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Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream?

My foolish heart! be still, or break.
November 2, 1808. (1)

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A
NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. (2)

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,
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.
O 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!

(1) Lord Byron wrote to his mother on this same 2d November, announcing his intention of sailing for India in March 1809.-L. E.

(2) This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by which the verses are preceded :

"Near this spot

Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity.
Strength without Insolence,

Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,
Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,

Who was born in Newfoundland, May, 1803;
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808."

Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to Mr. Hodgson:-"Boatswain is dead!-he expired in a state of madness, on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have now lost every thing except old Murray." By the will, which he executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.-L. E.

"Of this favourite," says Moore, "some traits are told indicative not only of intelligence, but of a generosity of spirit, which might well win for him the affections of such a master as Byron." It seems that a deadly feud having long existed between Boatswain and a fox-terrier called Gilpin, belonging to Mrs. Byron, that lady prudently sent her favourite out of the way of his more powerful antagonist. One morning the servant, to whose guardianship Boatswain was confided, was much alarmed by the disappearance of his charge, and throughout the whole of the day no tidings could be heard of him. "At last, towards evening, the stray dog arrived, accompanied by Gilpin, whom he led immediately to the kitchen fire, licking him, and lavishing upon him every possible demonstration of joy. The fact was, he had been all the way to Newstead to fetch him, and having now established his former foe under the roof once more, agreed so perfectly well with him ever after, that he even protected him against the insults of other dogs,-a task which the quarrelsomeness of the little terrier rendered no sinecure."

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one, and here he lies. (3)

ON

TO A LADY,

BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING
ENGLAND IN THE SPRING.

WHEN man, expell'd from Eden's bowers
A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,

And bade him curse his future fate.

But, wandering on through distant climes,
He learn'd to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,

And found in busier scenes relief.
Thus, lady! (4) will it be with me,

And I must view thy charms no more; For, while I linger near to thee,

I sigh for all I knew before.

In flight I shall be surely wise,

Escaping from temptation's snare;

I cannot view my paradise

Without the wish of dwelling there. (5)
December 2, 1808.

It is worthy of remark that the poet Pope, when about the same age as Lord Byron, passed a similar eulogy on his dog, at the expense of human nature, adding that "Histories are more full of examples of the fidelity of dogs than of friends." He had also at one time, as appears from an anecdote preserved by Spence, some thoughts of burying this dog in his garden, and placing a monument over him, with the inscription, "O rare Bounce."

In speaking of the members of Rousseau's domestic establishment, Hume says: "She (Thérèse) governs him as absolutely as a nurse does a child. In her absence, bis dog has acquired that ascendant. His affection for that creature is beyond all expression of conception." Private Correspondence.

In Burns's elegy on the death of his favourite Mailie, we find the friendship even of a sheep set on a level with that

of man:

"Wr kindly bleat, when she did spy him,
She ran wi' speed:

A friend mair faithful ne'er came nigh him
Than Mailie dead."

In speaking of the favourite dogs of great poets, we must not forget Cowper's little spaniel "Beau," nor will posterity fail to add to the list the name of Sir Walter Scott's "Maida." See Moore's Life of Byron.-P. E.

(3) In Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany, in which the epitaph was first published, the last line ran thus:

"I knew but one unchanged-and here he lies." The reader will not fail to observe, that this inscription was written at a time when the poet's early feelings with respect to the lady of Annesley had been painfully revived. -L. E.

(4) In the first copy, "Thus, Mary!"-(Mrs. Musters.) The reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Illustrations of Lord Byron's 'orks, No. iii.-L. E.

(5) In Mr. Hobhouse's volume, the line stood,-"Without a wish to enter there." The following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece:-" Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her mar Her conduct, riage was not a happier one than my own. however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many years, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit; when my sister, who

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT.
REMIND me not, remind me not,

Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.
Can I forget-canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,

With eyes so languid, breast so fair,

And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,

Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd yet raised desire,

And still we near and nearer press'd,

And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

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

Till thou and I shall be forgot,

And senseless as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.

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
Cenfess'd a love which equall'd mine,

has always had more influence over me than any one else,
'For,' said she, if you go,
persuaded me not to do it.
you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene;
one step will lead to another, et cela fera un éclat.' I was
guided by those reasons, and shortly after married,-with
what success it is useless to say."-L. E.

(I) The melancholy which was now gaining fast upon the young poet's mind was a source of much uneasiness to his friends. It was at this period that the following pleasant verses were addressed to him by Mr. Hobhouse :

EPISTLE

TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN IN LOVE.

Hail! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame Inspires, and animates to deeds of fame; Who feel the noble wish before you die To raise the finger of each passer-by: Hail! may a future age admiring view A Falkland, or a Clarendon, in you.

But as your blood with dangerous passion boils, Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils:

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine,

None, none hath sunk so deep as this-
To 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 'tis doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 'tis 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.

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.

O lady! blessed be that tear--
It falls for one who cannot weep:
Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eyes no tear may steep.
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.

Yet 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. (1)

Ah! let the head protect the weaker heart,
And Wisdom's Ægis turn on Beauty's dart.

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But if 't is fix'd that every lord must pair, And you and Newstead must not want an heir, Lose not your pains, and scour the country round, To find a treasure that can ne'er be found! No! take the first the town or court affords, Trick'd out to stock a market for the lords; By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall On one, though wicked, not the worst of all:

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One though perhaps as any Maxwell free,
Yet scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee:
Not very ugly, and not very old,

A little pert indeed, but not a scold;
One that, in short, may help to lead a life
Nor farther much from comfort than from strife;
And when she dies, and disappoints your fears,
Shali leave some joys for your declining years.

But, as your early youth some time allows, Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse, 107

FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. (1)

A 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 found.

I have tried, in its turn, all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark-rolling eye;

I have loved!-who has not?-but what heart cau 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?

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?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, [alloy; We are jealous!-who's not?-thou hast no such For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find do we not?-in the flow of the soul,
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

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.

Some hours of freedom may remain as yet
For one who laughs alike at love and debt.
Then, why in haste? put off the evil day.

And snatch at youthful comforts whilst you may!
Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego
That single souls, and such alone, can know;
Ah! why too early careless life resign,
Your morning slumber, and your evening wine;
Your loved companion, and his easy talk;
Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk.
What! can no more your scenes paternal please,
Scenes sacred long to wise unmated ease?
The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down,
Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own?
What! shall your Newstead, shall your cloister'd bowers,
The high o'er-hanging arch and trembling towers!
Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife,
And ever-fond or ever-angry wife!

Shall these no more confess a manly sway.
But changeful woman's changing whims obey?
Who may, perhaps, as varying humour calls,
Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls:
Let Repton Joose o'er all the ancient ground,
Change round to square, and square convert to round;
Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom,
And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room;

STANZAS TO A LADY, (2) ON LEAVING
ENGLAND. (3)

'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 freshening blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.

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.

"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.

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.

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

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.

Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre,
Where gravell'd walks and flowers alternate glare.
And quite transform, in every point complete,
Your gothic abbey to a country-seat.

Forget the fair one, and your fate delay;

If not avert, at least defer the day

When you beneath the female yoke shall bend,
And lose your wit, your temper, and your friend *
Trin. Coll. Camb. 1508.

(1) This song, although classed among Lord Byron's early compositions in the London Edition, appears to have been composed at Pisa, after one of his Lordship's dinners, in company with Captain Medwin.-P. E.

(2) Mrs. Musters.

(3) This poem, which is, throughout, full of tenderness, was written under the influence of that despondent feeling to which we are indebted for those touching stanzas, "Well thou art happy," etc.. and the verses on his quitting England in the Spring.-P. E.

In his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's volume, now before us, } Lord Byron has here written with a pencil,-"I have lost them aŭ, and shall WED accordingly. 1811. B.-L. E.

To think of every early scene,

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

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

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

With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

"Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. (1)

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

1809.

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(1) Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany; the two last lines being originally

"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,

I love but thee, I love but one."-L. E.

(2) Moore, in his Life, mentions a strange story which this officer related to Lord Byron on the passage. He stated that "being asleep one night in his berth, he was awakened by the pressure of something heavy on his limbs, and there being a faint light in the room, could see, as he thought, distinctly, the figure of his brother, who was at that time in the naval service in the East Indies, dressed in his uniform and stretched across the bed. Concluding it to be an illusion of the senses, he shut his eyes and made an effort to sleep. But still the same pressure continued, and still, as often as he ventured to take another look, he saw the figure lying across in the same position. To add to the wonder, on putting his hand forth to touch this form, he found the uniform, in which it appeared to be dressed, dripping wet. On the entrance of one of his brother officers, to whom he called out in alarm, the apparition vanished; but in a few months after he received the startling intelligence that, on that night, his brother had been drowned in

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 the Lisbon Packet.

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the Indian seas. Of the supernatural character of this ap pearance, Captain Kidd himself did not appear to have the slightest doubt."-P. E.

(3) Lord Byron's three servants.-L. E.

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Of the veteran Joe Murray's attachment to his master, Moore in his Life makes frequent and honourable mention. The following anecdote is characteristic:-"In 1810, there had been an execution on Newstead for a debt of 15001. To the faithful old servant, jealous of the ancient honour of the Byrons, the sight of the notice of sale, pasted up on the Abbey door, could not be otherwise than sightly and intolerable nuisance. Having enough, however, of the fear of the law before his eyes, not to tear the writ ing down, he was at last forced, as his only consolatory expedient, to paste a large piece of brown paper over it." -In proof of the kindly feeling which Lord Byron ever entertained towards "Ola Joe Murray," Moore also states that a constant visiter at Newstead has often "seen Lord Byron, at the dinner-table, fill out a tumbler of madeira and hand it over his shoulder to Joe Murray, who stood behind his chair, saying, with a cordiality that brightened his whole countenance, Here, my old fellow.'"-P. E.

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I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon 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 laughing—

Who the devil cares for more?
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Even on board the Lisbon Packet? (1)

Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA.
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone

Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
May mine attract thy pensive eye!

And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance in some succeeding year,

Reflect on me as on the dead,

And think my heart is buried here.
September 14, 1809.

TO FLORENCE. (2)

On Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth, I hardly thought to grieve once more, To quit another spot on earth: Yet here, amidst this barren isle, Where panting Nature droops the head, Where only thou art seen to smile,

I view my parting hour with dread. Though far from Albin's craggy shore, Divided by the dark-blue main ;

(1) In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron says:-"I leave England without regret-I shall return to it without pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab; and thus ends my first chapter."-L. E.

(2) These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostrophises in the stanzas on the thunder-storm of Zitza, and in Childe Harold, is thus mentioned in a letter to his mother:-"This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked; and her life has been from its commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance they would appear improbable. She was born at Constantinople, where her father, Baron Herbert, was Austrian ambassador; married unhappily, yet has never been impeached in point of character; excited the vengeance of Bonaparte, by taking a part in some conspiracy; several times risked her life; and is not yet five-and-twenty. She is here on her way to England to join her husband, being obliged to leave Trieste, where she was paying a visit to her mother, by the approach of the French, and embarks soon in a ship of war. Since my ar

A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er,
Perchance I view her cliffs again;
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,

Through scorching clime, and varied sea,
Though Time restore me to my home,
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee:
On thee, in whom at once conspire

All charms which heedless hearts can move, Whom but to see is to admire,

And, oh! forgive the word-to love. Forgive the word, in one who ne'er With such a word can more offend; And since thy heart I cannot share, Believe me, what I am, thy friend. And who so cold as look on thee,

Thou lovely wanderer, and be less? Nor be, what man should ever be,

The friend of Beauty in distress? Ah! who would think that form had pass'd Through Danger's most destructive path, Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast, And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? Lady! when I shall view the walls

Where free Byzantium once arose,
And Stamboul's Oriental halls

The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest, in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 't will hold a dearer claim,
As spot of thy nativity:

And, though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'T will soothe to be where thou hast been.
September, 1809

STANZAS

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM. (3) CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,

Where Pindus' mountains rise, And angry clouds are pouring fast The vengeance of the skies.

rival here I have had scarcely any other companion. I have found her very pretty, very accomplished, and extremely eccentric. Bonaparte is even now so incensed against ber, that her life would be in danger if she were taken prisoner a second time."-L. E.

(3) This thunder-storm occurred during the night of the 11th October 1809, when Lord Byron's guides had lost the road to Zitza, near the range of mountains formerly called Pindus, in Albania. Mr. Hobhouse, who had rode on before the rest of party, and arrived at Zitza just as the evening set in, describes the thunder as "roaring without intermission, the echoes of one peal not ceasing to roll in the mountains, before another tremendous crash burst over our heads; whilst the plains and the distant hills appeared in a perpetual blaze." "The tempest," he says, "was altogether terrific, and worthy of the Grecian Jove. My friend, with the priest and the servants, did not enter our hut till three in the morning. I now learnt from him that they had lost! their way, and that, after wandering up and down in total ignorance of their position, they had stopped at last near some Turkish tomb-stones and a torrent, which they saw by the flashes of lightning. They had been thus exposed for nine hours. It was long before we ceased to talk of the thunder-storm in the plain of Zitza."--L. E.

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