Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. Ere our right hand shall teach them one tone of theirskill

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose ? All stringlessly hung on the willow's sad tree, A garden with all flowers-except the rose ;

As dead as her dead leaf those mute harps must be; A fount that only wants its living stream;

Our hands may be fetter'd, our tears still are free, And night, with every star, save Dian's beam.

For our God and our glory, and Sion! for thee. Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,

October, 1814. That turn from tracing them to dream of thee; And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, Than all he shall not force on our applause.

Tuey say that Hope is happiness,

But genuine Love must prize the past; Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine:

And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless

They rose the first, they set the last.
The symmetry of youth-the grace of mien-
The eye that gladdens--and the brow serene;

And all that Memory loves the most
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair,

Was once our only hope to be ; Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair! And all that hope adored and lost Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws

Hath melted into memory. A spell which will not let our looks repose,

Alas! it is delusion all, But turn to gaze again, and find anew

The future cheats us from afar, Bome charm that well rewards another view.

Nor can we be what we recall, These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright,

Nor dare we think on what we are. Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;

October, 1814 And these must wait till every charm is gone To please the paltry heart that pleases none, That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye

LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF TJE In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ;

Wbo rack'd his little spirit to combine
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.

In the year since Jesus died for men,
July, 1814.

Eighteen hundred years and ten,
We were a gallant company,

Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea.

Oh! but we went merrily!

We forded the river and cloinb the high hill,
BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn,

Never our steeds for a day stood still ;
Nor in thy sensual fullness fall:

Whether we lay in the cave or the shed,
Behold! while yet before thee burn

Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ;
The graven words, the glowing wall.

Whether we couch'd in our rough capote,
Many a despot meu miscall,

On the rougher plank of our gliding boat,
Crown'd and anointed from on high;

Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddles spread
But thou, the weakest, worst of all-

As a pillow beneath the resting head,
Is it not written, thou must die ?

Fresh we woke upon the morrow :

All our thoughts and words had scope,

We had health, and we had hope,
Go! dash the roses from thy brow-

Toil and travel, but no sorrow,
Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them;

We were of all tongues and creeds ;-
Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,
More than thy very diadem,

Some were those who counted beads,
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem :

Some of mosque, and some of church,
Then throw the worthless bauble by,

And some, or I mis-say, of neither;

Yet through the wide world might ye search,
Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn,

Nor find a motlier crew nor blither.
And learn like better men to die.

But some are dead, and some are gone,
Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,

And some are scatter'd and alone,
And ever light of word and worth,

And some are rebels on the hills
Whose soul expired ere youth decayed,

That look along Epirus' valleys,
And left thee but a mass of earth.

Where freedom still at moments rallies,
To see thee moves a scorner's mirth:

And pays in blood oppression's ills;
But tears in Hope's averted eye

And some are in a far country,
Lament that even thou hadst birth-

And some all restlessly at home;
Unfit to govern, live, or die.

But never more, oh! never we
Shall meet to revel and to roam.

But those hardy days flew cheerily,

And when they now fall drearily.

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the main, IN the valley of waters we wept o'er the day

And bear my spirit back again When the host of the stranger made Salem his prey;

Over the earth, and through the air,
And our heads on our bosoms all droopingly lay,

A wild bird, and a wanderer.
And our hearts were so full of the land far away.
The song they demanded in vain-it lay still

• The last tidinge recently heard of Derrish (one of the Aranets to

Inwed me) stale hin to be in revole upon the muntar, at ibe beada su nur souls as the wind that hath died on the hili, l of the bands comtaon in that country in times of trouble.

'Tis this that ever wakes my strain,
And oft, too oft, implores again
The few who may endure my lay,
To follow me so far away.
Stranger-wilt thou follow now,
And sit with me on Acro-Corinth's brow?

December, 1815.

A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;

Reversed for him our grandsire's* fate of yore, -He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

111. If my inheritance of storms hath been In other elements, and on the rocks of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen, I have sustaind my share of worldly shocks, The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen My errors with defensive paradox;

I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe.

COULD I remount the river of any years,
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears
I would not trace again the stream of hours
Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers,
But bid it flow as now-until it glides
Into the number of the nameless tides.



Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward
My whole life was a contest since the day
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd
The gift,-a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
And I at times have found the struggle hard,
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay 1

But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive.

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What is this death ?-a quiet of the heart?
The whole of that of which we are a part ?
For life is but a vision-what I see
of all which lives alone is life to me,
And being so—the absent are the dead,
Who haunt us froin tranquillity, and spread
A dreary shroud around us, and invest
With sad reinembrancers our hours of rest.

The absent are the dead-for they are cold,
And ne'er can be what once we did behold;
And thcy are changed, and cheerless,-or if yet
The unforgotten do not all forget,
Since thus divided-equal must it be
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea;
It may be both-but one day end i: must
In the dark union of insensate dust.

The under-earth inhabitants-are they
But mingled millions decomposed to clay?
The ashes of a thousand ages spread
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ?
Or do they in their silent cities dwell
Each in his incommunicative cell ?
Or have they their own language ? and a sense
Of breathless being ? darkeu'd and intense
As midnight in her solitude ?-Oh Earth!
Where are the past ?-and wherefore had they birth?
The dead are thy inheritors-and we
But bubbles on thy surface; and the key
of thy profundity is in the grave,
The ebon portal of thy peopled cave,
Where I would walk in spirit, and behold
Our elements resolved to things untold,
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore
The essence of great bosoms now no more.

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Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
Within me,-or perhaps a cold despair,
Brought on when ills habitually recur, -
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,
(For even to this may change of soul refer,
And with light armour we may learn to bear,)

Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not The chief companion of a calmer lot.

VII. I feel almost at times as I have felt In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooba Which do remember me of where I dwelt Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, Come as of yore upon me, and can melt My heart with recognition of their looks;

And even at moments I could think I see Some living thing to love-but none like thee.


October, 1816.

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My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine.
Go where I will, to me thou art the same-
A loved regret which I would not resign.

There yet are two things in my destiny,-
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

II. The first were nothing-bad J still the last It were the haven of my happiness; But other claims and other ties thou hast, And mine is not the wish to make them less.

Here are the Alpine landscapes which creato
A fund for contemplation;-to admire
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;
But something worthier do such scenes insuroi
Here to be lonely is not desolate,
For much I view which I could most desire,

And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

IX. Oh that thou wert but with ine!-but I grow The fool of my own wishes, and forget The solitude which I have vaunted so Has lost its praise in this but one regret;

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Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of "Font Weather Jack."

“But though it were tempest-tost,

Stil his bark could not be lost." He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) com subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after a commande of a similar expedition.

There may be others which I less may show ;

TO THOMAS MOORE. I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet

1. I feel an ebb in my philosophy, And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;
I did remind thee of our own dear lake,*

But, before I go, Tom Moore,
By the old hall which may be mine no more.

Here's a double health to thee! Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake

2. The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:

Here's a sigh to those who love me, Sad havoc Time must with my memory make

And a smile to those who hate; Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;

And, whatever sky's above me, Though, like all things which I have loved, they are

Here's a heart for every fate. Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

3. XI.

Though the ocean roar around me, The world is all before me; I but ask

Yet it still shall bear me on; Of Nature that with which she will comply

Though a desert should surround me, It is but in her summer's sun to bask,

It hath springs that may be won. To mingle with the quiet of her sky,

4. To see her gentle face without a mask,

Were 't the last drop in the well, And never gaze on it with a pathy.

As I gasp'd upon the brink, She was my early friend, and now shall be

Ere my fainting spirit fell, My sister-till I look again on thee.

'Tis to thee that I would drink. XII.

5. I can reduce all feelings but this one:

With that water as this wine, And that I would not;- for at length I see

The libation I would pour Such scenes as those wherein my life begun,

Should be-peace with thine and mine, The earliest-even the only paths for me

And a health to thee, Tom Moore. Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,

July, 1817 I had been better than I now can be ;

The passions which have torn me would have slept;
I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.


With false ambition what had I to do?
Little with love, and least of all with fame;

River, that rollest by the ancient walls
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she And made me all which they can make-a name. Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls Yet this was not the end I did pursue ;

A faint and fleeling memory of me;
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim.
But all is over-I am one the more

What if thy deep and ample stream should be To baffled millions which have gone before.

A mirror of my heart, where she may read

The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, And for the future, this world's future may Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed! From me demand but little of my care;

3. I have outlived myself by many a day;

What do I say?-a mirror of my heart! Having survived so many things that were ; Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong! My years have been no slumber, but the prey Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share

And such as thou art were my passions long. or life which might have fill'd a century,

4. Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. Time may have somewhat tamed them,- not for eve XV.

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye And for the remnant which may be to come Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! I am content; and for the past I feel

Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away, Not thankless,- for within the crowded sum

5. Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,

But left long wrecks behind, and now again, And for the present I would not benumb

Borne in our old unchanged career, we m:ve; My feelings farther.-Nor shall I conceal

Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main, That with all this I still can look around

And I-to loving one I should not love. And worship Nature with a thought profound.

6. XVI. For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart

The current I behold will sweep beneath I know myself secure, as thou in mine;

Her native walls, and murmur at her feet; We were and are-I am, even as thou art

Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe Beings who ne'er each other can resign;

The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's heal It is the same, together or apart.

7. From life's commencement to its slow decline She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee,

We are entwined-let death come slow or fast, Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'e The tie which bound the first endures the last ! Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,

October, 1816. Without the inseparable sigh for her!

The lake of Newstead Abbey.

1 The Counters Guiccioli

{ then



us ;}


But Caina waits for him our life who ended :" His bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,

These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now: Since first I listend to these souls offended, Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

I bow'd my visage and so kept it till That happy ware repass me in its flow! 9.

“What think'st thou ?" said the bard; when The wave that bears my tears returns no more:

unbended, Will she return bv whom that wave shall sweep? And recommenced : “ Alas! unto such ili Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore, How many sweet thoughts, what strange ecstacies I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !" 10.

And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, But that which keepeth us apart is not

And said, " Francesca, thy sad destinies Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth:

Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. But the distraction of a various lot,

But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, As various as the climates of our birth.

By what and how thy, love to passjon rose,

So as his dim desires to recognize ?" 11.

Then she to me: “ The greatest of all woes A stranger loves the lady of the land,

recall to mind Born far beyond the mountains, but his b'ood Is to remind us of our happy days Is ali meridian, as if never fann'd By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood. In misery, and that I thy teacher knows. 12.

But if to learn our passion's first root preys My blood is all meridian; were it not,

Upon thy spirit with such sympathy,

relate i had not left my clime, nor should I be,

I will do* even / as he who weeps and says.In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot,

We read one day for pastime, seated nigh, A slave again of love,-at least of thee.

Of Lancilot, how love enchain'd him too. 13.

We were alone, quite unsuspiciously, Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young

But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue Live as I lived, and love as I love loved ;

All o'er discolour'd by that reading were; To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,

overthrex And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved. But one point only wholly { June, 1819.

desired When we read the long-sigh'd for smile of her,

a fervont

To be thus kiss'd by such devoted | lover, SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH

He who froin me cau be divided ne'er ON THE REPEAL 1 RD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FOR. Kiss'd my mouth, trenbling in the act all over

Accursed was the book and he who wrote ! To be the father of the fatherless,

That day we did no further leaf uncover.To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and

While thus one spirit told us of their lot,

The other wept, so that with pity's thralls raise His offspring, who expired in other days

I swoon'd as if by death I had been smote,

And fell down even as a dead body falls." o make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,

March, 1826. whis is to be a monarch, and repress

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless ?

STANZAS, Were it not easy, sire? and is 't not sweet

TO HER WHO BEST CAN UNDERSTAND THEN To make thyself beloved ? and to be Omniputent by mercy's means ? for thus

Be it so! we part for ever! Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete;

Let the past as nothing be;despot tho', and yet thy people free,

Had I only loved thee, never

Hadst thou been thus dear to me. And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.

August, 1819.

Had I loved and thus been slighted,

That I better could have borne ;

Love is quell'd, when unrequited,

By the rising pulse of scorn.

Pride may cool what passion heated,

Time will tame the wayward will; “The land where I was born sits by the seas,

But the heart in friendship cheated Upon that shore to which the Po descends,

Throbs with woe's most maddening tarin. With all his followers, in search of peace. Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends,

Had I loved, I now might hate thee, Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en

In the hatred solace seek, From me, and me even yet the mode offends.

Might exult to execrate thee, Love, who to none beloved to love again

And, in words, my vengeance wreak. Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain.

• In some of the editions, it is " diro," in others " faro;-an essential

ference between "saying" and " doing," which I know 4 bow I dochon Love to one death conducted us along,

Ask Foscolo. The deditions drive me mad 3 R



Were I now as I was, I had sung

What Lawrence has painted so well; But the strain would expire op my tongue,

And the theme is too soft for my shell.


I am ashes where once I was fire,

And the bard in my bosom is dead;
What I loved I non merely admire,
And my heart is as gray as my head.

My life is not dated by years-

There are moments which act as a plough, And there is not a furrow appears But is deep in my soul as my brow.

5. Let the young and the brilliant aspire

To sing what I gaze on in vain : For sorrow bas torn from my lyre The string which was worthy the strain.

April, 1823



But there is a silent sorrow,

Which can find no vent in speech, Which disdains relief to borrow

From the heights that song can reach. Like a clankless chain enthralling,

Like the sleepless dreams that mock,Like the frigid ice-drops falling

From the surf-surrounded rock. Such the cold and sickening feeling

Thou hast caused this heart to know, Stabb'd the deeper by concealing

From the world its bitter woe. Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee

All that fancy's self could paint,
Once it honour'd and esteem'd thee,

As its idol and its saint!
More than woman thou wast to me;

Not as man I look'd on thee;-
Why like woman then undo me!

Why “heap man's worst curse on me." Wast thou but a fiend, assuming

Friendship's smile, and woman's art,
And in borrow'd beauty blooming,

Trifling with a trusted heart!
By that eye which once could glisten

With opposing glance to me ;
By that ear which once could listen

To each tale I told to thee:-
By that lip, its smile bestowing,

Which could soften sorrow's gush;By that cheek, once brightly glowing

With pure friendship's well-feigned blush; By all those false charms united,

Thou hast wrought thy wanton will, And, without compunction, blighted

What “thou wouldst not kindly kill." Yet I curse thee not in sadness,

Still, I feel how dear thou wert; Oh! I could not-e'en in madness

Doom thee to thy just desert! Live! and when my life is over,

Should thine own be lengthen'd long, Thou may'st then, too late, discover

By thy feelings, all my wrong. When thy beauties all are faded,

When thy flatterers fawn no more, Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded

Some regardless reptile's store, Ere that hour, false syren, hear me!

Thou may'st feel what I do now, While my spirit, hovering near thee,

Whispers friendship's broken vow.
But 'tis useless to upbraid thee

With thy past or present state;
What thou wast, my fancy made thee,

What thou art, I know too late.

1. Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story; The days of our youth are the days of our glory And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

2. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that u

wrinkled ? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May.dew besprinkled Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!

3. Oh Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

4. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

December, 1821.




BENEATH Blessington's eyes

The reclaim'd Paradise
Should be free as the former from evil;

But if the new Eve

For an apple should grieve,
What mortal would not play the Devil ?

April, 1823


1. You have ask'd for a verse :-the request

In a rhymer 't were strange to deny; But my Hippocrene was but my breast,

And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.

The Genoese wits had already applied this threadhare jest to biors Taking it into their heads that this villa had been fixed on for his ema dence, they said, 'n Diavolo e ancora entrato in Paradiso Me

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