The Poetical Works of Lord Byron

It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.
Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
'Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee:
From me again 'twill ne'er depart,
But mingle in the grave with me.

The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss :
This will recall each youthful scene,
E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
Oh! little lock of golden hue,

In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.
Not though a thousand more adorn
The polish'd brow where once you shone,
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.

LINES

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.*
AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN.
DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells
on their remembrance through the mist of time.

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of

HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE morn.
WITH SOCIETY.

DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:

I will not descend to a world I despise.
Did the senate or camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me at once to go forth;
When infancy's years of probation expire,
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth.

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd,

Still mantles unseen in its secret recess :
At length in a volume terrific reveal'd, [press.
No torrent can quench it, no bounds can re-
Oh! thus the desire in my bosom for fame,

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the phenix on pinions of

flame,

He lifts his spear with trembling hand. Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers! Past is the race of heroes. But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from

eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul his thoughts were given to friendship, -to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla :-gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies: but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven.

• This story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from Nisus and Euryalus, of which episode a translation is already given

To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood the heroes through the slumbering band. Half by his side. Their spears were in their hands. the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, The king was in the midst. Grey were his and glistens through the shade. His spear is locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age raised on high. 'Why dost thou bend thy withered not his powers. 'Sons of Morven,' brow, chief of Oithona?' said fair-haired Calmar: said the hero, 'to-morrow we meet the foe. 'we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? delay?' 'It is a time for vengeance,' said Oila He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of of the gloomy brow. Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall path is by the swords of foes; but many are my reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: ye chiefs! Who will arise?' my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber.

'Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed,' said Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Conna calls; dark-haired Orla, 'and mine alone. What is thy life is his; rise to combat.' Mathon starts death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin gathering chiefs bound on the plain. 'Fly! dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I Calmar, fly!' said dark-haired Orla. 'Mathon fall, raise the song of bards; and lay me by the is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds stream of Lubar.'-'And shalt thou fall alone? around. Fly through the shade of night. Orla said fair-haired Calmar. 'Wilt thou leave thy turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is falls from his arm he shudders in his blood. my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not He rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strulift the spear? No, Orla! ours has been the mon sees him fall: his wrath rises: his weapon chase of the roe-buck, and the feast of shells; glitters on the head of Orla: but a spear pierced ours be the path of danger: ours has been the his eye. His brain gushes through the wound,

cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar.' 'Calmar,' said the chief of Oithona, 'why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall

and foams on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves of the ocean on two mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer

alone. My father dwells in his hall of air: he the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs of Morwill rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora ven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. The din spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, his shield; his sons throng around; the people and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let her pour along the heath. Ryno bounds in joy. not say, "Calmar has fallen by the steel of Ossian stalks in his arms. rms. Oscar shakes the Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the of the dark brow." Why should tears dim the wind. Dreadful is the clang of death! many azure eyes of Mora? Why should her voice are the widows of Lochlin ! Morven prevails in curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, its strength.

Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join seen; but the sleepers are many; grim they lie the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of yet they do not awake. The hawks scream Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of above their prey.

praise.' 'Orla,' said the son of Mora, 'could I

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a raise the song of death to my friend? Could I chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they give his fame to the winds? No, my heart would mingle with the dark hair of his friend. "Tis speak in sighs faint and broken are the sounds Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the together. One cloud shall be ours on high gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is the bards will mingle the names of Orla and still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His Calmar.'

hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives!

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps he lives, though low. 'Rise,' said the king, 'rise, are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of oak dim twinkles through the night. The heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of northern star points the path to Tura. Swain, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam

Morven.'

'Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla,' said the hero. 'What were the chase to me alone? Who shall share the

at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla is at rest ! embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the Rough was thy soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning:

to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword For thine are pinions like the wind,
to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty No trace of thee remains behind,
hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could
not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise
the song when I am dark!'

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and CalWhen Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks

mar.

to Morven :-the bards raised the song.

What form rises on the roar of clouds?

Except, alas! thy jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour:
Unless, indeed, without thy wings.

Seat of my youth! thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;

My bosom glows with former fire, -
In mind again a boy.

Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was un- Each flower a double fragrance flings;

matched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the storm.'

L'AMITIE EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES.
WHY should my anxious breast repine,

Because my youth is fled?
Days of delight may still be mine;
Affection is not dead.

In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth,
Celestial consolation brings;
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat,
Where first my heart responsive beat, -
'Friendship is Love without his wings!'
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,

Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,
To one idea fondly clings;
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone-
• Friendship is Love without his wings!'

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,
Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play

From yonder studious mansion rings;
But here whene'er my footsteps move,
My silent tears too plainly prove

Friendship is Love without his wings!'

Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine
My early vows were paid;

My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd;

Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,
Thy every path delights me still,
Again, as once, in converse gay,

Each dear associate seems to say,

Friendship is Love without his wings!'

My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,

But, oh, 'twill wake again.
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet,
Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet!

From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell,

'Friendship is Love without his wings!'

In one, and one alone deceived,
Did I my error mourn?
No-from oppressive bonds relieved,

I left the wretch to scorn.
I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosonis true,
Twined with my heart's according strings
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake
Friendship, the power deprived of wings!

Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love insures,
Unfetter'd in its scope;
From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,

Let Adulation wait on kings;
With joy elate, by snares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget
'Friendship is Love without his wings!

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard
Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and truth be my reward-
To me no bays belong;
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings
Simple and young, I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain,
'Friendship is Love without his wings!'

THE PRAYER OF NATURE. FATHER of Light! great God of Heaven I Hear'st thou the accents of despair ?

Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
Father of Light, on thee I call!

Thou seest my soul is dark within ;
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall,
Avert from me the death of sin.
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown;
Oh, point to me the path of truth !
Thy dread omnipotence I own;

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane,
Let superstition hail the pile,
Let priests, to spread their sable reign,
With tales of mystic rites beguile.
Shall man confine his Maker's sway

To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?
Thy temple is the face of day;

Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne.
Shall man condemn his race to hell,
Unless they bend in pompous form?
Tell us that all, for one who fell,
Must perish in the mingling storm?
Shall each pretend to reach the skies,
Yet doom his brother to expire,
Whose soul a different hope supplies,
Or doctrines less severe inspire?

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound,
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe?
Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground,
Their great Creator's purpose know?
Shall those, who live for self alone,
Whose years float on in daily crime-
Shall they by Faith for guilt atone,
And live beyond the bounds of Time?
Father! no prophet's laws I seek, -
Thy laws in Nature's works appear ;-
I own myself corrupt and weak,

Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear !
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star
Through trackless realms of æther's space;
Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace:
Thou, who in wisdom placed me here,
Who, when thou wilt, canst take me hence,
Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere,
Extend to me thy wide defence.

To Thee my God, to thee I call!
Whatever weal or woe betide,
By thy command I rise or fall,
In thy protection I confide.

If, when this dust to dust's restored,

My soul shall float on airy wing,
How shall thy glorious name adored
Inspire her feeble voice to sing!

But, if this fleeting spirit share
With clay the grave's eternal bed,
While life yet throbs I raise my prayer,
Though door no more to quit the dead.

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last.

TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.
'Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico,'-HOR.
DEAR LONG, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been,
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,

And interrupt the golden dream,
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

I Granta's vale, the pedant's lore;
Nor through the groves of Ida chase
Our raptured visions as before,
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring: But if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, Or checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone; Oh! may my bosom never learn

To soothe its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O'er which Remembrance yet delays,
Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild,
And even in age at heart a child.

Though now on airy visions borne,
To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it been my fate to mourn,
And all my former joys are tame.
But, hence! ye hours of sable hue !
Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
I'll think upon your shade no more.

Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
And caves their sullen roar enclose,
We heed no more the wintry blast,
When lull'd by zephyr to repose.

Full often has my infant Muse
Attuned to love her languid lyre;
But now, without a theme to choose,

The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown;
E-is a wife, and C- a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another; And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, Can now no more my love recall: In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee;

For Cora's eye will shine on all. And though the sun, with genial rays, His beams alike to all displays, And every lady's eye's a sun, These last should be confined to one. The soul's meridian don't become her, Whose sun displays a general summer! Thus faint is every former flame, And passion's self is now a name. As, when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their sparks in night; Thus has it been with passion's fires, As many a boy and girl remembers, While all the force of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

But now, dear LONG, 'tis midnight's noon, And clouds obscure the watery moon, Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, Described in every stripling's verse; For why should I the path go o'er, Which every bard has trod before? Yet ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round, Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound, I trust that we, my gentle friend, Shall see her rolling orbit wend Above the dear-loved peaceful seat, Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; And then with those our childhood knew We'll mingle in the festive crew; While many a tale of former day Shall wing the laughing hours away; And all the flow of souls shall pour The sacred intellectual shower, Nor cease till Luna's waning horn Scarce glimmers through the mist of morn.

TO A LADY.

Он! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.

To thee these early faults I owe,
To thee, the wise and old reproving:
They know my sins, but do not know
'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving

For once my soul, like thine, was pure,
And all its rising fires could smother;
But now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another;
Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him ;
Yet let my rival smile in joy,

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,
My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid!
'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,

But pride may teach me to forget thee.

Yet all this giddy waste of years,
This tiresome round of palling pleasures,
These varied loves, these matrons' fears,
These thoughtless strains to passion's mea-

sures

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;-
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,
For Nature seem'd to smile before thee;
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, -
For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys:

To think would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs and empty noise I conquer half my bosom's sadness. Yet, even in these a thought will steal In spite of every vain endeavourAnd fiends might pity what I feel-To know that thou art lost for ever.

I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD.
I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave.
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride *
Accords not with the free-born soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! take back these cultured lands,
Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around.

Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English.

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