Erhalten Sie Zugang zu diesem und mehr als 300000 Büchern ab EUR 5,99 monatlich.
- Herausgeber: Strelbytskyy Multimedia Publishing
- Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
One of the leading figures of the Romantic movement, Byron is regarded as one of the greatest English poets. He remains widely read and influential. Among his best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage; many of his shorter lyrics in Hebrew Melodies also became popular. Byron is considered to be the first modern-style celebrity. His image as the personification of the Byronic hero fascinated the public. The figure of the Byronic hero pervades much of his work, and Byron himself is considered to epitomise many of the characteristics of this literary figure. The use of a Byronic hero by many authors and artists of the Romantic movement show Byron's influence during the 19th century and beyond, including the Brontë sisters. His philosophy was more durably influential in continental Europe than in England; Friedrich Nietzsche admired him, and the Byronic hero was echoed in Nietzsche's Übermensch, or superman. Contents: The Poetry Collections HOURS OF IDLENESS CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE HEBREW MELODIES STANZAS FOR MUSIC OCCASIONAL PIECES, 1807-1824 DOMESTIC PIECES, 1816 SATIRES TALES THE GIAOUR THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS THE CORSAIR LARA THE SIEGE OF CORINTH PARISINA THE PRISONER OF CHILLON MAZEPPA THE ISLAND THE LAMENT OF TASSO THE PROPHECY OF DANTE THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PULCI FRANCESCA OF RIMINI BEPPO MINOR POEMS DRAMAS MANFRED MARINO FALIERO SARDANAPALUS THE TWO FOSCARI CAIN: A MYSTERY HEAVEN AND EARTH WERNER THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED DON JUAN The Short Story The Letters
Sie lesen das E-Book in den Legimi-Apps auf:
Seitenzahl: 4339
Das E-Book (TTS) können Sie hören im Abo „Legimi Premium” in Legimi-Apps auf:
Ähnliche
Lord Byron
Complete Works
Hours Of Idleness, Childe Harold’S Pilgrimage, Don Juan, Hebrew Melodies, Stanzas For Music And Others
One of the leading figures of the Romantic movement, Byron is regarded as one of the greatest English poets. He remains widely read and influential. Among his best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage; many of his shorter lyrics in Hebrew Melodies also became popular.
Byron is considered to be the first modern-style celebrity. His image as the personification of the Byronic hero fascinated the public.
The figure of the Byronic hero pervades much of his work, and Byron himself is considered to epitomise many of the characteristics of this literary figure. The use of a Byronic hero by many authors and artists of the Romantic movement show Byron's influence during the 19th century and beyond, including the Brontë sisters. His philosophy was more durably influential in continental Europe than in England;
Friedrich Nietzsche admired him, and the Byronic hero was echoed in Nietzsche's Übermensch, or superman.
The Poetry Collections
HOURS OF IDLENESS
CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE
HEBREW MELODIES
STANZAS FOR MUSIC
OCCASIONAL PIECES, 1807-1824
DOMESTIC PIECES, 1816
SATIRES
TALES
THE GIAOUR
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS
THE CORSAIR
LARA
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH
PARISINA
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON
MAZEPPA
THE ISLAND
THE LAMENT OF TASSO
THE PROPHECY OF DANTE
THE MORGANTE MAGGIORE OF PULCI
FRANCESCA OF RIMINI
BEPPO
MINOR POEMS
DRAMAS
MANFRED
MARINO FALIERO
SARDANAPALUS
THE TWO FOSCARI
CAIN: A MYSTERY
HEAVEN AND EARTH
WERNER
THE DEFORMED TRANSFORMED
DON JUAN
The Short Story
The Letters
The Poetry Collections
HOURS OF IDLENESS
A SERIES OF POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED
First published in 1807
‘Virginibus puerisqe canto.’— Horace, lib. iii, Ode 1.
‘He whistled as he went, for want of thought.’— Dryden.
PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
In submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the difficulties that writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed.
These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depression of spirits: under the former influence, ‘Childish Recollections,’ in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet ‘to do greatly’ we must ‘dare greatly’; and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. I have ‘passed the Rubicon,’ and must stand or fall by the ‘cast of the die.’ In the latter event I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, ‘it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no connexion, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can.’ To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe; on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed; their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favour which has been denied to others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability.
I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation; some translations are given, of which many are paraphrasic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me ‘to this sin’: little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others ‘virum volitare per ora.’ I look to the few who will hear with patience, ‘dulce est desipere in loco.’ To the former worthless I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst ‘the mob of gentlemen who write’;—my readers must determine whether I dare say ‘with ease,’ or the honour of a posthumous page in ‘The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors,’—a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluminous production of their illustrious bearers.
With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age the contents may afford amusement; I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor even, in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the poems of a noble relation of mine*, ‘That when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed,’ can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical, censors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur this bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honours granted solely to a title.
* The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applause, to which, by their intrinsic worth, they are well entitled.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE,
KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC.,
THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED,
BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,
ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY
Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him
Hush’d are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e’en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret’s tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beam’d;
The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,
Not worth nor beauty have her life redeem’d.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the muse her virtues would relate.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers
Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;--
I’ll ne’er submission to my God refuse.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection’s tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.
(1802)
TO E—
Let Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me in friendship twined;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
To love, than rank with vice combined.
And though unequal is thy fate,
Since title deck’d my higher claims
Yet envy not this gaudy state;
Thine is the pride of modest worth.
Our souls at least congenial meet,
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
Since worth of rank supplies the place.
November 1802
TO D—
In thee I fondly hoped to clasp
A friend whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp,
Detach’d thee from my breast for ever.
True, she has forced thee from my breast,
Yet in my heart thou keep’st thy seat;
There, there thine image still must rest,
Until that heart shall cease to beat.
And when the grave restored her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I’ll lay my head--
Without thee where would be my heaven?
February 1803
EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND
Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour’d bier!
What sighs re’echo’d to thy parting breath,
Wilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart’s relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade’s honour and thy friends delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor’s art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction’s semblance bands not o’er thy tomb,
Affliction’s self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father’s sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none! - a father’s tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother’s woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary friendship sighs alone.
1803
A Fragment
When, to their airy hall, my father’s voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountains side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen’d scroll, no praise-encumber’d stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember’d, or with that forgot.
1803
ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY
‘Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court.’ - Ossian
Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choked up the rose which late bloom’d in the way.
Of the mail-cover’d Barons, who proudly to battle
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain,
The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.
No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell’d wreath;
Near Askalon’s towers, John of Horistan slumbers,
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.
Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye;
How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.
On Marston, with Rupert, ‘gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich’d with their blood the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal’d.
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remebrance imparting
New courage, he’ll think upon glory and you.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
‘Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne’er can forget.
That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne’er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay’d, may he mingle his dust with your own!
1803
LINES
WRITTEN IN ‘LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN; BY J. J. ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS’
‘Away, away, your fleeting arts
May now betray some simpler hearts;
And you will smile at their believing,
And they shall weep at your deceiving.’
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS — .
Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts,
From which thou’dst guard frail female hearts,
Exist but in imagination, —
Mere phantoms of thine own creation;
For he who views that witching grace,
That perfect form, that lovely face,
With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
He never wishes to deceive thee:
Once in thy polish’d mirror glance,
Thou’lt there descry that elegance
Which from our sex demands such praises,
But envy in the other raises:
Then he who tells thee of thy beauty,
Believe me, only does his duty:
Ah! fly not from the candid youth;
It is not flattery, — ’tis truth.
July 1804
ADRIAN’S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING
(Animula! vagula, blandula,
Hospes comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca--
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos?)
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav’ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS
AD LESBIAM
Equal to Jove that youth must be —
Greater than Jove he seems to me —
Who, free from Jealousy’s alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though ‘tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch’d to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o’erspread,
With deadly langour droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil’d in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.
TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS
BY DOMITIUS MARSUS
He who sublime in epic numbers roll’d,
And he who struck the softer lyre of love,
By Death’s unequal hand alike controll’d,
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!
IMITATION OF TIBULLUS
‘Sulpicia ad Cerinthum.’--Lib. iv.
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish’d but to o’ercome the pain,
That I might live for love and you again;
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By death alone I can avoid your hate.
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS
(Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.)
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread;
My Lesbia’s favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she loved:
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o’er her bosom moved:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirrup’d oft, and, free from care,
Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass’d the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia’s grief I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta’en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia’s eyes o’erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life’s decay.
IMITATED FROM CATULLUS
TO ELLEN
Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever,
E’en though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest’s countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavor:
Could I desist? — ah! never — never!
TRANSLATION FROM HORACE
(Justum et tenacem propositi virum, &c.)
The man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat’ning tyrant’s darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent,
To curb the Adriatic main,
Would awe his fix’d, determined mind in vain.
Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors, there unfurl’d,
He would unmoved, unawed, behold.
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll’d,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl’d,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:
Still dauntless ‘midst the wreck of earth he’d smile.
FROM ANACREON
I wish to tune my quivering lyre
To deed of fame and notes of fire;
To echo, from its rising swell,
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus’ sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero’s name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due.
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove’s great son I raise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown’d in arms!
Adieu the clang of war’s alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.
FROM ANACREON
‘Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Boötes, only, seem’d to roll
His arctic charge around the pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm’d I rose,--
‘What stranger breaks my blest repose?’
‘Alas!’ replies the wily child,
In faltering accents sweetly mild,
‘A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here.
A wandering baby who can fear?’
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity’s foe,
But felt for all the baby’s woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:-
‘I fain would know, my gentle host,’
He cried, ‘if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax’d with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse.’
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh’d:-
‘My bow can still impel the shaft:
‘Tis firmly fix’d, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?’
FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS
Great Jove, to whose almighty throne
Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne’er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne’er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean’s mossy hall;
My voice shall raise no impious strain
‘Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.
How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When placed aloft in godlike state,
The blushing beauty by the side,
Thou sat’st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled;
The Nymphs and Tritons dances around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix’d, nor Jove relentless frown’d.
TO EMMA
Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,
Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.
Well! we have pass’d some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
We shelter of our infant years;
Where from this Gothic casement’s height,
We view’s the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
We lingering look a last farewell,
O’er fields through which we used to run,
And spend the hours in childish play;
O’er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every fly the kiss
It dared to give your slumbering eyes:
See still the little painted bark,
In which I row’d you o’er the lake;
See there, high waving o’er the park,
The elm I clamber’d for your sake.
These times are past — our joys are gone,
You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes I must retrace alone:
Without thee what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly loved,
You bid a long adieu to peace.
This is the deepest of our woes,
For this these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!
TO M. S. G.
Whene’er I view those lips of thine,
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
Alas! it were — unhallow’d bliss.
Whene’er I dream of that pure breast,
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
For that, — would banish its repose.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye
Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love, — and why?
I would not force a painful tear.
I ne’er have told my love, yet thou
Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
To make thy bosom’s heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
United by the priest’s decree:
By any ties but those divine,
Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be.
Then let the secret fire consume,
Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
Rather than spread its guilty glow.
I will not ease my tortur’d heart,
By driving dove-ey’d peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
Each thought presumptuous I resign.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave
More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save, —
I bid thee now a last farewell.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
At least from guilt shalt thou be free,
No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
No martyr shalt thou be to love.
TO CAROLINE
Think’st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
Suffus’d in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmov’d thy plenteous sighs,
Which said far more than words can say?
Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
When love and hope lay both o’erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
Throbb’d, with deep sorrow, as thine own.
But, when our cheeks with anguish glow’d,
When thy sweet lips were join’d to mine;
The tears that from my eyelids flow’d
Were lost in those which fell from thine.
Thou could’st not feel my burning cheek,
Thy gushing tears had quench’d its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay’d to speak,
In sighs alone it breath’d my name.
And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
But that, will make us weep the more.
Again, thou best belov’d, adieu!
Ah! if thou canst, o’ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
Our only hope is, to forget!
TO CAROLINE
When I hear that you express an affection so warm,
Ne’er think, my beloved, that I do not believe;
For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm,
And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive.
Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring,
That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear;
That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring,
Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear;
That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining
Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze,
When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.
‘Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o’er my features,
Though I ne’er shall presume to arraign the decree,
Which God has proclaim’d as the fate of his creatures,
In the death which will one day deprive you of me.
Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion,
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade;
He worships each look with such faithful devotion,
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.
But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o’ertake us,
And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow,
Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us,
When calling the dead, in earth’s bosom laid low,-
Oh! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure,
Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow;
Let us pass round the cup of love’s bliss in full measure,
And quaff the contents as our nectar below.
1805
TO CAROLINE
Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
Oh when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses
I blast not the fiends who have hurl’d me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this.
Was my eye, ‘stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright’ning,
Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
With transport my tongue give loose to its rage.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
Yet still, though we bend with a feign’d resignation,
Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.
Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me,
Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.
STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOËNS
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou’lt prize;
It sings of Love’s enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and dssappointed maid;
Or pupil of the prudish school,
In single sorrow doom’d to fade?.
Then read, dear girl! with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne’er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead
In pity for the poet’s woes.
He was in sooth a genuine bard;
His was no faint, fictitious flame.
Like his, may love be thy reward,
But not thy hapless fate the same.
THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of love.
Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove;
From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
Could you ever tasted the first kiss love!
If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse,
And try the effect of the first kiss of love.
I hate you, ye cold compositions of art!
Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
I court the effusions that spring from the heart,
Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love.
Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams;
What are visions like these to the first kiss of love.
Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove;
Some portion of paradise still is on earth,
And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past —
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove —
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBUC SCHOOL
WHERE are those honours, Ida! once yow own,
When Probus fill’d your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace,
Hail’d a barbarian in her Cæsar’s place,
So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate,
And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul,
Pomposus holds you in his harsh control;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway’d,
With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
Such as were ne’er before enforced in schools
Mistaking pedantry for learning’s laws,
He governs, sanction’d but by self applause;
With him the same dire fate attending Rome,
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom;
Like her o’erthrown, for ever lost to fame,
No trace of science left you, but the name.
July 1805.
TO THE DUKE OF DORSET
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray’d,
Exploring every path of Ida’s glade;
Whom still affection taught me to defend
And made me less a tyrant than a friend
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches and the pride of power;
E’en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown’d in rank, nor far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade control,
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,–
And even in simple boyhood ‘s opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,–
When these declare, ‘ that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;’
Believe them not;– they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name.
Turn to the few in Ida’s early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart; ‘twill bid thee, boy, forbear;
For well I know that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have mark’d thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark’d within that generous mind
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail’d her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
‘Tis not enough, with other sons of power
To gleam tile lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot–
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering ‘scutcheon, or the herald’s roll,
That well-emblazon’d but neglected scroll,
Where lords, unhonour’d, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o’erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune’s minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires play.
One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call’d, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view, not less renown’d for wit;
Alike for Courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour’d by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain’d to shine;
Far, far distingish’d ish’d from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow’s hue,
And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown’d away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adieu! nor let me linger o’er
Scenes hail’d, as exiles hall their native shore,
Receding, slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.
Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself thy weal or woe,
With thee non more saain I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice:
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings which perchance it ought,
If these – but let me cease the lengthen’d strain,–
Oh! if these wishes arc not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
1805
FRAGMENT
WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH
HILLS of Annesley, bleak and barren,
Where my thoughtless childhood stray’d,
How the northern tempests, warring,
Howl above thy tufted shade!
Now no more, the hours beguiling,
Former favourite haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling
Makes ye seem a heaven to me.
1805
GRANTA
A MEDLEY
OH! could Le Sage’s demon’s gift
Be realized at my desire,
This night my trembling form he’d lift
To place it on St. Mary’s spire.
Then would, unroof’d, old Granta’s halls
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls’
The price of venal votes to pay.
Then would I view each rival wight,
Petty and Palreerston survey;
Who canvass there with all their might,
Against the next elective day.
Lo! candidates and voters lie
All lull’d in sleep, a goodly number;
A race renown’d for piety
Whose conscience won’t disturb their slumber.
Lord H –, indeed, rnay not demur:
Fellows are sage, reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur
But very seldom, – now and then.
They know the Chancellor has got
Some pretty livings in disposal:
Each hopes that one may be his lot,
And therefore smiles on his proposal.
Now from the soporific scene
I’ll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,
The studious sons of Alma Mater.
There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
With all the honours of his college,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:
Who sacrifices hours of rest
To scan precisely meres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast
In solving problems mathematic:
Who reads false quantities in Seale,
Or puzzles o’er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
In barbarous Latin doom’d to wrangle:
Renouncing every pleasing page
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter’d sage
The square of the hypothenuse.
Still, harmless are these occupations
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent;
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When drunkenness and dice invite,
As every sense is steep’d in wine.
Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,
And for the sins of others pray:
Forgetting that their pride of spirit
Their exultation in their trial
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.
‘Tis morn:– from these I turn my sight.
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd, array’d in white,
Across the green in numbers fly.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell;
‘Tis hush’d:-what sounds are these I hear?
The organ’s soft celestial swell
Rolls deeply on the list’ning ear.
To this is join’d the sacred song,
The royal minstrel’s hallow’d strain;
Though he who hears the music long
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would be scarcely excused,
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused
To such a set of croaking sinners.
If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne’er descended,–
In furious mood he would have tore ‘em.
The luckless Israelites, when taken
By some inhuman tyrant’s order,
Were ask’d to sing, by joy forsaken
On Babylonian river’s border.
Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease
The devil a soul had stay’d to hear.
But if I scribble longer now
The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
‘Tis almost time to stop, indeed.
Therefore, farewell old Granta’s spires!
No more like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my muse inspires;
The reader’s tired, and so am I.
1806
ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF THE HARROW HILL
Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos. —
Virgil
Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov’d recollection
Embitters the present, compar’d with the past;
Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;
Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne’er fading remembrance,
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny’d!
Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;
The school where, loud warn’d by the bell, we resorted,
To pore o’er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.
Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,
As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander’d,
To catch the last gleam of the sun’s setting ray.
I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o’erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.
Or, as Lear, I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,
By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv’d;
Till, fir’d by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv’d.
Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne’er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.
To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o’ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!
But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew.
TO M —
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,
Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear’d that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
‘Tis said that Berenice’s hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne’er permit thee there,
Who wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E’en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
TO WOMAN
Woman! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought:
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! Thou choicest blessing
When join’d with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled and passion’s over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope’t will last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
“Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.”
TO M.S.G.
When I dream that you love me, you’ll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live, —
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.
Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,
Shed o’er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
What rapture celestial is mine!
They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
Mortality’s emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
If this be a foretaste of heaven!
Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me to happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone it for now,
Thus doom’d but to gaze upon bliss.
Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,
Oh, think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
To awake will be torture sufficient.
TO MARY
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
Here, I can trace the locks of gold
Which round thy snowy forehead wave;
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,
The lips, which made me Beauty’s slave.
Here I can trace — ah, no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,
Must all the painter’s art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
Here, I behold its beauteous hue;
But where’s the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o’er the ocean playing?
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,
Than all the living forms could be,
Save her who plac’d thee next my heart.
She plac’d it, sad, with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there
Held every sense in fast control.
Thro’ hours, thro’ years, thro’ time, ‘twill cheer —
My hope, in gloomy moments, raise;
In life’s last conflict ‘twill appear,
And meet my fond, expiring gaze.
TO LESBIA
Lesbia! since far from you I’ve ranged,
Our souls with fond affection glow not;
You say ‘t is I, not you, have changed,
I’d tell you why,- but yet I know not.
Your polish’d brow no cares have crost;
And, Lesbia! we are not much older,
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost,
Or told my love, with hope grown bolder.
Sixteen was then our utmost age,
