FAREWELL TO THE MUSE

THOU Power! who hast ruled me through infancy's days,

Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;

Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,

The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,

Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,
Yet even those themes are departed for ever;

No more beam the eyes which my dream could in-
spire,

My visions are flown, to return,-alas, never!

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,
How vain is the effort delight to prolong!
When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,
What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,

Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to
love?

Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain!
But how can my numbers in sympathy move,
When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?
Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,
And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?
For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!
For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,
Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

And as he with his boys shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread.
Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

Untouch'd then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast-Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:
'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er:
And those who have heard it will pardon the past,
When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay
And here he must sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

LINES.

1807.

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.

AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee;
And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near;
Methought that joy and health alone could be
Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here!
And is it thus ?-is it as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,
While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils.
It is not in the storm nor in the strife

We feel benumb'd and wish to be no more,
But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.

* See Fragment, page 571.