One scene even thou canst not deform; 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. TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. AH! 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, Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net Or, circled by his fatal fire, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. A bird of free and careless wing Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, The cold repulse, the look askance, In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine; My light of life! ah, tell me why Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, And still thy heart, without partaking Pour me the poison; fear not thou ! My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. THOU art not false, but thou art fickle, The wholly false the heart despises, Whose love is as sincere as sweet,- To dream of joy and wake to sorrow What must they feel whom no false vision But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ? As if a dream alone had charm'd ? ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE "ORIGIN OF LOVE.” THE "Origin of Love!"-Ah, why That cruel question ask of me, And shouldst thou seek his end to know: He'll linger long in silent woe; But live-until I cease to be. REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER. 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, 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, Think that, whate'er to others, thou I bless thy purer soul even now, Oh, God! that we had met in time, Far may thy days, as heretofore, This heart, alas! perverted long, Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by Virtue shed in vain, Though long and mournful must it be, 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. 1813. ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.9 WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 9 [One evening, in 1813, Lord Byron and Moore were ridiculing a volume of poetry, which they chanced to take up at the house of Rogers. While their host was palliating faults and pointing out beauties, their mirth received a fresh impulse by the discovery |