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"The only circumstance I know, that bears even remotely on the subject of this poem, is the following. About a year or two before the date affixed to! X, he wrote to his mother, from Harrow, (as I have been told by a person, to whom Mr. Byron herself communicated the circumstance,) to say, that he had lately a good deal of uneasiness on account of a young woman, whom he knew to have been a favorite of his late friend, Curzon, and who, finding herself after his death in a state of progress towards maternity, had declared Lord Byron was the father of her child. This, he positively assured his mother was not the case; but believing, as he did firmly, that the child belonged to Curzon, it was his wish that it should be brought up with all possible care, and he therefore entreated that his mother would have the kindness to take charge of it. Though such a request might well (as my informant expresses it) have discomposed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she notwithstanding answered her son in the kindest terms, saying that she would willingly receive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in whatever manner he desired. Happily, however, the infant died almost immediately, and was thus spared the being a tax on the good nature of any body.-Moore.

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Did at once my vessel fill.""Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs-
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth-and damns our souls
"Here's a stanza

On Braganza

Help!"-" a couplet?"—" No, a cup Of warm water-"

"What's the matter?"
"Zounds! my liver's coming up:

I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,
As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on-as I do now.
Laugh at all things,

Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,

Let's have laughing

Who the devil cares for more ?Some good wine! and who would lack it, Even on board the Lisbon Packet?

Falmouth Roads, June 30th, 1809.

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN :

"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
To trace the birth and nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim:
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING REPLY:

Thus corrected by himself in a copy of the Miscellany-the two last lines THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,

wing, originally, as follows:

"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,

love but thee, I love but one."

Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse.

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