As we were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party, that

there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in my car, that the indecorum was in the remark.'"

? The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the story of " Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schira ler's " Arinenian, or the Ghost-Seer." It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of Macbeth."

3 (Lord Byron falls into a very common error, that of mistaking pibroch, which means a particular sort of tune, for the instrument on which it is played, the bagpipe. Almost every foreign tourist, Nodier, for example, does the same. The reader will find this little slip noticed in the article on the Edinburgh Review appended to these pages.]

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