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ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.
THE CHAIN I GAVE.
(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,
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.
EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE PORT
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
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold-
In Janus-spirits--the significant eye
Au found a place in thy philosophy.
SO WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.
So late into the night,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the day returns too soon,
By the light of the moon
VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT
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;"
Can you ?
&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.
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
TO MR. MURRAY.
Have publish'd “ Anjou's Margaret,"
(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
The Quarterly-Ah, sir, if you
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,
EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLI.
I like your moral and machinery;
There's Byron too, who once did better,
EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.
To set up this ultimate Canto;
Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.
No doubt you do right to commend it;
Our “ Beppo :"-when copied, I'll send it.
You could hardly begin with a less work;
Nor French, must have scribbled by guese-work
A work which must surely succeed ;
Must make people purchase and read.
To serve with a Muscovite master,
They thought shaving their beards a disaster
For the man,"
poor and shrewd," With whom you 'd conclude
A compact without more delay,
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.
TO MR. MURRAY.
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,
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,"
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 |
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Venice, March 25, 1818
ON THE BRASIERS' COMPANY HAVINO RESOLVED TO PR
SENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE.
The brasiers, it seems, are preparing to pass
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 !
TO MR. MURRAY.
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.
And is always as nobly requited;
And, if not shot or hang'd, you 'll get knighted.
For Orford and for Waldegrave
ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO
In him, hope, will always fit so;
The health and appetite of Rizzio.
Like Chiefs of Faction,
That curbs his reign,
Quits with disdain.
He must move on-
Retreat destroys him,
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!
Be tried in vain-
We'd hug the chain.
Love plumes his wing;
Let's love a season;
Expect to die;
For whom they sigh!
From out his wing-
But sadly shiver
So shall Affection
Bring back with joy:
Began to cloy.
As through the past :
or your sweet errors, Reflect but rapture-not least, thougs but
From such have risen!
Beat 'gainst their prison 1
Is but for boys-
Though sharper, shorter,