Away! away! my early dream Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream! EPISTLE TO A FRIEND. IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE." "OH! banish care 99 such ever be Perchance of mine, when wassail nights Whose every thought — but let them pass Thou know'st I am not what I was. 'T were long to tell, and vain to hear, And there is little in that tale And made my cheek belie my heart, Time had not made me love the less. But let this pass - I'll whine no more, Nor seek again an eastern shore; The world befits a busy brain, I'll hie me to its haunts again. When Britain's " May is in the sere," Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times, Of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise, One, who in stern ambition's pride, and knowing pause, Nor with the effect forget the cause. TO THOMAS MOORE. My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But, before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee! Here's a sigh to those who love me, Though the ocean roar around me, Were 't the last drop in the well, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'Tis to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be - peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore. CHILDE HAROLD'S DEPARTURE. (CHILDE HAROLD, Canto i. Stanzas 4-11.) CHILDE HAROLD bask'd him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly; Nor deem'd before his little day was done But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell. For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, And from his native land resolved to go, And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below. The Childe departed from his father's hall: So old, it seemed only not to fall, Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile ! Where Superstition once had made her den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; For his was not that open, artless soul Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. And none did love him though to hall and bower He gather'd revellers from far and near, He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour; Yea! none did love him nor his lemans dear But pomp and power alone are woman's care, Childe Harold had a mother not forgot, |