Occasional Pieces. 1807-1824. THE ADIEU. WRITTEN UNDER THE IMPRESSION THAT THE AUTHOR WOULD SOON DIE. ADIEU, thou Hill! where early joy Spread roses o'er my brow; No more through Ida's paths we stray; Adieu, ye hoary Regal Fanes, Ye spires of Granta's vale, Where Learning robed in sable reigns, Ye comrades of the jovial hour, On Cama's verdant margin placed, Adieu, ye mountains of the clime Where grew my youthful years; Where Loch na Garr in snows sublime His giant summit rears. Why did my childhood wander forth With sons of pride to roam? Hall of my Sires! a long farewell Yet why to thee adieu ? Thy vaults will echo back my knell, Thy towers my tomb will view: The faltering tongue which sung thy fall, Forgets its wonted simple note- Fields, which surround yon rustic cot, To retrospection dear. Streamlet 3 along whose rippling surge, At noontide heat their pliant course; And shall I here forget the scene, Still nearest to my breast? Rocks rise, and rivers roll between Thine image cannot fade. And thou, my Friend 5! whose gentle love, All, all is dark and cheerless now! Can warm my veins with wonted glow, Not e'en the hope of future fame, Or crown with fancied wreaths my head. Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart; But me she beckons from the earth, When I repose beneath the sod, By nightly skies, and storms alone; No mortal eye will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown. Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight, If errors are forgiven. To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's Throne; 4 [Mary Duff. See ante, p. 416. note.] [Eddlestone, the Cambridge chorister. See ante, p.) 1807. OCCASIONAL PIECES. To Him address thy trembling prayer : Father of Light! to Thee I call, My soul is dark within: Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Thou, who canst guide the wandering star, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO A VAIN LADY. Ан, heedless girl! why thus disclose And dig the source of future tears? Of those who spoke but to beguile. Nor fall the specious spoiler's prey. The words man utters to deceive? Nor make thyself the public gaze : Her who relates each fond conceit These amorous nothings in revealing, While vanity prevents concealing. January 15. 1807. [First published, 1832.] I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, TO THE SAME. Он, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined, Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed, TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET BEGINNING, Yet there is one I pity more; And much, alas! I think he needs it: Although by far too dull for laughter. But would you make our bosoms bleed, And of no common pang complain— If you would make us weep indeed, Tell us, you'll read them o'er again. March 8. 1807. [First published, 1832.] This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing. Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, My visions are flown, to return, -- alas, never! When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, How vain is the effort delight to prolong! When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song? Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign? Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown? Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine. Can they speak of the friends that but to love? Ah, surely affection ennobles the strain! But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again? Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires? For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone! For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires! Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast. - 'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more. 1 [Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed; - hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, " Here is a fine young oak; And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot, Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet; If our songs have been languid, they surely are few: Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet— The present-which seals our eternal Adieu. 1807. [First published, 1832.] TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. 1 YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide. I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour, But thou wert not fated affection to share For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel ? Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run, The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile, When Infancy's years of probation are done. Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds, And still may thy branches their beauty display. Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath. For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave C'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade. And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot: Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead. And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day. 1807. [First published, 1832] but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper plaon. "I hope not, sir," replied the man; "for it's the nae that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." The C lonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after, by strangers, as " THE BYRON OAK," and promises to share, in after times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's mulberry, and Pope's willow.] ON REVISITING HARROW. I HERE once engaged the stranger's view Young Friendship's record simply traced; Few were her words, but yet, though few, Resentment's hand the line defaced. Deeply she cut-but not erased, The characters were still so plain, That Friendship once return'd, and gazed, Till Memory hail'd the words again. Repentance placed them as before; Forgiveness join'd her gentle name; So fair the inscription seem'd once more That Friendship thought it still the same. Thus might the Record now have been; But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour, Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, And blotted out the line for ever! September, 1807. EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, TO MY SON. 2 THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, Bright as thy mother's in their hue; Those rosy lips, whose dimples play And smile to steal the heart away, Recall a scene of former joy, And touch thy father's heart, my Boy! And thou canst lisp a father's name- Her lowly grave the turf has prest, And yields thee scarce a name on earth; Why, let the world unfeeling frown, 1 Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas. 2 ["Whether these verses are, in any degree, founded on fact, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth, Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace, Although so young thy heedless sire, FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!- Farewell! These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; But in my breast and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel : I only know we loved in vain I only feel-Farewell!- Farewell! 1808. BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. BRIGHT be the place of thy soul! On earth thou wert all but divine, As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine, When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the turf of thy tomb! May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see; For why should we mourn for the blest? 1808. such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him; and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote,-making allowance for the embellishments of fancy, - the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been indebted for its origin to imagination alone."- MoORE. But see post, Don Juan, canto xvi. st. 61.] TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 1 FEW years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerity Preserved our feelings long the same. But now, like me, too well thou know'st And those who once have loved the most If so, it never shall be mine To mourn the loss of such a heart; The fault was Nature's fault, not thine, Which made thee fickle as thou art. As rolls the ocean's changing tide, So human feelings ebb and flow; And who would in a breast confide, Where stormy passions ever glow? 1808. [This copy of verses, and that which follows, originally appeared in the volume published, in 1809, by Mr. (now the Right Hon. Sir John) Hobhouse, under the title of " Imita It boots not that, together bred, Not so in Man's maturer years, With fools in kindred vice the same, We learn at length our faults to blend; And those, and those alone, may claim The prostituted name of friend. Such is the common lot of man: Can we then 'scape from folly free? No; for myself, so dark my fate Through every turn of life hath been; Man and the world so much I hate, I care not when I quit the scene. But thou, with spirit frail and light, Alas! whenever folly calls Where parasites and princes meet, (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet) To join the vain, and court the proud. That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. But say, what nymph will prize the flame Which seems, as marshy vapours move, To flit along from dame to dame, An ignis-fatuus gleam of love? For friendship every fool may share? No more so idly pass along : Be something, any thing, but mean. 1808. tions and Translations, together with original poems," and bearing the modest epigraph-"Nos hæc novimus esse no» hil."] |