PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. much as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluminous pro In submitting to the public eye the following collec-ductions of their illustrious bearers. tion, 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. 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 These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, of a young man who has lately completed his nine- from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should teenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. even, in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, Some few were written during the disadvantages of shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the illness and depression of spirits: under the former in. same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the fluence, "Childish Recollections," in particular, were Poems of a noble relation of mine,1 "That when a composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite man of rank appeared in the character of an author, the voice of praise, nay at least arrest the arm of cen- he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed," sure. A considerable portion of these poems has been can have little weight with verbal, and still less with privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of periodical censors; but were it otherwise, I should be my friends. I am sensible that the partial and fre-loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather quently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not incur the bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, the criterion by which poetical genius is to be esti- than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. mated, 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 effu sions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done litle; 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 every body; because they who have no connection, or even know. ledge 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 paraphrastic. 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 any thing 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 lat ter, 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 worthies 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, inas HOURS OF IDLENESS. ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY, COUSIN Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom, Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, ; And scatter flowers on the dust I love. Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate. Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; TO E. 3 Let Folly smile to view the names To love, than rank with vice combined. 1802. 1 The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applause, to which, by their intrinsic worth, they were well entitled. 2 The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends (being composed at the age of fourteen), and his first essay, in its present state, to making either addition or alteration. refer to a boy of Lord Byron's own age, son of one of his 3 This little poem, and some others in the collection, And though unequal is thy fate, Since title deck'd my higher birth! 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, 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. 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. And, when the grave restores her dead, On thy dear breast I'll lay my head- EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. «Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν ἕξος.” Laertius. Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear! The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, A FRAGMENT. 1803. When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice tenants at Newstead, for whom he had formed a romantic attachment, of earlier date than any of his school friendships.-E. 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; Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle 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 1 slumbers, tell. On Marston,3 with Rupert,4 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; For the rights of a monarch their country defending, own! 1803. LINES WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITA- "Away, away, your flattering arts 1 "In the park of Horseley," says Thoroton, "there was a castle, some of the ruins of which are yet visible, called Horistan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de Burun's successors." 2 Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serv ing with distinction in the siege of Calais, under Edward III., and as among the knights who fell on the glorious field of Cressy. -- E. 3 The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated. 4 Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED Dear, simpie girl, those flattering arts, Mc.e phantoms of thine own creation; Which from our sex demands such praises, Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, July, 1804. ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING. 1 [Animula vagula, blandula, Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou now wing thy distant fiight? No more with wonted humour gay, But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn. TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. Equal to Jove that youth must be- That mouth, from whence such music flows, Ah! Lesbia! though 't is death to me, I cannot choose but look on thee; But, at the sight, my senses fly; I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die; My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short, My ears with tingling echoes ring, And life itself is on the wing; My eyes refuse the cheering light, TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, 1 This and several little pieces that follow appear to be fragments of school exercises done at Harrow.-E. 2 The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease. IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. "Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. 4. 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. Ye Cupids, droop each little head, No fear, no wild aların he knew, But lightly o'er her bosom moved: Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. For thou hast ta'en the bird away: IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, Nought should my kiss from thine dissever; TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, He would, unmoved, unawed behold. Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile. FROM ANACREON. [θελω λεγειν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. λ.] I wish to tune my quivering lyre FROM ANACREON. [Μεσονυκτίαις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ. λ.] "T was now the hour when Night had driven His arctic charge around the pole; His glossy curls, his azure wing, Which droop with nightly showers, I wring; 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 [Μηδαμ' ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.] Great Jove, to whose almighty throne My voice shall raise no impious strain Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.1 Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804. ΤΟ ΕΜΜΑ. Since now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover; Alas! that pang will be severe, Well! we have passed some happy hours, Where from this Gothic casement's height, O'er fields through which we used to run Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, It dared to give your slumbering eyes: See still the little painted bark, In which I row'd you o'er the lake; Who can conceive, who has not proved, 1 Lord Byron in one of his diaries says, "My first Harrow verses, (that is, English, as Exercises), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Aeschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head master) but coolly. No one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subside into poesy."--E. 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 ! Remembrance only can remain, But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu! Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret, Nor let thy mind past joys review,Our only hope is to forget! TO M. S. G. Whene'er I view those lips of thine, Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss. Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, For that, would banish its repose. 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 beloved, 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 tortured heart, By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; Rather than such a sting impart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 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, Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 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 fiame, And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In signs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, TO CAROLINE. When I hear you express an affection so warm, That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear; '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 one day will 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. TO CAROLINE. 1805. 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 lanch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a 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 heart 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. |
