"The only circumstance I know, that bears even remotely on the subject of this poem, is the following. About a year or two before the date affixed to K, he wrote to his mother, from Harrow, (as I have been told by a person, to whom Mrs. Byron herself communicated the circumstance,) to say, that he had lately a good deal of uneasiness on 'account of a young woman, whom he knew to have been a favorite of his late friend, Curzon, and who, finding herself after his death in a state of progress towards maternity, had declared Lord Byron was the father of her child. This, he positively assured his mother was not the case; but believing, as he did firmly, that the child belonged to Curzon, it was his wish that it should be brought up with all possible care, and he therefore entreated that his mother would have the kindness to take charge of it. Though such a request might well (as my informant expresses it) have discomposed a temper more mild than Mrs. Byron's, she notwithstanding answered her son in the kindest terms, saying that she would willingly receive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in whatever manner he desired. Happily, however, the infant died almost immediately, and was thus spared the being a tax on the good nature of any body.-Moore. Oh lady! blessed be that tear STANZAS. It falls for one that cannot weep: Such precious drops are doubly dear To those whose eyes no tear may steep. Sweet lady! once my heart was warm Yet wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again; Yet if they grieve thee, say not so― I would not give that bosom pain. SONG. FILL the goblet again, for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core; Let us drink!-who would not?-since, through life's varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is fond. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; I have bask'd in the beams of a dark rolling eye; I have loved!-who has not?-but what heart can declare That pleasure existed while passion was there? In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends!--who has not?-but what tongue will avow, That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never canst change: Thou grow'st old-who does not?-but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years? Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, We are jealous!-who's not ?-thou hast no such alloy For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, Hope was left, was she not?-but the goblet we kiss, And care not for hope, who are certain of bliss. Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, given, And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. I've tried another's fetters too, With charms perchance as fair to view; Twould soothe to take one lingering view, LINES TO MR. HODGSON. Huzza! Hodgson, we are going, Bend the canvas o'er the mast. 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; 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, Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks; Here entangling, All are wrangling, Stuck together close as wax.Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Liston Packet. Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kid, commands the crew; Passengers their births are clapt in, Some to grumble, some to spew. "Hey day! call call you that a cabin? Why, 'tis hardly three feet square; Not enough to stow Queen Mab inWho the deuce can harbor there?" "Who, sir? plentyNobles 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? On Braganza Help!"-" a couplet?"-" No, a cup Of warm water-" "What's the matter?" "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, May unship us in a crack. As philosophers allow, Great and small things, Let's have laughing Who the devil cares for more ?— Some good wine! and who would lack it, Even on board the Lisbon Packet? Falmouth Roads, June 30th, 1809. LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS. IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN : "FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING REPLY: • Thus corrected by himself in a copy of the Miscellany-the two last lines THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, seing, originally, as follows: "Though wheresoe'er my bark may run, love but thee, I love but one." Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own; |