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FORGET this world, my restless sprite,

Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight,

If errors are forgiven.
To bigots and to sects unknown,
Bow down beneath th' Almighty Throne,-

To him address thy trembling prayer,
He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,

Although his meanest care.

• "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 kt, 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 bren a favorite of his lat, 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,

Father of light! to thee I call,

My soul is dark within ;
Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall,

Avert the death of sin.
Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,

I dreamt last night our love return'd, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;

And, sooth to say, that very dream And, since I soon must cease to live,

Was sweeter in its phantasy Instruct me how to die.

1807. Than if for other hearts I burn'd,

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam

In rapture's wild reality.

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STANZAS.

On lady! blessc.} be that tear

It falls for one that cannot weep: Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eyes no tear may steep.

TO * * *, ON LEAVING ENGLAND.

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.

'Tis done-and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And, whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again ; Yet if they grieve thee, say not som

I would not give that bosom pain.

But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest,
I should not seek another zone
Because I cannot love but one.

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.

'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.

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

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 even in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

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?

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 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 ?

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

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.

I go—but wheresoe'er I flee,
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,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

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.

To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with women
But mine, alas ! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.

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.

And who that dear loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see,
And why that early love was crost,
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,

Did at once my vessel fill."With charms perchance as fair to view;

“ Did they? Jesus,
And I would fain have loved as well,

How you squeeze us!
But some unconquerable spell

Would to God they did so still:
Forbade my bleeding breast to own

Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket
A kindred care for aught but one.

Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.”

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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 forthand damns our souls

“Here's a stanza

On BraganzaHelp!”- a couplet ? "_" No, a cup

Of warm water".

6. What's the matter?Zounds ! my liver's coming up: I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.”

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 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 laughingWho the devil cares for more ?Some good wine! and who would lack it, Even on board the Lisbon Packet?

Falmouth Roads, June 30th, 1809.

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 thc Liston Packet.

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT

ORCHOMENUS.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:

Now we've reach'd her, lo! thc captain,

Gallant Kid, commands the crew; Passengers their births are clapt in,

Some to grumble, some to spew. “ Hey day! call you that a cabin ?

Why, 'tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in-
Who the deuce can harbor there?”

“ Who, sir ? plenty-
Nobles twenty

“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:

• Thus corrected by himself in a copy of the Miscellany--the two last lines THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, ming, originally, as follows :

Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;

But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
" Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,
love but thee, I love but one."

His name would bring more credit than his verse.

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