I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all,―save hope,—the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look;
But now to tremble were a crime-

We met, and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with no confusion there:
One only feeling could'st thou trace;
The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake:

Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?
My foolish heart be still, or break.

November 2. 1808. (')

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. (2)

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

(1) Lord Byron wrote to his mother on this same 2d November, announcing his intention of sailing for India in March 1809.-E

(2) This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by which the verses are preceded:

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !

"Near this spot

Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,

And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18. 1808."

Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to Mr. Hodgson: "Boatswain is dead! - he expired in a state of madness, on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have now lost every thing except old Murray." By the will which he executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden near his faithful dog.-E.

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

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. (1)

Newstead Abbey, November 30. 1808.

TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASON
FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING.
WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment linger'd near the gate,

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.

But, wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;

Just gave a sigh to other times,

And found in busier scenes relief.

Thus, lady! (2) 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.

(1) In Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany, in which the epitaph was first published, the last line ran thus:

"I knew but one unchanged- and here he lies."

The reader will not fail to observe, that this inscription was written at a time when the poet's early feelings with respect to the lady of Annesley had been painfully revived.-E.

(2) In the first copy, "Thus, Mary!"-(Mrs. Musters). The reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Illustrations of Lord Byron's Works, No, iii. - E

In flight I shall be surely wise,
Escaping from temptation's snare;

I cannot view my paradise

Without the wish of dwelling there. (1)

December 2. 1808.

REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT.

REMIND me not, remind me not,

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget-canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,

How quick thy fluttering heart did move?

(1) In Mr. Hobhouse's volume, the line stood,-"Without a wish to enter there." The following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece:- "Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many years, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me not to do it. 'For,' said she,' if you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, et cela fera un éclat.' I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married, with what success it is useless to say."- E.

Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,

With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, As half reproach'd yet raised desire,

And still we near and nearer prest,

And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;

While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return'd,

And, sooth to say, that very

dream

Was sweeter in its phantasy

Than if for other hearts I burn'd,

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam In rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,

Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,

Till thou and I shall be forgot,

And senseless as the mouldering stone

Which tells that we shall be no more.