20

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,

30

And those, and those alone, may claim The prostituted name of friend.

Such is the common lot of man:

Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan, Nor be what all in turn must be ?

No; for myself, so dark my fate

Through every turn of life hath been,
Man and the world so much I hate,
I care not when I quit the scene.

But thou, with spirit frail and light,
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;
As glow-worms sparkle through the night,
But dare not stand the test of day.

Alas! whenever folly calls

Where parasites and princes meet (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet),

Ev'n now thou 'rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd;
And still thy trifling heart is glad

40

50

To join the vain, and court the proud. 60

There dost thou glide from fair to fair,
Still simpering on with eager haste,
As flies along the gay parterre,
That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.

But say, what nymph will prize the flame
Which seems, as marshy vapours move,
To flit along from dame to dame,
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined,
Will deign to own a kindred care?
Who will debase his manly mind,
For friendship every fool may share ?

In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen;
No more so idly pass along;

Be something, any thing, but mean.
August 20, 1808. [First published, 1809.]

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LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL

[Byron gave the following account of this cup in his Conversations with Medwin: 'The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that

had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like tortoiseshell.']

START not - nor deem my spirit fled:

In me behold the only skull, From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.

I lived, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee;
I died: let earth my bones resign:
Fill up thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

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 !
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush

for shame.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,

brood;

And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst: another race, When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. Newstead Abbey, 1808.

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 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,

[These lines were written after dining at Annesley with Mr. and Mrs. Chaworth Musters. On the infant daughter of his fair hostess being brought into the room, he started involuntarily, and with the utmost difficulty suppressed his emotion.]

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel

That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband 's blest - and 't will impart Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass -Oh! how my heart Would hate him, if he loved thee not!