[It has seemed advisable to the present editor to change the order in which Byron's works have always been printed, and to bring together in one general section all the Shorter Poems. This arrangement, it is believed, will facilitate considerably the use of the volume in reference. Nor is any real offence committed against the chronological ordering of the works, desirable as that may be for obvious reasons. As these miscellaneous and occasional pieces were written in many cases while the composition of the longer poems was in process, any absolute arrangement by dates is, indeed, impossible. Here we have, in this section, a continuous and personal record in verse, so to speak, of Byron's life. The greatness and versatility of his lyrical powers are also made more apparent by the coup d'ail thus afforded.] HOURS OF IDLENESS A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED [The title Hours of Idleness is really applied to a miscellaneous collection of Byron's juvenile poems. His first book, Fugitive Pieces, was printed anonymously by S. and J. Ridge, of Newark, in 1806. This edition, which contained thirty-eight pieces, was soon suppressed, and only a single copy, in the possession of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, is known to exist. A second edition, containing forty-eight poems and entitled Poems on Various Occasions, was printed by the same firm in the next year. Again in the same year this firm published Byron's Hours of Idleness, with his name now attached. This volume included nineteen from the Fugitive Pieces, eight from the Poems on Various Occasions, and twelve now first printed, thirty-nine in all. A fourth edition was issued, in 1808, by the same house, under the title Poems Original and Translated, containing thirty-eight pieces. The name, Hours of Idleness, first made famous by the review in the Edinburgh, has in all later editions been attached to the general collection of Byron's earlier poems.] Virginibus puerisque canto. - HORACE, lib. iii. Ode 1. Μήτ' ἄρ με μάλ' αίνει, μήτε τι νείκει. HOMER, Iliad, x. 249. ΤΟ THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED PREFACE In submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the difficulties that writers of verse generally en counter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed. These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depression of spirits: under the former influence, Childish Recollections, in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet, 'to do greatly' we must dare greatly;' and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. 'I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand or fall by the cast of the die.' In the latter event, I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, 'it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no connection, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can.' To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe; on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed; their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favour which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability. 6 I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation: some translations are given, of which many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be an Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me to this sin:' little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. The King of Terrors seized her as his .prey, Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. Could tears retard the tyrant in his course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey; Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament, his failing line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But, who with me shall hold thy former place? Thine image, what new friendship can efface? Ah, none ! a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary friendship sighs alone. 1803. A FRAGMENT WHEN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice; When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride, Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side; Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns To mark the spot where earth to earth. On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors returns! No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone; My epitaph shall be my name alone; ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY 'Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court.'OSSIAN. THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle; Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle, Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, Raise a flame in the breast for the warlaurell'd wreath; 10 Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers, contending, WRITTEN IN LETTERS TO AN ITALIAN J. J. ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS' 'AWAY, away, your flattering arts Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by May now betray some simpler hearts; And you will smile at their believing, ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED DEAR, simple girl, those flattering arts, |