Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,
And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth:
But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth -
Unfit to govern, live, or die.

February 12, 1815. [First published, 1831.]

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.
GRAY'S Poemata.

[These verses were given by Byron to Mr. Power of the Strand, who published them with music by Sir John Stevenson. In a letter (March 8, 1815) he states that 'the death of poor Dorset' set him into the mood for writing them. In another letter (March, 1816) he calls them the truest, though the most melancholy,' he ever wrote.]

THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,

And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath,

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what
I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er

many a vanish'd scene;

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.

March, 1815. [First published, 1816.]

STANZAS

[These stanzas, slightly different in form and superscribed 'On the Death of the Duke of Dorset,' are in the new Murray edition claimed as first published from an autograph manuscript in the possession of Mr. Murray. They have been in print for at least more than half a century.]

I HEARD thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear-
Too loved of all to die.

I know not what hath sear'd mine eye:
The tears refuse to start;
But every drop its lids deny
Falls dreary on my heart.

Yes-deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink, and turn to care;
As cavern'd waters wear the stone,
Yet, dropping, harden there.

They cannot petrify more fast

Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fix'd, regard the past,
But never melt again.

I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;

I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,

The last single Captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,

But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,

Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted

In strife with the storm, when their battles

The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;

Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again.

Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice;

There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice.

July 25, 1815.

FROM THE FRENCH

MUST thou go, my glorious Chief, Sever'd from thy faithful few ? Who can tell thy warrior's grief, Maddening o'er that long adieu ?