« AnteriorContinuar »
Thus, lady! will it be with me,
And I must view thy charms no more ; For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before.
Escaping from temptation's snare,
December 2, 1808.
None, none hath sunk so deep as this
To think how all that love hath flown; Transient as every faithless kiss,
But transient in thy breast alone. And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare, In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were. Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again, To me 't is doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.
AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM
REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT.
When all my soul was given to thee;
And thou and I shall cease to be.
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
And lips, though silent, breathing love.
As half reproach'd yet raised desire,
As if in kisses to expire.
Veiling the azure orbs below;
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.
Was sweetcr in its phantasy,
In rapture's wild reality.
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Which tells that we shall be no more.
AND wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so
I would not give that bosom pain. My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine: And for a while my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. Oh lady! blessed be that tear
It falls for one who cannot wecp; Such precious drops are doubly dear
To tbose whose eyes no tear may steep. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
A wretch created to repine.
Sweet lady! speak those words again:
I would not give that bosom pain.
Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
And I will cross the whitening foam,
or leman I have none,
Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,
STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING
LINES TO MR. HODGSON.
WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.
T is done-and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail; And whistling o'er the bending mast, Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast; And I must from this land be gone, Because I cannot love but one. But could I be what I have been, And could I see what I have seen Could I repose upon the breast Which once my warmest wishes blestI should not seek another zone Because I cannot love but one. 'T is long since I beheld that eye Which gave me bliss or misery; And I have striven, but in vain, Never to think of it again : For though I fly from Albion, I still can only love but one. As some lone bird, without a mate, My weary heart is desolate; I look around, and cannot trace One friendly smile or welcome face, And ev'n in crowds am still alone, Because I cannot love but one.
HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo 's off at last; Favourable breezes blowing
Bend the canvass o'er the mast. From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal
Come to task all,
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quafing,
Let's have laughing-
Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.
(First published, 1830.]
Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering,
* We're impatient, push from shore. “Have a care! that case holds liquor
Stop the boat-I'm sick-oh Lord!” Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board.”
Thus are screaming
Men and women,
All are wrangling,
TO FLORENCE. Oh Lady! when I left the shore,
The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more
To quit another spot on earth:
Yet here, amidst this barren isle,
Where panting Nature droops the head, Where only thou art seen to smile,
I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore,
Divided by the dark-blue main; A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er,
Perchance I view her cliffs again :
Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew. “leyday! call you that a cabin?
Why 't is hardly three feet square: Not enough to stow Qucen Mab inWho the deuce can harbour there?"
“ Who, sir? plenty
“ Did they? Jesus,
How you squeeze us!
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,
Through scorching clime, and varied sea, Though Time restore me to my home,
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee:
On thee, in whom at once conspire
All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,
And, oh! forgive the word-to love.
Forgive the word, in one who ne'er
With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share,
Believe me, what I am, thy friend.
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 hatch way down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth-and damns our souls.
“ Here's a stanza
of warm water-"
“ What's the matter?" “Zounds! my liver 's coming up; I shall not survive the racket of this brutal Lisbon Packet."
And who so cold as look on thee,
Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less?
The friend of Beauty in distress?
Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? Lady! when I shall view the walls
Where free Byzantium once aroso, And Stamboul's Oriental halls
The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
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.
As philosophers allow,
Laugh at all things,
Though mightiest in the lists of famo,
That glorious city still shall be;
As spot of thy nativity:
When I behold that wondrous scene,
September, 1809. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT
Some name arrests the passer-by;
May mine attract thy pensive eye!
Perchance in some succeeding year,
September 14, 1809.
STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain; "T were hard if aught so fair as thou
Should linger on the main. And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
Which mirth and music sped;
If Cadiz yet be free,
Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Endear'd by days gone by;
To me a single sigh.
The paleness of thy face,
Of melancholy grace,
Some coxcomb's raillery;
Who ever thinks on thee.
When sever'd hearts repine,
And mourns in search of thine.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING TIIE
CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Where Pindus' mountains rise,
The vengeance of the skies.
And lightnings, as they play,
Or gild the torrent's spray.
When lightning broke the gloom
"T is but a Turkish tomb.
I hear a voice exclaim-
On distant England's name.
Another-t is to tell
And lead us where they dwell.
To tempt the wilderness?
Our signal of distress?
To try the dubious road?
That outlaws were abroad.
More fiercely pours the storm!
To keep my bosom warm.
O'er brake and craggy brow;
Sweet Florence, where art thou?
Thy bark hath long been gone:
Bow down my head alone!
When last I press'd thy lip;
Impellid thy gallant ship.
THROUGII cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,
Full beans the moon on Actium's coast: And on these waves, for Egypt's queen,
The ancient world was won and lost. And now upon the scene I look,
The azure grave of many a Roman; Where stern Ambition once forsook
His wavering crown to follow woman. Florence! whom I will love as well
As ever yet was said or sung (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell),
Whilst thou art fair and I am young; Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times,
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : Had bards as many realms as rhymes,
Thy charms might raise new Antonies.
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd!
Nov. 14, 1809.
THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
Delirium is our best deceiver,
Each lucid interval of thought
Recalls the woes of Nature's charter; And he that acts as wise men ought,
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.
WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM
SESTOS TO ABYDOS.
By that lip I long to taste;
IF, in the month of dark December,
Leander, who was nightly wont (What maid will not the tale remember?)
To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont! If, when the wintry tempest roar'd,
He sped to Hero, nothing loth, And thus of old thy current pour'd,
Fair Venus! how I pity both! For me, degenerate modern wretch,
Though in the genial month of May, My dripping limbs I faintly stretch,
And think I've done a feat to-day.
According to the doubtful story,
And swam for Love, as I for Glory;
Sad mortals! thus the gods still plague you! He lost his labour, 1 my jest; For he was drown'd, and I've the ague.
May 9, 1810.
TRANSLATION OF THE NURSE'S DOLE
IN THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES.
MY EPITAPH. YOUTH, Nature, and relenting Jove, To keep my lamp in strongly strove; But Romanelli was so stout, He beat all three-and blero it out.
LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK
SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. KIND Rcader! 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.
IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:
"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE
FOLLOWING: TAE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 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.
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART
Ζώη μου, σας αγαπώ.
TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK
The glorious hour 's gone forth,
In a river past our feet.