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[Lord Byron gives the following account of this cup: "The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like tortoiseshell." It is now in the possession of Colonel Wildman, the proprietor of Newstead Abbey. In several of our elder dramatists, mention is made of the custom of quaffing wine out of similar cups. For example, in Dekker's "Wonder of a Kingdom," Torrenti says,

"Would I had ten thousand soldiers' heads,

Their skulls set all in silver; to drink healths To his confusion who first invented war."]

2 [These lines were printed originally in Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany. A few days before they were written, the Poet had been invited to dine at Annesley. On the infant daughter of his fair hostess being brought into the room, he started involuntarily, and with the utmost difficulty suppressed his emotion. To the sensations of that moment we are indebted for these beautiful stanzas.]

But then it had its mother's eyes, And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame;
Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

My heart in all,-save hope,—the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look; But now to tremble were a crime

We met, and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet meet with no confusion there: One only feeling could'st thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair.

Away! away! my early dream

Remembrance never must awake: Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream? My foolish heart, be still, or break. November 2. 1908.

INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG. 3

WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

3 This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Newstead. The following is the inscription by which the verses are preceded :

"Near this spot

Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,

Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery If inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of

BOATSWAIN, a Dog,

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18. 1808." Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to his friend Hodgson:-" Boatswain is dead! he expired in a state of madness, on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gentleness of his nature to the last; never attempting to do the least injury to any one near him. I have now lost every thing, except old Murray." By the will executed in 1811, he directed that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden, near his faithful dog.]

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1 [In the original MS. "To Mrs. Musters," &c. The reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Illustrations of Byron, No. III.]

2 [In the first copy, "Thus, Mary!"]

3 [In Mr. Hobhouse's volume, the line stood,—“ Without a wish to enter there." The following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only three days previous to his leaving Italy for Greece:"Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her

She

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn'd,

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,

Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,

Till thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.

THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME.
THERE was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same

As still my soul hath been to thee.

And from that hour when first thy tongue Confess'd a love which equall'd mine, Though many a grief my heart hath wrung. Unknown and thus unfelt by thine,.

None, none hath sunk so deep as this

To think how all that love hath flown; Transient as every faithless kiss,

But transient in thy breast alone.

And yet my heart some solace knew, When late I heard thy lips declare, In accents once imagined true,

Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes; my adored, yet most unkind! Though thou wilt never love again, To me 't is doubly sweet to find

Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me,

Nor longer shall my soul repine, Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? 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.

marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen her for many years, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me not to do it. For,' said she, if you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, et cela fera un éclat. I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married,-with what success it is useless to say."]

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 awhile 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 eyes no tear may steep.
Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as 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. 1

FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN.

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;

I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;

I have loved!-who has not?-but what heart can declare,

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

[The melancholy which was now gaining fast upon the young poet's mind was a source of much uneasiness to his friends. It was at this period, that the following pleasant verses were addressed to him by Mr. Hobhouse:

EPISTLE

TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN IN LOVE.

HAIL! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame
Inspires and animates to deeds of fame;
Who feel the noble wish before you die
To raise the finger of each passer-by:
Hail may a future age admiring view
A Falkland or a Clarendon in you.

But as your blood with dangerous passion boils,
Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils:
Ah! let the head protect the weaker heart,
And Wisdom's Egis turn on Beauty's dart.

But if 't is fix'd that every lord must pair,
And you and Newstead must not want an heir,
Lose not your pains, and scour the country round,
To find a treasure that can ne'er be found!
No! take the first the town or court affords,
Trick'd out to stock a market for the lords;
By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall
On one, though wicked, not the worst of all:

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,

*

One though perhaps as any Maxwell free,
Yet scarce a copy, Claribel, of thee:
Not very ugly, and not very old,

A little pert indeed, but not a scold;
One that, in short, may help to lead a life
Not farther much from comfort than from strife;
And when she dies, and disappoints your fears,
Shall leave some joys for your declining years.

But, as your early youth some time allows, Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse,

And dreams that affection can never take wing,

I had friends!-who has not?-but what tongue will avow,

That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

A SONG.

FILL the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;
Let us drink!-who would not?-since, through And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.
life's varied round,

kiss,

In the goblet alone no deception is found.

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam-thou never canst change:

Thou grow'st old-who does not?—but on earth what appears,

Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,
We are jealous!-who's not?-thou hast no such
alloy;

For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;
There we find-do we not?-in the flow of the

soul,

That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
Hope was left, - -was she not? — but the goblet we

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Some hours of freedom may remain as yet
For one who laughs alike at love and debt;
Then, why in haste? put off the evil day,
And snatch at youthful comforts whilst you may!
Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego
That single souls, and such alone, can know:
Ah! why too early careless life resign,
Your morning slumber, and your evening wine;
Your loved companion, and his easy talk;
Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk.
What can no more your scenes paternal please,
Scenes sacred long to wise, unmated ease?

The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down,
Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own?
What! shall your Newstead, shall your cloister'd bowers,
The high o'er-hanging arch and trembling towers!
Shall these, profaned with fully or with strife,
And ever fond, or ever angry wife!
Shall these no more confess a manly sway,
But changeful woman's changing-whims obey?
Who may, perhaps, as varying humour calls,
Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls;
Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground,
Change round to square, and square convert to round;
Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom,
And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room;
Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre,
Where gravel'd walks and flowers alternate glare;
And quite transform, in ev'ry point complete,
Your gothic abbey to a country seat.

Forget the fair one, and your fate delay;
If not avert, at least defer the day,

When you beneath the female yoke shall bend,
And lose your wit, your temper, and your friend.

Trin. Coll. Camb. 1808.

In his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's volume, now before us, Lord Byron has here written with a pencil.-"I have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly. 1811. B."]

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And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
"Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. s

LINES TO MR. HODGSON. WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo 's off at last ;
Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvass o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,

Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal

Come to task all,

Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking
Cases cracking,

Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,

We're impatient, push from shore. "Have a care! that case holds liquor

Stop the boat-I'm sick -oh Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker,
Ere you've been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming
Men and women,

Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,

All are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax. Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain, Gallant Kidd, commands the crew; Passengers their berths are clapt in,

Some to grumble, some to spew. "Hey day! call you that a cabin ?

Why 'tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in
Who the deuce can harbour there?"
"Who, sir? plenty
Nobles twenty

Did at once my vessel fill."-
"Did they? Jesus,
How you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still :
Then I'd scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

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"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run, I love but thee, I love but one."]

1809.

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