VERSES.(1)

REMEMBER thee! remember thee!

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and shame shall cling to thee,

And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not.

Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot,

Thou false to him, thou fiend to me!

ON LORD ELGIN.(2)

NOSELESS himself, he brings home noseless blocks, To show at once the ravages of time and pox.

TO TIME.

TIME! on whose arbitrary wing

The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to die

Hail thou! who on my birth bestow'd

Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load,

For now I bear the weight alone.

I would not one fond heart should share
The bitter moments thou hast given;
And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare
All that I loved, to peace or heaven.

To them be joy or rest, on me

Thy future ills shall press in vain;

I nothing owe but years to thee,
A debt already paid in pain.

Yet even that pain was some relief;

It felt, but still forgot, thy power:
The active agony of grief

Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
Would soon subside from swift to slow;
Thy cloud could overcast the light,

But could not add a night to woe;

For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
One star alone shot forth a spark

To prove thee-not Eternity.

That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
A blank; a thing to count and curse
Through each dull tedious trifling part,
Which all regret, yet all rehearse.
One scene even thou canst not deform;
The limit of thy sloth or speed
When future wanderers bear the storm
Which we shall sleep too sound to heed:

And I can smile to think how weak

Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon-a nameless stone.

(1) The sequel of a temporary liaison, formed by Lord Byron during his gay but brief career in London, occasioned the composition of this Impromptu. On the cessation of the connection, the fair one, actuated by jealousy, called one morning at her quondam lover's apartments. His Lord

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE-SONG.

An! Love was never yet without

The pang, the agony, the doubt

Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.

Without one friend to hear my woe,

I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Which Love around your haunts hath set;
Or, circled by his fatal fire,

Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

A bird of free and careless wing

Was I, through many a smiling spring;
But caught within the subtle snare,

I burn, and feebly flutter there.

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
Can neither feel nor pity pain,
The cold repulse, the look askance,
The lightning of Love's angry glance.

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline;
Like melting wax, or withering flower,
I feel my passion, and thy power.

My light of life! ah, tell me why
That pouting lip, and alter'd eye?

My bird of Love! my beauteous mate!

And art thou changed, and canst thou hate?

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:

What wretch with me would barter woe?

My bird! relent: one note could give

A charm, to bid thy lover live.

My curdling blood, my maddening brain, In silent anguish I sustain;

And still thy heart, without partaking

One pang, exults—while mine is breaking.

Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
Thou canst not murder more than now:
I've lived to curse my natal day,
And Love, that thus can lingering slay.

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
Can patience preach thee into rest?
Alas! too late, I dearly know
That joy is harbinger of woe.

STANZAS.

THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Are doubly bitter from that thought:
"Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest,
Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.

ship was from home; but finding Fathek on the table, the lady wrote in the first page of the volume the words 'Remember me" Byron immediately wrote under the ominous warning these two stanzas." Medwin.-P. E. (2) See Curse of Minerva, p. 187.-P. E.

The wholly false the heart despises,
And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,

Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly,
It feels what mine has felt so newly.
To dream of joy, and wake to sorrow,
Is doom'd to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
To leave the waking soul more lonely,

What must they feel whom no false vision, But truest tenderest passion, warm'd? Sincere, but swift in sad transition;

As if a dream alone had charm'd? Ah! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, And all thy change can be but dreaming!

ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE."

THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou mayst read in many an eye

He starts to life on seeing thee?

And shouldst thou seek his end to know: My heart forebodes, my fears foresee, He'll linger long in silent woe;

But live until I cease to be.

STANZAS.

REMEMBER him, whom passion's power
Severely, deeply, vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour

When neither fell, though both were loved.

That yielding breast, that melting eye,
Too much invited to be bless'd:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,
The wilder wish reproved, repress'd.

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years.

Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name.

Think that, whate'er to others, thou

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:
I bless thy purer soul even now,
Even now,
in midnight solitude.

(1) The poems in question, as Moore states, "were written professedly in imitation of the old English writers, and contained, like many of these models, a good deal that was striking and beautiful, mixed up with much that was trifling, fantastic, and absurd. In vain did Mr. Rogers (to whom a copy of the work had been presented), in justice to the author, endeavour to direct our attention to some of the beauties of the work. One of the poems was a warm and, I need not add, well-deserved panegyric on himself. The opening line of the poem was, as well as I can recollect,

Oh, God! that we had met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free;
When thou hadst loved without a crime,
And I been less unworthy thee!

Far may thy days, as heretofore,

From this our gaudy world be pass'd!
And that too bitter moment o'er,
Oh! may such trial be thy last!
This heart, alas! perverted long,

Itself destroy'd might there destroy;
To meet thee in the glittering throng,
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

Like mine, is wild and worthless all,
That world resign-such scenes forego,
Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness,
Thy soul from long seclusion pure;
From what even here hath pass'd, may guess
What there thy bosom must endure.
Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

For me they shall not weep again.

Though long and mournful must it be,

The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree,

And almost deem the sentence sweet.

Still, had I loved thee less, my heart
Had then less sacrificed to thine;

It felt not half so much to part,
As if its guilt had made thee mine.

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.(1) WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent (I hope I am not violent),

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

1813.

And since not even our Rogers' praise
To common sense his thoughts could raise--
Why would they let him print his lays?

To me, divine Apollo, grant-O!
Hermilda's first and second canto,
I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;
And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining-
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.

'When Rogers o'er this labour bent.' And Lord Byron undertook to read it aloud; but he found it impossible to get beyond the first two words. Our laughter had now increased to such a pitch that nothing could restrain it. Two or three times he began, but, no sooner had the words When Rogers' passed his lips, than our fit burst forth afresh-till even Mr. Rogers himself, with all his feeling of our injustice, found it impossible not to join us; and had the author himself been of the party, I question much whether he could have resisted the infection." - P. B.

TO LORD THURLOW.

"I lay my branch of laurel down: Then thus to form Apollo's crown, Let every other bring his own."

Lord Thurlow's lines to Mr. Rogers. "I lay my branch of laurel down." Thou "lay thy branch of laurel down!" Why, what thou'st stole is not enow; And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou? Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send it back to Doctor Doune:
Were justice done to both, I trow,

He'd have but little, and thou-none.
"Then thus to form Apollo's crown."
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,

Inquire amongst your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

"Let every other bring his own."

When coals to Newcastle are carried,

And owls sent to Athens, as wonders, From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried, Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

TO THOMAS MOORE;

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT TO MR. LEIGH HUNT IN COLDBATH-FIELDS PRISON, MAY

19, 1813. (1)

Oн you, who in all names can tickle the town, Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,For hang me if I know of which you may most brag, Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post Bag;

*

But now to my letter-to yours 'tis an answer-
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some
codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;

(1) It was in Horsemonger-lane prison, and not in Cold Bath Fields.-P. E.

(2) The reader who wishes to understand the full force of this scandalous insinuation, is referred to Muretus's notes on a celebrated poem of Catullus, entitled In Cæsarem; but consisting, in fact, of savagely scornful abuse of the favourite Mamurra:

"Quis hoc potest videre? quis potest pati,
Nisi impudicus et vorax et helluo?

Mamurram habere quod comata Gallia

Habebat unctum, et ultima Britannia?" etc.-L. E.

(3) "These verses are said to have dropped from the poet's pen, to excuse a transient expression of melancholy which overclouded the general gaiety. It was impossible to observe his interesting countenance, expressive of a dejection belonging neither to his rank, his age, nor his success, without feeling an indefinable curiosity to ascertain whether

And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got, Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote, But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra, And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.(2)

IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND.
WHEN, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,

And clouds the brow, or fills the eye; Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink: My thoughts their dungeon know too well; Back to my breast the wanderers shrink, And droop within their silent cell. (3)

September, 1813.

SONNET, TO GENEVRA. THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features-caught From contemplation-where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despairHave thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtI should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing penci orn, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn. December 17, 1813.(4)

SONNET, TO THE SAME.

THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes-but, oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
December 17, 1813.

it had a deeper cause than habit or constitutional temperament. It was obviously of a degree incalculably more seri ous than that alluded to by Prince Arthur

I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night
Only for wantonness.'

But, howsoever derived, this, joined to Lord Byron's air of mingling in amusements and sports as if he contemned | them, and felt that his sphere was far above the frivoloas crowd which surrounded him, gave a strong effect of colouring to a character whose tints were otherwise romantic." Walter Scott.-L. E.

1

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE;

AN UNFINISHED RHAPSODY. (1)

THE Devil return'd to hell by two,
And he stay'd at home till five;

When he dined on some homicides done in ragoút,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew-
And bethought himself what next to do.

"And," quoth he, “I'll take a drive.

I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I'll see how my favourites thrive.

"And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer then-
"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

I should mount in a waggon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.

But these will be furnish'd again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed;

To see my manor as much as I may,

And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.

"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,

A chariot in Seymour Place;

But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends
By driving my favourite pace:

And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.

"So now for the earth, to take my chance!"
Then up to the earth sprung he;

And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp'd across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hover'd a moment upon his way
To look upon Leipsic plain;

And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,
That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;

And he gazed with delight from its growing height:
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well;

For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blush'd like the waves of hell!

(1) "I have lately written a wild, rambling, unfinished rhapsody, called The Devil's Drive,' the notion of which I took from Porson's Devil's Walk." B. Diary, 1813.-" Of this strange wild poem," says Moore, "the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord Hol

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white, And what did he there, I pray?

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night What we see every day :

But he made a tour, and kept a journal

Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,

And he sold it in shares to the men of the Row,
Who bid pretty well-but they cheated him, though!

The Devil first saw, as he thought, the mail,
Its coachman and his coat;

So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
And seized him by the throat:
"Aha!" quoth he, "what have we here?
'Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!"

So he sat him on his box again,

And bade him have no fear,

But be true to his club, and stanch to his rein,
His brothel, and his beer;

"Next to seeing a lord at the council-board,
I would rather see him here."

The Devil gat next to Westminster,

And he turn'd to "the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he purposed to enter in there, That "the Lords" had received a summous; And he thought, as a "quondam aristocrat," He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;

And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own,
That they say that he stood pretty near the throne.

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk- a man of some size—
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;
And he saw the tears in Lord Eldon's eyes,
Because the Catholics would not rise,

In spite of his prayers and his prophecies;
And he heard--which set Satan himself a staring-
A certain Chief Justice say something like swearing.
And the Devil was shock'd-and quoth he, "I must
For I find we have much better manners below; [go,
If thus he harangues when he passes my border,
I shall hint to friend Moloch to call him to order."

land. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge, which Lord Byron, adopting a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson."- L. E.