Part 5 out of 12
----'of thee bereft
In what dire perils is my brother left.'
Then his lov'd boy the ruffian band surround
Entangled in the tufted Forest ground.
'At length a captive to the hostile crew'.
'The Goddess bright transcending every star'.
'No object meets them but the earth and skies.
He burns for vengeance, rising in his wrath--
Then you, accursed, thy life shall pay for both;
Then from the sheath his flaming brand he drew,
And on the raging boy defenceless flew.
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth forth he rushed and all his love reveals;
Pale and confused his fear to madness grows,
And thus in accents mild he greets his Foes.
"On me, on me, direct your impious steel,
Let me and me alone your vengeance feel--
Let not a stripling's blood by Chiefs be spilt,
Be mine the Death, as mine was all the guilt.
By Heaven and Hell, the powers of Earth and Air.
Yon guiltless stripling neither could nor dare:
Spare him, oh! spare by all the Gods above,
A hapless boy whose only crime was Love."
He prayed in vain; the fierce assassin's sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored;
Drooping to earth inclines his lovely head,
O'er his fair curls, the purpling stream is spread.
As some sweet lily, by the ploughshare broke
Languid in Death, sinks down beneath the stroke;
Or, as some poppy, bending with the shower,
Gently declining falls a waning flower'.
'Revenge his object'.
'The assassin's soul'.
'Then on his breast he sought his wonted place,
And Death was lovely in his Friend's embrace'.
'Yours are the fairest wreaths of endless Fame.'
TRANSLATION FROM THE "MEDEA" OF EURIPIDES [Ll. 627-660].
[Greek: Erotes hyper men agan, K.T.L.]
When fierce conflicting passions urge
The breast, where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
Can rouse the tortur'd breast no more;
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
Absorbs each wish it felt before.
But if affection gently thrills
The soul, by purer dreams possest,
The pleasing balm of mortal ills
In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise, [i]
Fair Venus! from thy native heaven,
What heart, unfeeling, would despise
The sweetest boon the Gods have given?
But, never from thy golden bow,
May I beneath the shaft expire!
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,
Awakes an all-consuming fire:
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears!
With others wage internal war;
Repentance! source of future tears,
From me be ever distant far!
May no distracting thoughts destroy
The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be winged with joy,
Which hover faithful hearts above!
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine
May I with some fond lover sigh!
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine,
With me to live, with me to die!
My native soil! belov'd before,
Now dearer, as my peaceful home,
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore,
A hapless banish'd wretch to roam!
This very day, this very hour,
May I resign this fleeting breath!
Nor quit my silent humble bower;
A doom, to me, far worse than death.
Have I not heard the exile's sigh,
And seen the exile's silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,
A pensive, weary wanderer here?
Ah! hapless dame!  no sire bewails,
No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails
Thy steps within a stranger's doors.
Perish the fiend! whose iron heart
To fair affection's truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly lov'd depart,
Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key, 
The milder treasures of his soul;
May such a friend be far from me,
And Ocean's storms between us roll!
[Footnote 1: The Greek heading does not appear in 'Hours of Idleness' or
'Poems O. and T'.]
[Footnote 2: Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by
him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus, from which
this is taken, here addresses Medea; though a considerable liberty is
taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also in some other
parts of the translation.]
[Footnote 3: The original is [Greek: katharan anoixanta klaeda
phren_on,] literally "disclosing the bright key of the mind."]
'If thus thou com'st in gentle guise'.
['Hours of Idleness'.]]
LACHIN Y GAIR. 
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove:
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war:
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander'd:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; 
On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;
I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd, by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"
Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale!
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
"Ill starr'd,  though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?"
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, 
Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy, in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar; 
The Pibroch  resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar:
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr. 
[Footnote 1: 'Lachin y Gair', or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 'Loch
na Garr', towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near
Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest
mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly
one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps."
Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal
snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the
recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas.
[Prefixed to the poem in 'Hours of Idleness' and 'Poems O. and T.']
[Footnote 2: This word is erroneously pronounced 'plad'; the proper
pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography.]
[Footnote 3: I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many
of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the
name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well
as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley,
married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James I. of Scotland.
By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the
honour to claim as one of my progenitors.]
[Footnote 4: Whether any perished in the Battle of Culloden, I am not
certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of
the principal action, "pars pro toto."]
[Footnote 5: A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle
[Footnote 6: The Bagpipe.--'Hours of Idleness'. (See note, p. 133.)]
[Footnote 7: The love of mountains to the last made Byron
"Hail in each crag a friend's familiar face,
And Loch na Garr with Ida looked o'er Troy."
'The Island' (1823), Canto II. stanza xii.]
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems, [i]
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman's smiles are true.
And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades  in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air [ii]
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,
And friends have feeling for--themselves?
With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton's tear!
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears [iii]
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie: [iv]
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,
Convuls'd by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.
[Footnote 1: It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the
companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which,
with those of Achilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalus, Damon and
Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of
attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the
imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern
'Where every girl--.'
'But quit at once thy realms of air
'Where you are doomed in death to lie.'
THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S "OSSIAN". 
Dear are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the
mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He
lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the
steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame
rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear
the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of
clouds. Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks
down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and
hovers on the blast of the mountain.
In Morven dwelt the Chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the
field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry
spear; [i] but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his
yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was
the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,--to
dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in
battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:--gentle alone to Calmar.
Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.
From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell
beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. [ii] Their ships
cover the ocean! Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the
aid of Erin.
Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies. But the blazing oaks
gleam through the valley. [iii] The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams
were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so
the Host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his
side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they
stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong
was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven,"
said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the
shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our
coming. Who will speed through Lochlin, to the hero, and call the chief
to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They
are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"
"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, "and mine
alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little
is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne
Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the stream
of Lubar."--"And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt
thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in
fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Orla! ours has
been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path
of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow
dwelling on the banks of Lubar."--"Calmar," said the chief of Oithona,
"why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me
fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he will rejoice in his
boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her Son in Morven. She
listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the
tread of Calmar. Let her not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of
Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why
should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla,
the destroyer of Calmar? Live Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss;
live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above
my grave. Sweet will be the song of Death to Orla, from the voice of
Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of Praise." "Orla," said the
son of Mora, "could I raise the song of Death to my friend? Could I give
his fame to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and
broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song
together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the
names of Orla and Calmar."
They quit the circle of the Chiefs. Their steps are to the Host of
Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim-twinkles through the night. The
northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the King, rests on his
lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their
shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam, at distance in heaps.
The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the
gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the Heroes through the
slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his
shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through
the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow,
chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of
foes. Is this a time for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla
of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its
point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek
on mine: but shall I slay him sleeping, Son of Mora? No! he shall feel
his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon,
rise! The Son of Conna calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon
starts from sleep: but did he rise alone? No: the gathering Chiefs bound
on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon is
mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the
shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield
falls from his arm: he shudders in his blood. [i] He rolls by the side
of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon
glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced his eye. His brain
gushes through the wound, and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the
waves of the Ocean on two mighty barks of the North, so pour the men of
Lochlin on the Chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the
barks of the North, so rise the Chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests
of Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes his
shield; his sons throng around; the people pour along the heath. Ryno
bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar shakes the spear. The
eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death!
many are the Widows of Lochlin. Morven prevails in its strength.
Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen; but the sleepers are
many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of Ocean lifts their locks; yet
they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.
Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold
of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 'Tis
Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood.
Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is
still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in
Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king,
"rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of Heroes. Calmar may
yet bound on the hills of Morven." [v]
"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the
Hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of
battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft
to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a
silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my
empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay
me with my friend: raise the song when I am dark!"
They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling
of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue
waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven:--the bards raised the song.
"What Form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark Ghost gleams on the
red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the
brown Chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul,
Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son
of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave.
The Ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar!
It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of
Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch
of the rainbow, and smile through the tears of the storm. 
[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote 2: It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though
considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and
Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given in the
present volume [see pp. 151-168].]
[Footnote 3: I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every
hope that Macpherson's 'Ossian' might prove the translation of a series
of poems complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered,
the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without
faults--particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction.--The
present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the
original as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to
their favourite author. [Malcolm Laing (1762-1818) published, in 1802, a
'History of Scotland, etc.', with a dissertation "on the supposed
authenticity of Ossian's Poems," and, in 1805, a work entitled 'The
Poems of Ossian, etc., containing the Poetical Works of James
Macpherson, Esq., in Prose and Rhyme, with Notes and Illustrations'.]
'The horn of Fingal--'.
'--the fires gleam--'.
'He trembles in his blood. He rolls convulsive.'
'--the mountain of Morven.'
TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. [i] 
"Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico."--HORACE.
Dear LONG, in this sequester'd scene, [ii]
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days, which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude, [iii]
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And, still, indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,
In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chase
Our raptured visions, as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.
Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold controul,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears, unmov'd, Misfortune's groan
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn
To soothe its wonted heedless flow; [iv]
Still, still, despise the censor stern,
But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days,
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, [v]
Still may I rove untutor'd, wild,
And even in age, at heart a child. [vi]
Though, now, on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn, [vii]
And all my former joys are tame:
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue!
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I'll think upon your shade no more.
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose [viii]
We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'd by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse,
Attun'd to love her languid lyre;
But, now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown; [ix]
E----is a wife, and C----a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,
And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
Can now no more my love recall--
In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee--[x]
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a _sun_,
These last should be confin'd to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her, [xi]
Whose Sun displays a general _summer_!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name; [xii] [xiii]
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improv'd their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with Passion's fires,
As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,
Extinguish'd with the dying embers.
But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Describ'd in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er
Which every bard has trod before? [xiv]
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
Has thrice perform'd her stated round,
Has thrice retrac'd her path of light,
And chas'd away the gloom profound,
I trust, that we, my gentle Friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat,
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat;
And, then, with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shall pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn,
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.
[Footnote 1: The MS. of these verses is at Newstead. Long was with Byron
at Harrow, and was the only one of his intimate friends who went up at
the same time as he did to Cambridge, where both were noted for feats of
swimming and diving. Long entered the Guards, and served in the
expedition to Copenhagen. He was drowned early in 1809, when on his way
to join the army in the Peninsula; the transport in which he sailed
being run down in the night by another of the convoy. "Long's father,"
says Byron, "wrote to me to write his son's epitaph. I promised--but I
had not the heart to complete it. He was such a good, amiable being as
rarely remains long in this world; with talent and accomplishments, too,
to make him the more regretted."--'Diary', 1821; 'Life', p. 32. See also
memorandum ('Life', p. 31, col. ii.).]
'To E. N. L. Esq.'
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ]
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.'] ]
'Some daring envious.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
'its young romantic flow.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
'O'er which my fancy'--.
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
'Still may my breast to boyhood cleave,
With every early passion heave;
Still may I rove untutored, wild,
But never cease to seem a child.'--
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
'Since we have met, I learnt to mourn.'
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
'And caves their sullen war'--.
['MS. Newstead.'] ]
'--thank Heaven are flown'.
'In truth dear L----'.
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.] ]
'The glances really don't become her'.
'No more I linger on its name'.
'And passion's self is but a name'.
'And what's much worse than this I find
Have left their deepen'd tracks behind
Yet as yon'------.
TO A LADY. [i]
Oh! had my Fate been join'd with thine, 
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not, then, been mine,
For, then, my peace had not been broken.
To thee, these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving.
For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But, now, thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another. 
Perhaps, his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet let my Rival smile in joy,
For thy dear sake, I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matrons' fears,
These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures--
If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:--
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my Breast abhorr'd deceit,--
For then it beat but to adore thee.
But, now, I seek for other joys--
To think, would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise,
I conquer half my Bosom's sadness.
Yet, even in these, a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel--
To know that thou art lost for ever.
[Footnote 1: These verses were addressed to Mrs. Chaworth Musters.
Byron wrote in 1822,
"Our meetings were stolen ones. ... A gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's
grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews. The
ardour was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked
me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she,
however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses
upon. Had I married her, perhaps, the whole tenour of my life would
have been different."
Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 81.]
['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.']]
* * * * * * * * *
POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED
WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. [i]
When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath,
And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! 
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath,
Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; 
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear,
And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew,
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear;
Need I say, my sweet Mary,  'twas centred in you?
Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not the name,--
What passion can dwell in the heart of a child?
But, still, I perceive an emotion the same
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild:
One image, alone, on my bosom impress'd,
I lov'd my bleak regions, nor panted for new;
And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd,
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you.
I arose with the dawn, with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted  the billows of Dee's  rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose.
No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view;
And warm to the skies my devotions arose,
For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.
I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone;
The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more;
As the last of my race, I must wither alone,
And delight but in days, I have witness'd before:
Ah! splendour has rais'd, but embitter'd my lot;
More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew:
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not
Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you.
When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky,
I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; 
When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye,
I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene;
When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold,
That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you.
Yet the day may arrive, when the mountains once more
Shall rise to my sight, in their mantles of snow;
But while these soar above me, unchang'd as before,
Will Mary be there to receive me?--ah, no!
Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred!
Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu!
No home in the forest shall shelter my head,--
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine, but with you?
[Footnote 1: Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. "Gormal of snow"
is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.]
[Footnote 2: This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been
accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining
the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-bourd, etc., to perceive, between the summit
and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied
by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm,
perfectly secure from its effects.]
[Footnote 3: Byron, in early youth, was "unco' wastefu'" of Marys.
There was his distant cousin, Mary Duff (afterwards Mrs. Robert
Cockburn), who lived not far from the "Plain-Stanes" at Aberdeen. Her
"brown, dark hair, and hazel eyes--her very dress," were long years
after "a perfect image" in his memory (_Life_, p. 9). Secondly, there
was the Mary of these stanzas, "with long-flowing ringlets of gold," the
"Highland Mary" of local tradition. She was (writes the Rev. J. Michie,
of The Manse, Dinnet) the daughter of James Robertson, of the farmhouse
of Ballatrich on Deeside, where Byron used to spend his summer holidays
(1796-98). She was of gentle birth, and through her mother, the daughter
of Captain Macdonald of Rineton, traced her descent to the Lord of the
Isles. "She died at Aberdeen, March 2, 1867, aged eighty-five years." A
third Mary (see "Lines to Mary," etc., p. 32) flits through the early
poems, evanescent but unspiritual. Last of all, there was Mary Anne
Chaworth, of Annesley (see "A Fragment," etc., p. 210; "The Adieu," st.
6, p. 239, etc.), whose marriage, in 1805, "threw him out again--alone
on a wide, wide sea" (Life, p. 85).]
[Footnote 4: "Breasting the lofty surge" (Shakespeare).]
[Footnote 5: The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge,
and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.]
[Footnote 6: Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not
far from the ruins of Dee Castle.]
[_Poems O. and T._]]
TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. [i] 
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd, [ii]
Exploring every path of Ida's glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade _thee_ obey, and gave _me_ to command; 
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E'en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne. 10
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul [iii]
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors,  fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,--
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,-- 20
When these declare, "that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestin'd to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;"
Believe them not,--they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 30
Ask thine own heart--'twill bid thee, boy, forbear!
For _well_ I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark'd within that generous mind
A soul, if well matur'd, to bless mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone; 40
Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot--
In life just gaz'd at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 50
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the Herald's roll,
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnotic'd as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destin'd never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise; 60
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth. 
Another view! not less renown'd for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; 70
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song. 
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine: 80
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 90
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part [iv]
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 100
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe--
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,
If these,--but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,--
Oh! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain, 110
The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
[Footnote 1: In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems
for this second edition, I found the above lines, which I had totally
forgotten, composed in the summer of 1805, a short time previous to my
departure from H[arrow]. They were addressed to a young schoolfellow of
high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through
the neighbouring country: however, he never saw the lines, and most
probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I found them not worse than
some other pieces in the collection, I have now published them, for the
first time, after a slight revision. [The foregoing note was prefixed to
the poem in 'Poems O. and T'. George John Frederick, 4th Duke of Dorset,
born 1793, was killed by a fall from his horse when hunting, in 1815,
while on a visit to his step-father the Earl of Whitworth,
Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland. (See Byron's letter to Moore, Feb. 22,
[Footnote 2: At every public school the junior boys are completely
subservient to the upper forms till they attain a seat in the higher
classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is exempt;
but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed.]
[Footnote 3: Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most
distant. I merely mention generally what is too often the weakness of
[Footnote 4: "Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. While
a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of 'Gorboduc', which
was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561. This tragedy,
and his contribution of the Induction and legend of the Duke of
Buckingham to the 'Mirrour for Magistraytes', compose the poetical
history of Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was
created Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the
council-table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain."--'Specimens of
the British Poets', by Thomas Campbell, London, 1819, ii. 134, 'sq'.]
[Footnote 5: Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset [1637-1706], esteemed the
most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the
voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He
behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on
the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song ["'To all you
Ladies now at Land'"]. His character has been drawn in the highest
colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. 'Vide' Anderson's 'British
Poets', 1793, vi. 107, 108.]
'To the Duke of D-----'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
['Poems O. and T.']]
['Poems O. and T.']
['Poems O. and T.']]
TO THE EARL OF CLARE. [i]
Tu semper amoris
Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.
VAL. FLAC. 'Argonaut', iv. 36.
Friend of my youth! when young we rov'd,
Like striplings, mutually belov'd,
With Friendship's purest glow;
The bliss, which wing'd those rosy hours,
Was such as Pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.
The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:
Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!
My pensive mem'ry lingers o'er,
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,
Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet--ah! never!
As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain;
How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the Main!
Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death's unfathom'd gulph appear,
And both shall quit the shore.
Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in Fashion's annals;
'Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of Reason;
For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.
Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard
That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
As void of wit and moral. 
And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot.
Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.
Still I must yield those worthies merit
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,
Bad rhymes, and those who write them:
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,
I really will not fight them. 
Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner:
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.
Now, Clare, I must return to you; [ii]
And, sure, apologies are due:
Accept, then, my concession.
In truth, dear Clare, in Fancy's flight [iii]
I soar along from left to right;
My Muse admires digression.
I think I said 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;--
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble Monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.
Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,
From snares may Saints preserve you;
And grant your love or friendship ne'er
From any claim a kindred care,
But those who best deserve you!
Not for a moment may you stray
From Truth's secure, unerring way!
May no delights decoy!
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,--
Be still as you are now. 
And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd _waive_ at once a _Poet's_ fame,
To _prove_ a _Prophet_ here.
[Footnote 1: These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a
severe critique in a northern review, on a new publication of the
British Anacreon. (Byron refers to the article in the 'Edinburgh
Review', of July, 1807, on "'Epistles, Odes, and other Poems', by Thomas
[Footnote 2: A bard [Moore] ('Horresco referens') defied his reviewer
[Jeffrey] to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our
Periodical Censors must be dipped in the river Styx: for what else can
secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants? [Cf.
'English Bards', l. 466, 'note'.]]
"Of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the least altered in
everything from the excellent qualities and kind affections which
attached me to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought
it possible for society (or the world, as it is called) to leave a
being with so little of the leaven of bad passions. I do not speak
from personal experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him
from others, during absence and distance."
'Detached Thoughts', Nov. 5, 1821; 'Life', p. 540.]
'To the Earl of-----'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
['Poems O. and T.']]
'In truth dear----in fancy's flight'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. [i]
I would I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon  pride,
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultur'd lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
I hate the slaves that cringe around:
Place me among the rocks I love,
Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this--again to rove
Through scenes my youth hath known before.
Few are my years, and yet I feel
The World was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!--wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?
I lov'd--but those I lov'd are gone;
Had friends--my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions, o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart--the heart--is lonely still.
How dull! to hear the voice of those
Whom Rank or Chance, whom Wealth or Power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes,
Associates of the festive hour.
Give me again a faithful few,
In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
Where boist'rous Joy is but a name.
And Woman, lovely Woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign,
This busy scene of splendid Woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which Virtue knows, or seems to know.
Fain would I fly the haunts of men --
I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given,
Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,
To flee away, and be at rest. 
[Footnote 1: Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either
Lowland or English.]
[Footnote 2: Shyness was a family characteristic of the Byrons.
The poet continued in later years to have a horror of being
observed by unaccustomed eyes, and in the country would,
if possible, avoid meeting strangers on the road.]
"And I said, O that I had wings like a dove, for then would I fly
away, and be at rest."
(Psalm iv. 6.) This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful
anthem in our language.]
['Poems O. and T.']]
LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE
CHURCHYARD OF HARROW.  [i]
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus'd the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour,--
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,--
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it lov'd to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks 'twere sweet to die--
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov'd,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps mov'd;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor'd by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.
September 2, 1807.
[Footnote 1: On the death of his daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822,
Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, "where," he says, in a
letter to Murray, "I once hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he
wrote, May 26, "a spot in the church'yard', near the footpath, on the
brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree
(bearing the name of Peachie, or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours
and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but as I wish to erect
a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the
'church'." No tablet was, however, erected, and Allegra sleeps in her
unmarked grave inside the church, a few feet to the right of the
'Lines written beneath an Elm
In the Churchyard of Harrow on the Hill
September 2, 1807'.
['Poems O. and T.']]
WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH. 
First published in
Moore's 'Letters and Journals of Lord Byron', 1830, i. 56
Hills of Annesley, Bleak and Barren,
Where my thoughtless Childhood stray'd,
How the northern Tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted Shade!
Now no more, the Hours beguiling,
Former favourite Haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling,
Makes ye seem a Heaven to Me.
[Footnote 1: Miss Chaworth was married to John Musters, Esq., in August,
1805. The stanzas were first published in Moore's _Letters and Journals
of Lord Byron_, 1830, i. 56. (See, too, _The Dream_, st. ii. 1. 9.) The
original MS. (which is in the possession of Mrs. Chaworth Musters)
formerly belonged to Miss E. B. Pigot, according to whom they "were
written by Lord Byron in 1804." "We were reading Burns' _Farewell to
Scenes of woe and Scenes of pleasure
Scenes that former thoughts renew
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure
Now a sad and last adieu, etc.
when he said, 'I like that metre; let me try it,' and taking up a
pencil, wrote those on the other side in an instant. I read them to
Moore, and at his particular request I copied them for him."-E. B.
On the fly-leaf of the same volume (_Poetry of Robert Burns_, vol. iv.
Third Edition, 1802), containing the _Farewell to Ayrshire_, Byron wrote
in pencil the two stanzas "Oh! little lock of golden hue," in 1806
(_vide post_, p. 233).
It may be noted that the verses quoted, though included until recently
among his poems, were not written by Burns, but by Richard Gall, who
died in 1801, aged 25.]
'Tis done!--I saw it in my dreams:
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by Misfortune's wintry blast,
My dawn of Life is overcast;
Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu!
Would I could add Remembrance too!
1806. [First published, 1832.]
TO A LADY
WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.
This Band, which bound thy yellow hair
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again 'twill ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.
The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
_That_ I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss: [i]
_This_ will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
1806. [First published, 1832.]
_on a transient kiss._
TO A KNOT OF UNGENEROUS CRITICS. 
Rail on, Rail on, ye heartless crew!
My strains were never meant for you;
Remorseless Rancour still reveal,
And damn the verse you cannot feel.
Invoke those kindred passions' aid,
Whose baleful stings your breasts pervade;
Crush, if you can, the hopes of youth,
Trampling regardless on the Truth:
Truth's Records you consult in vain,
She will not blast her native strain;
She will assist her votary's cause,
His will at least be her applause,
Your prayer the gentle Power will spurn;
To Fiction's motley altar turn,
Who joyful in the fond address
Her favoured worshippers will bless:
And lo! she holds a magic glass,
Where Images reflected pass,
Bent on your knees the Boon receive--
This will assist you to deceive--
The glittering gift was made for you,
Now hold it up to public view;
Lest evil unforeseen betide,
A Mask each canker'd brow shall hide,
(Whilst Truth my sole desire is nigh,
Prepared the danger to defy,)
"There is the Maid's perverted name,
And there the Poet's guilty Flame,
Gloaming a deep phosphoric fire,
Threatening--but ere it spreads, retire.
Says Truth Up Virgins, do not fear!
The Comet rolls its Influence here;
'Tis Scandal's Mirror you perceive,
These dazzling Meteors but deceive--
Approach and touch--Nay do not turn
It blazes there, but will not burn."--
At once the shivering Mirror flies,
Teeming no more with varnished Lies;