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AD1Eu, ye joys of La Valette :
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd 1
Adieu, ye mansions where—I've ventured :
Adieu, ye cursed streets of stairs :
(How surely he who mounts you swears 1)
Adieu, ye merchants often failing :
Adieu, thou mob for ever railing !
Adicu, ye packets—without letters :
Adieu, ye fools—who ape your betters
Adieu, thou damned'st 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 waltzing ;
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 when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad—but in a different way.

Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue !
While either Adriatic shore,
And fallen chiefs, and fleets 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 'tis “gratis.”

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her –
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line — or two — were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In 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, O Malta 1 since thou'st got us,
Thou little military hothouse !
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 2
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book,
Or take my physic while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly by the label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless the gods — I've got a fever !
May 26. 1811. (First published, 1832.]

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UN Harry Dives 1 in an evil hour
'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst
Once Fortune's minion, now thou feel'st her power;
Wrath's viol on thy lofty head hath burst.
In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first,
How wond'rous bright thy blooming morn arose
But thou wert smitten with th' unhallow'd thirst
Of Crime un-named, and thy sad noon must close
In scorn, and solitude unsought, the worst of woes.


IN ANswer to some LINEs Exhort TING THE AUTHoR

came out at the Lyceum Theatre, ber.]

* [Mr. Francis Ilodgson (not then the Revcrend). See ante, p. 342.]

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1811. [First published, 1832.]


Goon plays are scarce, So Moore writes farce: The poet's fame grows brittle – We knew before That Little's Moore, But now 'tis Moore that's little. Sept. 14. 1811. [First published, 1830, 1]


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“OH ! banish care"—such ever be
The motto of thy revelry |
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and “banish care.”
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought—but let them pass—
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak—speak of any thing but love.

'T were long to tell, and vain to hear, The tale of one who scorns a tear; And there is little in that tale Which better bosoms would bewail. But mine has suffer'd more than well 'Twould suit philosophy to tell. I've seen my bride another's bride,Have seen her seated by his side, – Have seen the infant, which she bore, Wear the sweet smile the mother wore, When she and I in youth have smiled, As fond and faultless as her child;— Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain, Ask if I felt no secret pain;

on the 9th of Septem

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But let this pass—I'll whine no more, Nor seek again an eastern shore ; The world befits a busy brain, – I'll hie me to its haunts again. But if, in some succeeding year, When Britain's “May is in the sere," Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times; Of one, whom love nor pity sways, Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise ; One, who in stern ambition's pride, Perchance not blood shall turn aside; One rank'd in some recording page With the worst anarchs of the age ; – Him wilt thou know—and knowing pause, Nor with the effect forget the cause. 2

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! [These lines will show with what gloomy fidelity, even while under the pressure of rocent sorrow, Cord Byron reverted to the disappointment of his early affection, as the chief source of all his sufferings and errors, present and to cone. — Moore.]

2 [...]" anticipations of his own future career in these concluding lines are of a nature, it must be owned, to awaken more of horror than of interest, were we not prepared, by so many instances of his exaggeration in this respect, not to be startled at any lengths to which the spirit of self-libelling would carry him. It seemed as if, with the power of painting fierce and gloomy personages, he had also the ambition to be, himself, the dark ‘sublime he drew," and that, in his fondness for the delineation of heroic crime, he endcavoured to fancy, where he could not find in his own character, fit subjects for his pencil. — Moons.]

* [Two days after, in another letter to Mr. Hodgson, Lord Byron says, –“ I am growing nervous (how you will laugh 1) — but it is true, – really, wretchedly, ridiculously, fineladically nervous. Your climate kills me; I can neither read, write, nor amuse myself. or any one else. My days are listless, and my nights restless : I have seldom any society, and, when I have. I run out of it. I don't know that I sha'n't end with insanity; for I find a want of method in arranging my thoughts that perplexes me strangely."]

* [Mr. Moore considers “Thyrza" as if she were a mere

Oh who like him had watch'd thee here 7
Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye,

In that dread hour ere death appear,
When silent sorrow fears to sigh,

Till all was past ! But when no more "Twas thine to reck of human woe,

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, Had flow'd as fast— as now they flow.

Shall they not flow, when many a day In these, to me, deserted towers,

Ere call'd but for a time away, Affection's mingling tears were ours ?

Ours too the glance none saw beside;
The smile none else might understand;

The whisper'd thought of hearts allied,
The pressure of the thrilling hand;

The kiss, so guiltless and refined,
That Love each warmer wish forbore;

Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind,
Even passion blush'd to plead for more.

The tone, that taught me to rejoice,
When prone, unlike thee, to repine;

The song, celestial from thy voice,
But sweet to me from none but thine;

The pledge we wore—I wear it still,
But where is thine 7 Ah where art thou?

Oft have I borne the weight of ill,
But never bent beneath till now !

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom
The cup of woe for me to drain.

If rest alone be in the tomb,
I would not wish thee here again;

But if in worlds more blest than this
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere,

Impart some portion of thy bliss,
To wean me from mine anguish here.

Teach me — too early taught by thee :
To bear, forgiving and forgiven :

On earth thy love was such to me;
It fain would form my hope in heaven I

October 11. 1811.4

creature of the Poet's brain. “It was,” he says, “about the time when he was thus bitterly feeling, and expressing, the blight which his heart had suffered from a real object of affection, that his poems on the death of an imaginary one were written ; – nor is it any wonder, when we consider the

culiar circumstances under which these beautiful effusions

owed from his fancy, that, of all his strains of pathos, they should be the most touching and most pure. They were, indeed, the essence, the abstract spirit, as it were, of many griefs ; – a confluence of sad thoughts from many sources of sorrow, refined and warmed in , their passage § his fancy, and forming thus one deep reservoir of mournful feeling.”. It is a pity to disturb a sentiment thus beautifully expressed ; but Lord Byron, in a letter to Mr. Dallas, bearing the exact date of these lines, viz. Oct. 11th, 1811, writes as follows:– “I have been again shocked with a death, and have lost one very dear to me in happier times: but I have almost forgot the taste of grief,' and supped full of horrors,' till I have become callous; nor have I a tear left for an event which, five years ago, would have bowed my head to the earth." In his reply to this letter, Mr. Dallas says, – “.. I thank you for your confidential communication. How truly do I wish that that being had lived, and lived yours : What your obligations to her would have been in that case is inconceivable.” Several years after the series of poems on Thyrza were written, Lord Byron, on being asked to whom they referred, by a person Lu whose tenderness he never ceased to

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2 †. impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the late Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hearing that the Whigs had found it impossible to put together a cabinet, at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. They were appended to the first edition of “The Corsair,” and excited a sensation, as it is called, marvellously disproportionate to their length, – or, we may add, their merit. The ministerial prints raved for two months on end, in the most foulmouthed vituperation of the poet, and all that belonged to him — the Morning Fost even announced a motion in the House of Lords – “and all this,” Lord Byron writes to Mr. Moore, “as Bedreddin in the Arabian Nights remarks, for making a cream tart with ''. how odd, that eight lines should have given birth, I really think, to eight thousand : "J

* [“. The “Lines to a Lady weeping " must go with ‘The Corsair.’ I care nothing for consequences on this point. My politics are to me like a young mistress to an old man; the worse they grow, the fonder I become of them.”— Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Jan. 22, 1814, “On my return. I find all the newspapers in hysterics, and town in an uproar, on the avowal and republication of two stanzas on Princess Charlotte's weeping at Itegency's speech to Lauderdale in

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1812. They are daily at it still:—some of the abuse good, —all of it hearty. They talk of a motion in our House upon it—be it so.” Byron Diary, 1814.] * [“When Rogers does talk, he talks well; and, on all subjects of taste, his delicacy of expression is pure as his try. If you enter his house — his drawing-room — his ibrary—you of yourself say, this is not the dwelling of a common mind. There is not a gem, a coin, a book thrown aside on his chimney-piece, his sofa, his table, that does not bespeak an almost fastidious elegance in the possessor.” — Byron Diary, 1813.] * [The reader will recall Collins's exquisite lines on the tomb of Thomson: “In yonder grave a Druid lies,” &c.]

* [The theatre in Drury Lane, which was opened, in 1747, with 1)r. Johnson's masterly address, beginning, — “When Learning's triumph o'er her harbarous foes First rear'd the Stage, immortal Shakspeare rose.”

and witnessed the last glories of Garrick, having fallen into decay, was rebuilt in 1794. The new building perished by fire in 1811; and the Managers, in their anxiety that the opening of the present edifice should be distinguished by some composition of at least equal merit, advertised in the newspapers for a general competition. Scorcs of addresses, not que tolerable, showered on their desk, and they were in sad despair, when Lord Holland interfered, and, not without

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