Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn: To mark a friend's remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,-and here he lies. TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, And found in busier scenes relief. Thus, lady will it be with me, And I must view thy charms no more; Without the wish of dwelling there. REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, Can I forget-canst thou forget, And lips, though silent, breathing love. And then those pensive eyes would close, Than if for other hearts I burn'd, For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam Then tell me not, remind me not, Till thou and I shall be forgot, And senseless as the mouldering stone, Which tells that we shall be no more. THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT THERE was a time, I need not name, As still my soul hath been to thee. 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, but most unkind! Though thou wilt never love again, To me 'tis doubly sweet to find Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 'tis 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 AND wilt thou weep when I am low? I would not give that bosom pain. 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. It falls for one who cannot weep; But beauty's self hath ceased to charm A wretch created to repine. Yet 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. FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. FILL the goblet again! for I never before Let us drink!-who would not ?-since, through life's varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye; I have loved !-who has not ?-but what heart can declare, That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends!-who has not ?-but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never canst change; Thou grow'st old!-who does not ?-but on earth what appears, [years? Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to your idol below, We are jealous !-who's not ?-thou hast no such alloy; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; [soul, There we find-do we not?-in the flow of the That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left,- -was she not ?- but the goblet we kiss, And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape! for when summer has flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: We must die-who shall not?-May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. STANZAS TO A LADY,* ON LEAVING ENGLAND. 'Tis done-and shivering in the gale The bark unfurls her snowy sail; ⚫ Mrs Musters, formerly Mary Chaworth And whistling o'er the bending mast, But could I be what I have been, 'Tis long since I beheld that eye As some lone bird, without a mate, I look around, and cannot trace And I will cross the whitening foam, I ne'er shall find a resting-place; The poorest, veriest wretch on earth I go-but wheresoe'er I flee, To think of every early scene, Of what we are, and what we've been, And who that dear loved one may be, I've tried another's fetters too, "Twould soothe to take one lingering view, LINES TO MR HODGSON. WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET. HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going, Bend the canvas o'er the mast. Prying from the custom-house; Cases cracking, Now our boatmen quit their mooring, Thus are screaming All are wrangling, Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain, Why 'tis hardly three feet square: Nobles twenty 'Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us! Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you? Hobhouse muttering fearful curses, As the hatchway down he rolls, Now his breakfast, now his verses, Vomits forth-and damns our souls. 'Here's a stanza On Braganza Help!'-'A couplet?'-'No, a cup 'What's the matter?' Now at length we're off for Turkey, May unship us in a crack. Great and small things, Who the devil cares for more?Some good wine! and who would lack it, Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet? TO FLORENCE. OH Lady! when I left the shore, Yet here, amidst this barren isle, I view my parting hour with dread. Perchance I view her cliffs again : 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. And who so cold as look on thee, Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? Nor be, what man should ever be, The friend of Beauty in distress? Ah! who would think that form had past Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast, The Turkish tyrants now enclose; Though mightiest in the lists of fame, And though I bid thee now farewell, When I behold that wondrous scene, Since where thou art I may not dwell, "Twill soothe to be where thou hast been. LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA. As o'er the cold sepulchral stone Some name arrests the passer-by; Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, May mine attract thy pensive eye! And when by thee that name is read, Perchance in some succeeding year, Reflect on me as on the dead, And think my heart is buried here. STANZAS COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND WHILE BEWILDERED NEAR MOUNT PINDUS IN ALBANIA. CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast, Where Pindus' mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast The vengeance of the skies. Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, And lightnings, as they play, But show where rocks our path have crost, Or gild the torrent's spray. Is yon a cot I saw, though low? When lightning broke the gloomHow welcome were its shade!-ah, no! 'Tis but a Turkish tomb. Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, A shot is fired-by foe or friend? The mountain-peasants to descend, Oh! who in such a night will dare To tempt the wilderness? And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear And who that heard our shouts would rise Nor rather deem from nightly cries That outlaws were abroad? Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour! Yet here one thought has still the power While wandering through each broken path, While elements exhaust their wrath, Thy bark hath long been gone : Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now And since I now remember thee At times, from out her latticed halls, And when the admiring circle mark A half-form'd tear, a transient spark Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun Nor own for once thou thought'st on one Though smile and sigh alike are vain, My spirit flies o'er mount and main, STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF. And now upon the scene I look, The azure grave of many a Roman; Florence! whom I will love as well Thy charms might raise new Antonies. But would not lose thee for a world. THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. Recalls the woes of Nature's charter ; WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM IF, in the month of dark December, If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, Mrs Spencer Smith. The My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, According to the doubtful story, 'Twere hard to say who fared the best ; For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVEL- IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN: FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. MAID of Athens, ere we part, By those tresses unconfined, Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By that lip I long to taste; Maid of Athens! I am gone: On the 3rd of May, 1810, while the Salsette (Captain Bahurst was lying in the Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of these rhymes swam from the European shore to the Asiatic-by the by, from Abydos to Sestos would have been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we started to our landing on the other side, including the length we were carried by the current, was Caputed by those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles, though the actual breadth is barely one. rapidity of the current is such that no boat can row directly across; and it may, in some measure, be estimated from the circumstance of the whole distance being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, and by the other in an hour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melting of the mountain snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt; but having ridden all the way • Romaic expression of tenderness: if I translate it, I shall from the Troad the same morning, and the water being of an affront the gentlemen, as it may seem that I suppose they ity chillness, we found it necessary to postpone the completion could not; and if I do not, I may affront the ladies. For fear til the frigate anchored below the castles, when we swam the of any misconstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, graits, as just stated; entering a considerable way above the begging pardon of the learned. It means, 'My life, I love European, and Landing below the Asiatic fort. Chevalier says you! which sounds very prettily in all languages, and is as that a young Jew swam the same distance for his mistress, and much in fashion in Greece at this day, as, Juvenal tells us, the Ouver mentions its having been done by a Neapolitan; but two first words were amongst the Roman ladies, whose erotic Gur consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these circum-expressions were all Hellenized. stances, and tried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number In the East (where ladies are not taught to write, lest they of the Salsette's crew were known to have accomplished a greater distance; and the only thing that surprised me was, that, as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leander's y no traveller had ever endeavoured to ascertain its pracLicability. should scribble assignations), flowers, cinders, pebbles, &c., convey the sentiments of the parties, by that universal deputy of Mercury-an old woman. A cinder says, I burn for thee;' a bunch of flowers tied with hair, Take me and fly;' but a pebble declares-what nothing else can. |