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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 him address thy trembling prayer,
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 ;
Avert the death of sin.
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.
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
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,
FILL the goblet again, for I never before
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
I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
As some lone bird, without a mate,
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,
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
The poorest veriest wretch on earth
Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
alloy For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.
I go—but wheresoe'er I flee,
Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
To think of every early scene,
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,
And who that dear loved one may be
I've tried another's fetters too,
Did at once my vessel fill."With charms perchance as fair to view;
“ 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 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,
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.
As philosophers allow,
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,
All are wrangling,
LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT
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;
“ Who, sir ? plenty-
“FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
To trace the birth and nursery of art:
BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE
• 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,
His name would bring more credit than his verse.