(Fron: the Turkish.) The chain I gave was fair to view,

The lute I added sweet in sound; The heart that offer'd both was true,

And ill deserved the fate it found. Those gifts were charm'd by secret spell

Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well,

Alas! they could not teach thee thine. That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch ; That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think

In other hands its notes were such. Let him who from thy neck unbound

The chain which shiver'd in his gras, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;

The chain is broke, the music mute. 'Tis past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute,

IND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee;

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near Methought that joy and health alone could be

Where I was not--and pain and sorrow here! And is it thus?-it is as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more,

But in the after-silence on the shore, When all is lost, except a little life.

I am too well avenged !but it was my right;

Whale'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. Mercy is for the merciful!-if thou Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!

Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel

A hollow agony which will not heal,
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap

The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. K.ND Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh; Here Harold lies, but where 's his Epitaph ? If such you seek, try Westminster, and view Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.



STRANGER I behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You 'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phebus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella ?"
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to “Black-it."

Malta, May 16, 1811.

I have had many foes, but none like thee;

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,

And be avenged, or turn them into friend; But thou in safe implacability Hadst naught to dread - in thy own weakness

shielded, And in my love, which hath but too much yielded. And spared, for thy sake, some I should not

spareAnd thus upon the world-trust in thy truthAnd the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth

On things that were not, and on things that are
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement bath been guilt!

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,

For present anger, and for future gold-
And buying others' grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell

In Janus-spirits--the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence-the pretex
Of Prudence, with advantages annexd-
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No natter how, to the desired end-

Au found a place in thy philosophy.
Che means were worthy, and the end is won---
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!

September 1816


So we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

for the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving

And the day returns too soon,
Pet we'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon

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HALES.OWEN. When Dryden's fool, “unknowing what he sought," His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought," This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense Supplied, and amply too, by innocence ; Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers, In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. Severe the fate of modern fools, alas! When vice and folly mark them as they pass. Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

I READ the “Christabel;"

Very well:
I read the “Missionary;"

I tried at “Nderim;"

I read a sheet of “Marg'ret of Anjou,

Can you ?
I turn'd a page of Scott's “ Waterloo ;"

Pooh! pooh!
I look'd at Wordsworth's milk-white“ Rylstone Doef

&c. &c. &c.

FROM THE FRENCH. Æale, beauty and poet, has two little crimes ; She makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.

Ir, for silver or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples

Into balf a dozen dimples, Then your face we might behold,

Looking, doubtless, much more snuglys Yet even then 't would be dd ugly

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To hook the reader, you, John Murray,

Have publish'd “ Anjou's Margaret,"
Which won't be sold off in a hurry,

(At least, it has not been as yet ;) And then, still further to bewilder 'em, Without remorse you set up “Ilderim;"

So mind you don't get into debt, Because as how, if you should fail, These books would be but baddish bail. And mind you do not let escape

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry,

Which would be very treacherous-pery, And get me into such a scrape !

For, firstly, I should have to sally,

All in my little boat, against a Galley ; And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, Have next to combat with the female knight.

March 25, 1817.

Pronouncing on the nouns and particles
Of some of our forthcoming Articles.

The Quarterly-Ah, sir, if you
Had but the genius to review -
A smart critique upon St. Helena,
Or if you only would but tell in a
Short compass what—but, to resume :
As I was saying, sir, the room-
The room 's so full of wits and bards,
Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, and Warda
And others, neither bards nor wits:-
My humble tenement admits
All persons in the dress of gent.,
From Mr. Hammond to Dog Dent.

A party dines with me to-day, All clever men, who make their way; Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, Are all partakers of my pantry. They're at this moment in discussion On poor De Staël's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advancePray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! Thus run our time and tongues away.But, to return, sir, to your play: Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, Unless 't were acted by O'Neil. My hands so full, my head so busy, I'm almost dead, and always dizzy; And so, with endless truth and hurry, Dear Doctor, I am yours,



DEAR Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way,-
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
Which your catastrophe convulses.

I like your moral and machinery;
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery;
Your dialogue is apt and smart;
The plays's concoction full of art;
Your hero raves, your heroine cries,
All stab, and every body dies.
In short, your tragedy would be
The very thing to hear and see:
And for a piece of publication,
If I decline on this occasion,
It is not that I am not sensible
To merits in themselves ostensible;
But-and I grieve to speak it-plays
Are drugs-mere drugs, sir-now-a-days.
I had a heavy loss by “Manuel,"-
Too lucky if it prove not annual,-
And Sotheby, with his "Orestes,"
Which, by the by, the author's best is,)
Has lain so very long on hand,
That I despair of all demand.
I've advertised, but see my books,
Or only watch my shopman's looks;-
Btill Ivan, Ina, and such lumber,
My back-shop glut, my shelves encumber.

There's Byron too, who once did better,
Has sent me, folded in a letter,
A sort of-it's no more a drama
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama;
so aiter'd since last year his pen is,
I think he's lost his wits at Venice.
In short, sir, what with one and t'other,
I dare not venture on another.
I write in haste; excuse each blunder;
The coaches through the streets so thunder.
My room's so full-we've Gifford here
Reading MS., with Hookman Frere,

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My dear Mr. Murray,
You're in a damn'd hurry

To set up this ultimate Canto;
But (if they don't rob us)
You 'll see Mr. Hobhouse

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.
For the Journal you hint of,
As ready to print off,

No doubt you do right to commend it;
But as yet I have writ off
The devil a bit of

Our “ Beppo :"-when copied, I'll send it.
Then you've ***'s Tour,-
No great things, to be sure, -

You could hardly begin with a less work;
For the pompous rascallion,
Who don't speak Italian

Nor French, must have scribbled by guese-work
You can make any loss up
With "Spence" and his gossip,

A work which must surely succeed ;
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-craft,
With the new "Tytte” of “Whistlecran,"

Must make people purchase and read.
Then you've General Gordon,
Who girded his sword on,

To serve with a Muscovite master,
And help him to polish
A nation so owlish,

They thought shaving their beards a disaster

For the man,"

poor and shrewd," With whom you 'd conclude

A compact without more delay,
Perhaps some such pen is
Sull extant in Venice;
But please, sir, to mention your pay.

Venice, January 8, 1818.

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT. With death doom'd to grapple

Beneath this cold slab, be Who lied in the Chapel

Now lies in the Abbey.


ON MY WEDDING-DAY. Here's a happy new year! but with reason

I beg you 'll permit me to sayWish me many returns of the season,

But as few as you please of the day.


STRAHAN, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,

My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come:
Thou printest all-and sellest some-

My Murray. Upon thy table's baize so green The last new Quarterly is seen,But where is thy new Magazine,

My Murray ? Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine The works thou deernest most divineThe “ Art of Cookery," and mine,

My Murray Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, And Sermons to thy mill bring grist; And then thou hast the "Navy List,"

My Murray.

The world is a bundle of hay,

Mankind are the asses who pull; Each tugs in a different way,

And the greatest of all is John Bull.

THE CHARITY BALL. (On hearing that Lady Byron had been Patroness of a Ball in all of our

charity at Hinckley.) What matter the pangs of a husband and father

If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,

And the saint patronizes her “charity ball I" What matters-a heart which, though faulty, was

feeling, Be driven to excesses which once could appal That the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing,

As the saint keeps her charity back for “the ball |

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And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without " the Board of Longitude,"
Although this narrow paper would,

My Murray!

Venice, March 25, 1818




The brasiers, it seems, are preparing to pass
An address, and present it themselves all in bran ,
A superfluous pageant-for, by the Lord Harry!
They'll find where they are going much more than


TO THOMAS MOORE What are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore? What are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore ? Sighing or suing now, Rhyming or wooing now, Billing соо

now, Which, Thomas Moore ? But the Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore ! The Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore ! Masking and humming, Fifing and drumming, Guitarring and strumming.

Oh Thomas Moore !


STANZAS. WHEN a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,

Let him combat for that of his neighbours: Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,

And get knock'd on the head for his labours.
To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,

And is always as nobly requited;
Then battle for freedom wherever you can,

And, if not shot or hang'd, you 'll get knighted.

For Orford and for Waldegrave
You give much more than me you gave ;
Which is not fairly to behave,

My Murray.
Because if a live dog, 'tis said,
Be worth a lion fairly sped,
A live lord must be worth too dead,

My Murray.
And if, as the opinion goes,
Verse hath a better sale than prose-
Certes, I should have more than those

My Murray,
But now this sheet is nearly crammid,
So, if you will, I shan't be shamm'll,
And if you won't, you may be damn'd

My Murray.



His father's sense, his mother's grace,

In him, hope, will always fit so;
With-still to keep him in good case

The health and appetite of Rizzio.

Like Chiefs of Faction,
His life is action-
A formal paction

That curbs his reign,
Obscures his glory,
Despot no more, he
Such territory

Quits with disdain.
Still, still advancing,
With banners glancing,
His power enhancing,

He must move on-
Repose but cloys him,

Retreat destroys him,
Love brooks not a degraded throne.


STANZAS, TO A HINDOO AIR. [These verses were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-"Alla Malla Pun

, which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing.) Onl-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover ? Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ? Far-far away! and alone along the billow? Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay? How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, And my head droops over thee like the willow.Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, In return for the tears I shed upon thee waking; Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow,Then if thou wilt-no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!

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COULD Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavour

Be tried in vain-
No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And form'd for flying,

Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason

Let's love a season;
But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,

Expect to die;
A few yea, older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her

For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,
In every weather,
They pluck Love's feather

From out his wing-
He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver
Without his plumage, when past the Spring.

So shall Affection
To recollection
The dear connexion

Bring back with joy:
You had not waited
Till, tired or hated,
Your passions sated

Began to cloy.
Your last embraces
Leave no cold traces-
The same fond faces

As through the past :
And eyes, the mirrors

or your sweet errors, Reflect but rapture-not least, thougs but


True, separations
Ask more than patience;
What desperations

From such have risen!
But yet remaining,
What is 't but chaining
Hearts which, once waning.

Beat 'gainst their prison 1
Time can but cloy love,
And use destroy love:
The winged boy, Love,

Is but for boys-
You 'll find it torture

Though sharper, shorter,
To wean, and not wear out, your jour.


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