The Poetical Works of Lord Byron

As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little versed in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken.
What, though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord piled the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands ad-

vance,

Or Henry trampled on the crest of France,
Though marvelling at the name of Magna
Charta,

Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ;
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name.
Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even perhaps the declamation prize,
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope.
Not that our heads much eloquence require,
Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire.
A manner clear or warm is useless, since
We do not try by speaking to convince.
Be other orators of pleasing proud,- [crowd:
We speak to please ourselves, not move the
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone;
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan :
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen;
The slightest motion would displease the Dean;
Whilst every staring graduate would prate
Against what he could never imitate.

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised

cup

Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour;
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the
head,

While distant mitres to their eyes are spread.
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,
They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place.
Such are the men who learning's treasures
guard!

Such is their practice, such is their reward!
This much, at least, we may presume to say-
The premium can't exceed the price they pay.

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.
SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, 'I love,' but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt ;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.
What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,

Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up Say rather, 'twas the spirit moved us.'

Nor stop, but rattle over every word-
No matter what, so it can not be heard.
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest :
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space
May safely hope to win the wordy race.

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade;
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie
Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept-for die :
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix'd within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise ; [note,
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's
More than the verse on which the critic wrote:

Though what they utter'd I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,

Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day,
Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty [now Marquis of Lansdowne] has lost his place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:

May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker
Oh! may the happy mortal fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,

For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul with vain regret
Of him who never can forget!'

And blushes modest as the giver.
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have for my weakness oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure the giver loved me.
He offer'd it with downcast look,
As fearful that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,

My only fear should be to lose it.
This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And ever since I've loved a tear.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he who seeks the flowers of truth
Must quit the garden for the field.
"Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
Had Fortune aided Nature's care,

For once forgetting to be blind, His would have been an ample share, If well proportion'd to his mind. But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form had fix'd her fickle breast;

Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remain'd to give the rest.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE' AT A PRI

VATE THEATRE.

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;

Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;

[praise;

No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new :
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly :
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your
But all our dramatis persona wait
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward.
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER.

'OUR nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath:

These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue, We give the palm where Justice points its due.'

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY.

O FACTIOUS viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What though our 'nation's foes' lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits 'war not with the dead.'
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state;
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd;
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;

THE TEAR.

"O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.'-GRAY.

WHEN Friendship or Love our sympathies

move,

When Truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile
To mask detestation or fear;

By another possest, may she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere :
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was
And forgive her deceit with a Tear. [mine,

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near :
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of
night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear ;

No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

REPLY TO SOME VERSES

OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY
OF HIS MISTRESS.

WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret ?

For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh
Will never obtain a coquette.

Would you teach her to love? For a time seem
At the first she may frown in a pet; [to rove

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the
Through billows Atlantic to steer, [gale,
As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be
his grave,

The green sparkles bright with a Tear.
The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;

But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride he return to his
bride,

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,
All his toils are repaid, when, embracing the
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. [maid,
Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship
and Truth,

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.
Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no
My Mary to love once so dear, [more,

In the shade of her bower I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

• Harrow

And then you may kiss your coquette.
For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt :
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.
Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret ;

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny
That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;

Some other admire, who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.

For me, I adore some twenty or more,

[all,

And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them
Did they act like your blooming coquette.
No longer repine, adopt this design,

And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear

To fly from the captious coquette.

Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset :
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed

by the smart,

Should lead you to curse the coquette.

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did Your pardon, a thousand times o'er. [offend,

from friendship I strove your pangs to remove, Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said But I swear I will do so no more.

Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret;

She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine
Of this quickly reformed coquette.

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
From your verses what else she deserved ;
Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so devilish reserved.

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical

miss

Can such wonderful transports produce;
Since the world you forget, when your lips once
My counsel will get but abuse. [have met,'
You say, when I rove, I know nothing of love;
"Tis true, I am given to range:

If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number,
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.

I will not advance, by the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;

Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't
Or drive me to dreadful despair. [affright,
While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists' school;

Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure,
Thy mistress would think me a fool.

And if I should shun every woman for one,
Whose image must fill my whole breast-
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her-
What an insult 'twould be to the rest!
Now, Strephon, good-bye, I cannot deny
Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,
For it only consists in the word.

TO ELIZA.

ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to women deny the soul's future ex-
istence !
[defect,
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their
And this doctrine would meet with a general
resistance.

Had their prophet possess'd half an

sense,

'Though women are angels vet wedlock's the devil.'

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,
[love:
Though still they are sacred to freedom and
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements
[fountains,
Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy
wander'd ;

war;

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,

Disclosed 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,

[vale. And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland 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 fore-
boding+

Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?' Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, § Victory crown'd not your fall with applause :

| • Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch atom of na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld, One of our modern tourists mentions [driven; it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this He ne'er would have women from paradise as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturInstead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, esque amongst our 'Caledonian Alps.' Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near With women alone he had peopled his heaven. Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to these stanzas. Yet still, to increase your calamities more, This word is erroneously pronounced plad; the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthoNot content with depriving your bodies of graphy. spirit, [four!He allots one poor husband to share amongst With souls you'd dispense; but this last who

could bear it?

His religion to please neither party is made,
On husband's 'tis hard, to the wives most
uncivil:

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 Huntly, married the Princess
Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the First of Scotland.
By her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have
the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the
name of the principal action, 'pars pro toto.'

§ Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not

Still were you happy in death's earthly 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 roved o'er the mountains afar: Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr !

TO ROMANCE.

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,
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

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;

A tract of the Highlands so called. There is also a Castle

of Braemar.

+It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the com

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
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and frenzy 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 : Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, Convulsed by gales you cannot weather; Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether.

ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES,
SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COM-
PLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS
WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.

But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madame Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse!'
New Bath Guide.

CANDOUR compels me, Becher! to commend The verse which blends the censor with the friend.

Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error, which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon-must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart:
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind :
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish'd in the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of

love;

Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove: Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing

power

panion 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 Their censures on the hapless victim shower, as remarkable instances of attachments, which in all probability Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist.

The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,

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Libros

The Poetical Works of Lord Byron: Reprinted from the Original Editions, with ...