[Written, as Byron states in a letter (December 8, 1811), on hearing a song of former days.']

AWAY, away, ye notes of woe!

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, Or I must flee from hence - for, oh! I dare not trust those sounds again. To me they speak of brighter days But lull the chords, for now, alas! I must not think, I may not gaze

On what I am — on what I was.

The voice that made those sounds more sweet Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled;

30

On many a lone and lovely night
It soothed to gaze upon the sky;
For then I deem'd the heavenly light
Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye:
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon,
When sailing o'er the Egean wave,
'Now Thyrza gazes on that moon -
Alas, it gleam'd upon her grave!
When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed,
And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins,
'Tis comfort still,' I faintly said,

That Thyrza cannot know my pains:
Like freedom to the time-worn slave,
A boon 't is idle then to give,
Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new!
How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!
The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent-ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.

40

I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a fear.

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power

In her who lives and him who dies.

'T were sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past,

E'en Pain itself should smile on thee. 20

But vain the wish for Beauty still

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And woman's tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,

Without regret, without a groan;

For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, And pain been transient or unknown.

'Ay, but to die, and go,' alas!

Where all have gone, and all must go! To be the nothing that I was

Ere born to life and living woe!

Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o'er thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 'Tis something better not to be. [First published, 1812.]

'AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AND FAIR'

31

It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved, and long must love, Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell, 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last As fervently as thou,

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20

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high.

As once I wept, if I could weep,

My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,

Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

31

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile

I waste one thought I owe to thee, And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, Unfaithful to thy Memory! Nor deem that memory less dear, That then I seem not to repine; I would not fools should overhear One sigh that should be wholly thine.

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,

It is not drain'd to banish care;
The cup must hold a deadlier draught,
That brings a Lethe for despair.
And could Oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free,
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee.

10

20

That lute was sweet- till thou couldst think In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute:
Tis past to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. [First published, 1814.]

LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE PLEASURES OF

MEMORY'

ABSENT or present, still to thee,
My friend, what magic spells belong!
As all can tell, who share, like me,

In turn thy converse and thy song.

And when the dreaded hour shall come By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, AndMEMORY' o'er her Druid's tomb Shall weep that aught of thee can die,

How fondly will she then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, And blend, while ages roll away, Her name immortally with thine! April 19, 1812. [First published, 1816.]

ADDRESS

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURYLANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812

[Drury-Lane Theatre had burned down February 24. 1809, and Byron had himself viewed the fire from a house-top in Covent Garden.' The managers advertised a general competition of addresses for the opening of the restored edifice, and scores of poems, all intolerably poor, were submitted. Lord Holland, in despair, finally appealed to Byron for an address, and the following verses of his were spoken by Mr. Elliston. The Rejected Addresses has made the occasion ever memorable.]

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust the Drama s tower of pride;