Sad havoc Time must with my memory make Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resign'd for ever, or divided far.

XI.

The world is all before me; I but ask
Of Nature that with which she will comply -
It is but in her summer's sun to bask,
To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
To see her gentle face without a mask,
And never gaze on it with apathy.

She was my early friend, and now shall be
My sister-till I look again on thee.

XII.

I can reduce all feelings but this one;
And that I would not;-for at length I see
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun.
The earliest-even the only paths for me-
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,
I had been better than I now can be ;

The passions which have torn me would have slept; I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.

XIII.

With false Ambition what had I to do?

Little with Love, and least of all with Fame; And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, And made me all which they can make—a name. Yet this was not the end I did pursue;

Surely I once beheld a nobler ain.

But all is over-I am one the more

To baffled millions which have gone before.

XIV.

And for the future, this world's future may From me demand but little of my care; I have outlived myself by many a day; Having survived so many things that were; My years have been no slumber, but the prey Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share Of life which might have fill'd a century, Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.

XV.

And for the remnant which may be to come I am content; and for the past I feel Not thankless,for within the crowded sum Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, And for the present, I would not benumb My feelings farther. - Nor shall I conceal That with all this I still can look around And worship Nature with a thought profound.

XVI.

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
I know myself secure, as thou in mine;

We were and are

-I am, even as thou art-
Beings who ne'er each other can resign;
It is the same, together or apart,

From life's commencement to its slow decline We are entwined-let death come slow or fast, The tie which bound the first endures the last!

LINES

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. (1)

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 ?-it is as 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.

I am too well avenged!-but 'twas my right; Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite―

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.

(1) [These verses, of which the opening lines are given in Moore's Notices, were written immediately after the failure of the negotiation already alluded to (antè, page. 181.), but were not intended for the public eye: as, however, they have recently found their way into circulation, we must include them, though with reluctance, in this collection.-E.]

Mercy is for the merciful!—if thou

Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!—
Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel
A hollow agony which will not heal,

For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap
The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

I have had many foes, but none like thee;
For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,
And be avenged, or turn them into friend;
But thou in safe implacability

Hadst nought to dread-in thy own weakness shielded,
And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,
And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare—
And thus upon the world—trust in thy truth—
And the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth-

On things that were not, and on things that are Even upon such a basis hast thou built A monument, whose cement hath been guilt! The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, Fame, peace, and hope—and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,
For present anger, and for future gold-
And buying other's grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,

Did not still walk beside thee- but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,

Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell
In Janus-spirits-the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence- the pretext
Of Prudence, with advantages annex`d—
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-
All found a place in thy philosophy.

The means were worthy, and the end is won-
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!(1)

September, 1816.

(1) ["Lord Byron had at least this much to say for himself, that he was not the first to make his domestic differences a topic of public discussion. On the contrary, he saw himself, ere any fact but the one undisguised and tangible one was, or could be known, held up every where, and by every art of malice, as the most infamous of men - because he had parted from his wife. He was exquisitely sensitive: he was wounded at once by a thousand arrows; and all this with the most perfect and indignant knowledge, that of all who were assailing him not one knew any thing of the real merits of the case. Did he right, then, in publishing those squibs and tirades? No, certainly: it would have been nobler, better, wiser far, to have utterly scorned the assaults of such enemies, and taken no notice, of any kind, of them. But, because this young, hot-blooded, proud, patrician poet did not, amidst the cxacerbation of feelings which he could not control, act in precisely the most dignified and wisest of all possible manners of action, -are we entitled, is the world at large entitled, to issue a broad sentence of vituperative condemnation? Do we know all that he had suffered ? have we imagination enough to comprehend what he suffered, under circumstances such as these?- have we been tried in similar circumstances, whether we could feel the wound unflinchingly, and keep the weapon quiescent in the hand that trembled with all the excitements of insulted privacy, honour, and faith?

"Let people consider for a moment what it is that they demand when they insist upon a poet of Byron's class abstaining altogether from expressing in his works any thing of his own feelings in regard to any thing that immediately concerns his own history. We tell him in every possible form and shape, that the great and distinguishing merit of his poetry is the intense truth with which that poetry expresses his own personal feelings. We encourage him in every possible way to dissect his own heart for our entertainment—we tempt him by every bribe most likely to act powerVOL. X

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