"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
With every feeling soft as thine;
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.

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,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,

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,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last:
Then we find-do we not ?-in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

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,
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own;
We must die-who shall not?-May our sins be for-

given,

And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

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.*

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favorable 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
Ere you've been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming
Men and women,

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?
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,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth-and damns our souls
"Here's a stanza

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,
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, 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
To trace the birth and nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim:
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING REPLY:

"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,

love but thee, I love but one."

Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse.