The poetical works of lord Byron, complete. (Pearl ed.).

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. In submitting to the public eye the following words of Cowper,“it is one thing to write what collection, I have not only to combat the difficulties may please our friends, who, because they are such, that writers of verse generally encounter, but may are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, and anincur the charge of presumption for obtruding my other to write what may please everybody ; because self on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, they who have no connexion, or even knowledge of at my age, more usefully employed.

the author, will be sure to find fault if they can." These productions are the fruits of the lighter To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subhours of a young man who has lately completed his scribe; on the contrary, I feel convinced that these nineteenth year.

As they bear the internal evi-trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their dence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed; information. Some few were written during the their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot disadvantages of illness and depression of spirits: expect that favour which has been denied to others under the former influence, “CHILDISH RECOL-of maturer years, decided character, and far greater LECTIONS," in particular, were composed. This ability. consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A less have I studied any particular model for imitaconsiderable portion of these poems has been pri- tion ; some translations are given, of which many vately printed, at the request and for the perusal of are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may my friends. I am sensible that the partial and fre- appear a casual coïncidence with authors whose quently injudicious admiration of a social circle is works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To proestimated, yet “to do greatly" we must-“ dare duce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in greatly;" and I have hazarded my reputation and rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject feelings in publishing this volume. I have "passed has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poethe Rubicon," and must stand or fall by the “cast try, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert of the die." In the latter erent I shall submit the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony without a murmur; for, though not without solici- of a vacant hour, urged me“ to this sin;" little can tude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations be expected from so unpromising a muse. My are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive may hare dared much and done little; for, in the from these productions; and I shall never attempt

to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single addi-| tiquity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity tional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an in- which unluckily overshadows several voluminous truder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, productions of their illustrious bearers. to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit first and last attempt. To the dictates of young of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might ambition may be ascribed many actions more crienable me to enter the lists with genuine bards, minal and equally absurd. To a few of my own who have enjoyed both these advantages. But age the contents may afford amusement; I trust they derive considerable fame, and a few not less they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate improbable, from my situation and pursuits heremy rashness as an interloper, certainly without the after, that I should ever obtrude myself a second latter, and in all probability with a very slight share time on the public; nor even, in the very doubtful of the former. I leave to others“ virûm volitare event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to

« per ora.” I look to the few who will hear with commit a future trespass of the same nature. The patience,“ dulce est desi pere in loco." To the for- opinion of Dr. Johnson on the poems of a noble mer worthies I resign, without repining, the hope relation of mine, * " That when a man of rank apof immortality, and content myself with the not peared in the character of an author, he deserved to very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst“ the have his merit handsomely allowed," can have little mob of gentlemen who write;"—my readers must weight with verbal, and still less with periodical, determine whether I dare say “ with ease," or the censors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth honour of a posthumous page in “ The Catalogue of to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather Royal and Noble Authors,”—a work to which the incur the bitterest censure of anonymous critiPeerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as cisin, than triumph in honours granted solely to many names of considerable length, sound, and an- I a title. # The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applause, to which, by their intrinsio

worth, they were well entitled.

HOURS OF IDLENESS.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE,
KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC. ETC.

THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED,
BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,

THE AUTHOR,

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,

Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him.

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,

And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;

I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

1802.

HUSH'D are the winds, and still the evening gloom,

Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,

And scatter flowers on the dust I love. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

That clay, where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,

Not worth nor beauty have her life redeem'd. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity fcel,

Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate, Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,

Not here the muse her virtues would relate. But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soarg

Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.

TO E-
LET Folly smile, to view the names

Of thee and me in friendship twined;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims

To love, than rank with vice combined.
And though unequal is thy fate,

Since title deck'd my higher birth!
Yet envy not this gaudy state;

Thine is the pride of modest worth.

Our souls at least congenial meet,

Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.

November, 1802.

If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

1803.

TO D

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY, In thee I fondly hoped to clasp

" Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged A friend whom death alone could sever;

days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day : yet a few Till enry, with malignant grasp,

years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.

ty court."-Ossiax. True, she has forced thee from my breast, THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat;

winds whistle; There, there thine image still must rest,

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; Until that heart shall cease to beat.

In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle And when the grave restores her dead,

Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in

the way. When life again to dust is given, On thy dear breast I'll lay my head

of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle Without thee where would be my heaven? Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,

February, 1803. The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast

rattle, EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 'Αστήρ πρίν μεν έλαμπες ενί ζωοίσιν έφος. No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing

LAERT.
numbers,

(wreath; OH, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!

Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurellid What fruitless tears have bathed thy honourd bier! Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers, What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death! Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;

Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;

For the safety of Edward and England they fell : Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,

My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ;

How you fought, how you died, still her annals Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contendIf yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

ing,

[field; The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, For the rights of a monarch their country defending, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.

Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, deBut living statues there are seen to weep;

parting Afliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! Afiction's self deplores thy youthful doom. Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting What though thy sire lament his failing line, New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:

'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret; But who with me shall hold thy former place?

Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, Thine image what new friendship can efface?

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. Ah, none!-a father's tears will cease to flow, That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish; Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown: To all, save one, is consolation known,

Like you will he live, or like you will he perish; While solitary friendship sighs alone.

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your 1803. own!

1803.

can tell.

A FRAGMENT.
WIEN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:

LINES
WRITTEN IN “ LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND

AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN: BY J. J. ROUSSEAU:
FOUNDED ON FACTS."
“ AWAY, away, your flattering arts

May now betray some simpler hearts ;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving."

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