[The poet once told Lady Byron that he had two natural children, and one of these may possibly have been the subject of this poem; but in all likelihood it is purely fictitious.]

THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!

And thou canst lisp a father's name
Ah, William, were thine own the same,
No self-reproach-but, let me cease-
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,

And yields thee scarce a name on earth;

10

Yet shall not these one hope destroy,
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!

Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claim disown?
Ah, no though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy ·
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!

Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!
1807. [First published, 1830.]

SONG

20

30

[First published in the Edition of 1898 from a manuscript in the possession of the Earl of Lovelace.]

BREEZE of the night in gentler sighs

More softly murmur o'er the pillow; For Slumber seals my Fanny's eyes,

And Peace must never shun her pillow.

Or breathe those sweet Eolian strains

Stolen from celestial spheres above, To charm her ear while some remains,

And soothe her soul to dreams of love.

But Breeze of night again forbear,
In softest murmurs only sigh;
Let not a Zephyr's pinion dare

To lift those auburn locks on high.

Chill is thy Breath thou breeze of night!
Oh! ruffle not those lids of Snow;
For only Morning's cheering light
May wake the beam that lurks below.

Blest be that lip and azure eye!

Sweet Fanny, hallow'd be thy Sleep! Those lips shall never vent a sigh, Those eyes may never wake to weep February 23, 1808.

'THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME'

THERE was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.

And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine,

None, none hath sunk so deep as thisTo think how all that love hath flown; Transient as every faithless kiss,

But transient in thy breast alone.

And yet my heart some solace knew, When late I heard thy lips declare, In accents once imagined true, Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes; my adored, yet most unkind!

Though thou wilt never love again, To me 't is doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.
June 10, 1808. [First published, 1809.]

'AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW?'

AND 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.

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,
My blood runs coldly through my breast;
And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace
Doth through my cloud of anguish shine;
And for awhile my sorrows cease,

To know thy heart hath felt for mine.

Oh lady! blessed be that tear

It falls for one who cannot weep;

20

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,

Than if for other hearts I burn'd,
For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,

30

Till thou and I shall be forgot,

And senseless as the mouldering stone Which tells that we shall be no more. August 13, 1808. [First published, 1809.]

TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND

FEW years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerity

Preserved our feelings long the same.

But now, like me, too well thou know'st
What trifles oft the heart recall;
And those who once have loved the most
Too soon forget they loved at all.

And those, and those alone, may claim The prostituted name of friend.

Such is the common lot of man:

Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan,

Nor be what all in turn must be ?

No; for myself, so dark my fate

Through every turn of life hath been, Man and the world so much I hate, I care not when I quit the scene.

153

But thou, with spirit frail and light,
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;
As glow-worms sparkle through the night,
But dare not stand the test of day.

Alas! whenever folly calls

Where parasites and princes meet (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet),

Ev'n now thou 'rt nightly seen to add
One insect to the fluttering crowd;
And still thy trifling heart is glad

40

To join the vain, and court the proud. 60

There dost thou glide from fair to fair,
Still simpering on with eager haste,
As flies along the gay parterre,

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.

But say, what nymph will prize the flame
Which seems, as marshy vapours move,
To flit along from dame to dame,
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined,
Will deign to own a kindred care?
Who will debase his manly mind,
For friendship every fool may share?

In time forbear; amidst the throng
No more so base a thing be seen;
No more so idly pass along;

Be something, any thing, but -mean.
August 20, 1808. [First published, 1809.]

70

LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL

[Byron gave the following account of this cup in his Conversations with Medwin: "The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that

had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like tortoiseshell.']

START not nor deem my spirit fled:
In me behold the only skull,
From which, unlike a living head,
Whatever flows is never dull.

Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh, man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with
disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush
for shame.

Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,

brood;

And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food.

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,
In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,
What nobler substitute than wine?

Quaff while thou canst: another race, When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace,

And rhyme and revel with the dead.

Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. Newstead Abbey, 1808.

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been.

But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend,