'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;

I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,

I ne'er shall find a resting place.
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where friendship's or love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

There's not an eye will weep for me; There's not a kind congenial heart, Where I can claim the meanest part; Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,

To think of every early scene,

Of what we are, and what we've been,

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe

But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,

And never truly loves but one.

And who that dear loved one may be,
Is not for vulgar eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross'd,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one

I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;

Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 1

1809.

[Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany; the two last lines being originally – "Though wheresoe'er my bark may run, I love but thee, I love but one."]

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvas o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time 's expired.
Here's a rascal

Come to task all,

Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,

Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring, And all hands must ply the oar; Baggage from the quay is lowering, We're impatient push from shore. "Have a care! that case holds liquor Stop the boat - I'm sick oh Lord!" "Sick, ma'am, damme, you 'll be sicker

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
"Heyday! call you that a cabin ?"
Why 't is hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in
Who the deuce can harbour there?
Who, sir? plenty

Nobles twenty

Did at once my vessel fill."-
"Did they? Jesus,

How you squeeze us!

Would to God they did so still : Then I'd scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs.
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,

1 [Lord Byron's three servants.]

"Zounds! my liver's coming up;

I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we 're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back!

Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,

Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on - as I do now.
Laugh at all things,

Great and small things,

Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we 're quaffing,

Let's have laughing

Who the devil cares for more?

Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?

Falmouth Roads, June 30. 1809.

[In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron says: "I leave England without regret I shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but