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attributed Poems.

(Although never publicly acknowledged by Lord Byron, the following have been generally attributed to

his pen: and, aware of the interest attached to his most trifling efforts, the Publishers, without vouching for their authenticity, have not hesitated to add them to this edition.]




I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me.


-et dulces moriens reminiscitur Arjos.

Peace to thee, isle of the ocean!

Hail to thy breezes and billows!

Where, rolling its tides in perpetual devotion, When slow Disease, with all her host of pains,

The white wave its plumy surf pillows ! Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins; Rich shall the chaplet be history shall weave thee! When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, Whose undying verdure shall bloom on thy brow, And flies with every changing gale of spring;

When nations, that now in obscurity leave thee, Not to the aching frame alone confined,

To the wand of oblivion alternately bow! C'nyielding pangs assail the drooping mind.

Unchanged in thy glory-upstain'd in thy fame-
What grisly forms, the spectre train of woe,

The homage of ages shall hallow thy name!
Bids shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow ;
With Resignation wage relentless strife,

Hail to the chief who reposes
While Hope retires appalld, and clings to life!

On thee the rich weight of his glory! Yet less the pang, when, through the tedious hour, When, fill'd to its limit, life's chronicle closes, Remembrance sheds around her genial power,

His deeds shall be sacred in story! Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given,

His prowess shall rank with the first of all ages, When love was bliss, and beauty form'd our heaven : And monarchs hereafter shall bow to his worthOr, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene,

The songs of the poets-the lessons of sages-Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. Shall hold him the wonder and grace of the earth. As when, through clouds that pour the summer storm, The meteors of history before thee shall fallThe orb of day unveils his distant form,

Eclipsed by thy splendour-thou meteo: of Gaul! Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain,

Hygeian breezes shall fan theeAnd dimly iwinkles o'er the watery plain;

Island of glory resplendent! Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,

Pilgrims from nations far distant shall man theeThe sun of memory, glowing through my dreams,

Tribes, as thy waves independent!
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays,

On thy far gleaming strand the wanderer shall stay him

To snatch a brief glance at a spol so renown'd-Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,

Each turf, and each stone, and each cliff, shall delay him The past confounding with the present day.

Where the step of thy exile hath hallow'd thy ground.

From him shalt thou borrow a lustre divine;
Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,

The wanc of his sun was the rising of thine!
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields,

Whose were the hands that enslaved him?
Aid roams romantic o'er her airy fields;

Hands which had weakly withstood himScenes of my youth developed crowd to view,

Nations which, while they had oftentimes braved To which I long have paid a last adieu!


Never till now had subdued him!
Monarchs— who oft to his clemency stoopiny,

Received back their crowns from the plunder of war-

The vanquisher vanquislid--the cagle now drooping,

Would quench with their sternness the ray of his star!

But cloth'd in new splendour thy glory appears-
How strangely time bis course has run,

And rules the ascendant- the planet of years!
Since first I pair'd with you;
Sıx years ago we made but one,

Pure be the heath of thy mountains !
Now five have made us two.

Rich be the green of thy pastures!


Limpid and lasting the streams of thy fountains! For no patriot vigour was there,
Thine annals unstain d by disasters!

No arm to support the weak flower;
Supreme in the ocean a rich altar swelling,

Destruction pursued its dark herald-Despair, Whose shrine shall be baild by the prayers of man- And wither'd its grace in an hour.

kind Thy rock-beach the rage of the tempest repelling

Yet there were who pretended to grieve, The wide-wasting contest of wave and of wind- There were who pretended to save; Aloft on thy battlements long be unfurld

Mere shallow empyrics who came to deceiveThe eagle that decks thee-the pride of the world!

To revel and sport on its grave.
Fade shall the lily, now blooming-

Oh! thou land of the lily! in vain
Where is the land which can nurse it?

Thou strugglest 10 raise its pale head!
Nations who rearil it shall watch its consuming - The faded bud never shall blossom again
Untimely mildews shall curse it.

The violet will bloom in its stead!
Then shall the violet that blooms in the valleys
Impart to the gale its reviving perfume-

As thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind-
Then, when the spirit of liberty rallies,

False emblem of innocence, stay-
To chaunt forth its anibems on tyranny's jomb, And yield as thou fadest, for the use of mankind,
Wide Europe shall fear lest thy star should break forih, This lesson to mark thy decay!
Eclipsing the pestilent orbs of the north!

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But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flowerOh! breathe on it softly-it dies in an hour.

今 By Chas Laut. (See Cool

Rrison's Diary, i17.)

Adieu, thou damo'dest quarantine,
That gave me fever and the spleen;
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, sirs;
Adieu his excellency's dancers ;
Adieu to Peter, whom no fault's in,
But could not teach a colonel walizing;
Adieu, ye females, fraught with graces ;
Adieu, red coats, and redder faces;
Adieu the supercilious air
Of all that strut en militaire.
I go—but God knows where or why-
To smoky towns and cloudy sky;
To things, the honest truth to say,
As bad, but in a different way:-
Farewell to thiese, but not adicu,
Triumpbant sons of truest blue,
While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and tlcets no more,
And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,
Proclaim you war and women's winners.

Pardon my muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme, because 't is gratis :
And now I've got to Mrs Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean 10 praise her;
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line or two were no bard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not llatter :
But she must be content to shine
Jo better praises than in mine:
With lively air and open heart,
And fashion's ease without its art,
Her hours can gaily glide along,
Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, oh Malta! since thou'st got us,
Thou little military hot-house,
I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the devil-
But only stare from out my casement,
And ask--for what is such a place meant ?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book ;
Or take my physic, while I'm able,
Two spoonfuls, hourly, by this label ;
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
Aod bless my stars I've got a fever.

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THE TRIUMPH OF THE WHALE. Io Pran! lo! sing To the fiony people's kingNot a mightier whale than this In the vast Atlantic is ; Not a fatter fish than he Flounders round the Polar sea; See liis blubber-at his gills What a world of drink he swills! From his trunk as from a spout, Which next moment be pours out. Such his person : next declare, Muse! who his companions are. Every fish of generous kind Scuds aside or slinks behind, But about his person keep All the monsters of the deep ; Mermaids, with their tales and singing, His delighted fancy stinging ;Crooked dolphins, they surround him; Doc-like seals, they fawn around him : Following hard, the progress mark Of the intolerant salt sea sharkFor his solace and relief Flat fish are his courtiers chief;Last and lowest of his train, Ink-fish, libellers of the main, Their black liquor shed in spite(Such ou earth the things that write.) In his stomach, some do say, No good thing can ever stay; Had it been the fortune of it To have swallow'd the old prophet, Three days there he'd not have dwellid, But in one have been expelld. Hapless mariners are they, Who, beguiled, as seamen say, Deeming it some rock or island, Footing sure, safe spol, and dry land, Anchor in his scaly rind ; Soon the difference they find, Sudden, plump, he siok; beneath themDoes to ruthless waves bequeath them. Name or title, what has he? Is he regent of the sca? From the difficulty free us, Buffon, Banks, or sage Linnæus ! With his wondrous attributes Say-what appellation suits ? By his bulk and by his size, By his oily qualities, This, or else my eye-sight fails, This should be the- Prince of Whales!

ENIGMA. 'T was whisperd in heaven, 't was mutterd in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell : On the confines of earth it was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confest. 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. "T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, Artends at his birth, and awaits him in death; It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth : Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretchi who expels it from home. In the whispers of conscience ils voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd: T will not soften the heart, and, though deaf to the car, "T will make it acutely and instantly hear.

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A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret prayer,
And as he seck3 his last repose,
Thine image case life's parting throes.
Then hail, sweet miniature of life!
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold !
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears!
Sweet promise of ecstatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

WHEN man, expelld from Eden's bower,

A moment linger'd near the gate, Each scene recall'd the vanisli'd hour,

And bade him curse his future fate.

But wandering on through distant climes,

He learo'd to bear his load of grief, And gave a sigh to other tiines,

And found in busier scenes relief.

Thus, lady, will it be with me,

And I shall view thy charms no more; For whilst I linger near to thee,

I sigh for all I knew before.

In flight I shall be surely wise,

Escaping from temptation's snare: I cannot view my paradise

Without a wish to enter there.


Addressed by Lord Byron to Mr Hobhouse, on his

Election for Westminster.

• Mors janua vitæ.

Would you get to the house through the true gate,

Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went Let Parliament send you to Newgate

And Newgate will send you 10- Parliament.

TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. AND say'st thou that I have not felt,

Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st bow dearly 1 have dwelt

On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be,

And I will learn to prize thee less; As thou hast fled, so let me flee,

And change the heart thou mayst not bless. They 'll tell thee, Clara! I have seemid,

Of late, another's charms to woo, Nor sighd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd

That thou were banish'd from my view. Glara! this struggle-- to undo

What thou hast done too well, for me-
This mask before the babbling crew-

This treachery-was truth to thee!
I have not wept while thou wert gone,

Nor worn one look of sullen woe;
But sought, in many, all that one

(Ah! need I name her?) could bestow. It is a duty which I owe

To thine-to thee--to man-to God, To crush, to quench this guilty glow,

Ere yet the path of crime be trod. But, since my breast is not so pure

Since still the vulture tears my heart Let me this agony endure,

Not thee-oh! dearest as thou art! In mercy, Clara! let us part,

And I will seek, yet know not how, To shun, in time, the threatening dart;

Guilt must not aim at such as thou. But thou must aid me in the task,

And nobly thus exert thy power; Then spurn me hence-t is all I ask

Ere time mature a guiltier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower

Remorse redoubled on my head; Ere fires unquenchably devour

A heart, whose hope bas long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me,

Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee,

From woe like ours-from shame like thine? And, if there be a wrath divine,

A pang beyond this flecting breath, E'en now all future hope resign :

Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death.

And wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet, if they grieve thee, say not so—

I would not give that bosom pain.

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine; And for a while my sorrows cease,

To know thy heart hath felt for mine.

Oh, Lady! blessed be that tear,

It falls for one who cannot weep; Such precious drops are doubly dear

To those whose eye no tear may steep.

Sweet Lady! once my heart was warm With

every feeling soft: thine, But beauty's self hath ceased to charm

A wretch created to repine.

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again; Yet if they grieve thee, say not so

I would not give that bosom pain.

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