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LINES,

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.

THE CHAIN I GAVE.

(Fron, the Turkish.) ne chain I gave was fair to view,

The lute I added sweet in sound; The heart that offer'd both was true,

And ill deserved the fate it found. Those gifts were charm'd by secret spell

Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well,

Alas! they could not teach thee thine. That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think

In other hands its notes were such. Let him who from thy neck unbound

The chain which shiverd in his gramp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp. When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;

The chain is broke, the niusic mute. "T is past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute,

AND thou wert sad-yet I was not with thee;

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near: Methought that joy and health alone could be

Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here! And is it tbus?-it is as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more,

But in the after-silence on the shore, When all is lost, except a little life.

I am too well avenged !-but 't was my right;

Whale'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent To be the Nemesis who should requite

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument. Mercy is for the merciful!-if thou Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!

Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel

A hollow agony which will not heal,
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap

The bitter harvest in a woe as real!

SUBSTITUTE FOR AN EPITAPH. Rand Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh; Here Harold lies, but where's his Epitaph ? If such you seek, try Westminster, and view Ten thousand just as fit for him as you.

Athens.

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE POET

AND SHOEMAKER.
STRANGER I behold, interr'd together,
The souls of learning and of leather.
Poor Joe is gone, but left his all:
You 'll find his relics in a stall.
His works were neat, and often found
Well stitch'd, and with morocco bound.
Tread lightly-where the bard is laid
He cannot mend the shoe he made;
Yet is he happy in his hole,
With verse inmortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phæbus to the last.
Then who shall say so good a fellow
Was only "leather and prunella ?"
For character-he did not lack it;
And if he did, 't were shame to “Black it."

Malta, May 16, 1811.

I have had many foes, but none like thee;

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,

And be avenged, or turn them into friend; But thou in Safe implacability Hadst naught to dread - in thy own weakness

shielded, And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, And spared, for thy sake, some I should no

spareAnd thus upon the world-trust in thy truthAnd the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth

On things that were not, and on things that are
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!

The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope-and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,

For present anger, and for future gold-
And buying others' grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoug! which dwell

In Janus-spirits. -the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence--the pretexi
of Prudence, with advantages annex'd-
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-

All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won-
I would not do by thee as thou hast done!

September 1836.

HO WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.

1.
So we 'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II.
for the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.

11. Though the night was made for loving

And the day returns too soon, Pet we'll go no more a roving

Rv the liglit of the moon

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VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT

HALES-OWEN. When Dryden's fool, “unknowing what he snught," His hours in whistling spent," for want of thought," This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense Supplied, and amply too, by innocence ; Din modern swains, possessid of Cymon's powers, Ir Cyinon's manner waste their leisure hours, Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, sce These fair green walks disgraced by insainy. Severe the fate of modern fools, alas! When vice and folly mark them as they pass. Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

I READ the “ Christabel ;"

Very well:
I read the “Missionary;"

Pretty-very :
I tried at “Ilderim;"

Ahem!
I read a sheet of “Margʻret of Anjou ;**

Can you ?
I turn'd a page of Scott's “ Waterloo ;**

Pooh! pooh!
I look'd al Wordsworth's milk white" Rylstone Diver
Hillo!

&c. &c. &c.

EPIGRAM,
FROM THE FRENCH OF RI'LHERES
If, for silver or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples

Into half a dozen dimples,
Then your face we iniglit behold,

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly
Yet even then 'I would be doo ug!

FROM THE FRENCH. d'ale, beauty and poct, has two little crimes ; ahe makes her own face, and does not make her rhymes.

TO MR. MURRAY.

To hook the reader, you, John Murray,

Have publish'd " Anjou's Margaret," Which won't be sold off in a hurry,

(A: least, it has not been as yet :) And then, still further to bewilder 'em, Without remorse you set up "Ilderim;"

So mind you don't get into debt, Because as how, if you should fail, These books would be but baddish bail. And mind you do not let escape

These rhymes to Morning Post or Perry,

Which would be very treacherous-very, And get me into such a scrape !

For, firstly, I should have to sally,

All in my little boat, against a Galley ; And, should I chance to slay the Assyrian wight, Have next to coinbat with the female knight.

March 25, 1817.

Pronouncing on the nouns and particies
Of some of our forthcoming Articles.

The Quarterly-Ah, sir, if you
llad but the genius to review -
A smart critique upon St. Helena,
Or if you only would but tell in a
Short compass what-but, to resume:
As I was saying, sir, the room-
The room's so full of wits and barda,
Crabbes, Campbells, Crokers, Freres, anu Wardo
And others, neither bards nor wils:-
My humble tenement admits
All persons in the dress of gent.,
From Mr. Hamniond to Dog Dent.

A party dines with me to-day, All clever men, who make their way; Crabbe, Malcolm, Hamilton, and Chantrey, Are all partakers of my pantry. They're at this moment in discussion On poor De Staël's late dissolution. Her book, they say, was in advancePray Heaven, she tell the truth of France! Thus run our time and tongues away.But, to return, sir, to your play: Sorry, sir, but I cannot deal, Unless 't were acted by O'Neil. My hands so full, my head so busy, I'm almost dead, and always dizzy: And so, with endless truth and hurry, Dear Doctor, I am yours,

JOHN MCRXAY

EPISTLE TO MR. MURRAY.

My dear Mr. Murray,
You 're in a damnd hurry

To set up this ultimate Canto;
But (if they don't rob us)
You'll see Mr. Llobhouse

Will bring it safe in his portmanteau.

EPISTLE FROM MR. MURRAY TO DR. POLI.

DORI.
Dear Doctor, I have read your play,
Which is a good one in its way,-
Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
And drenches handkerchiefs like towels
With tears, that, in a flux of grief,
Afford hysterical relief
To shatter'd nerves and quicken'd pulses,
IVhich your catastrophe convulses.

I like your moral and machinery;
Your plot, too, has such scope for scenery
Your dialogue is apt and smart;
The plays's concoction full of art;
Your hero raves, your heroine cries,
All stab, and every body dies.
In short, your tragedy would be
The very thing to hear and see:
And for a piece of publication,
II decline on this occasion,
It is not that I am not sensible
To merits in themselves ostensible;
But--and I grieve to speak it-plays
Are drugs-mere drugs, sir-now-a-days.
I had a heavy loss by “Manuel,"
roo lucky if it prove not annual, -
And Sotheby, with his “Orestes,"
Which, by the by, the auihor's best is,)
Has lain so very long on hand,
That I despair of all demand.
I've advertised, but see my books,
Or only watch my shopman's looks ;-
Btill Ivan, Ina, and such lumber,
My back-shop g’ut, my shelves encumber.

There's Byron too, who once did better
Has sent me, folded in a letter,
A sort of-it's no more a drama
Than Darnley, Ivan, or Kehama;
do ulter'd since last year his pen is,
I think he's lost his wits at Venice.
i shori, sir, what with one and t'other,
dare not venture on another
I write ir haste; excuse each blunder;
I'ne coaches t'hrough the streets so thunder.
My room's so full-we've Gifford here
Reading MS., with Hookman Frere,

For the Journal you hint of,
As ready to print off,

No doubt you do right to commend it;
But as yet I have writ off
The devil a bit of

Our “ Beppo :"—when copied, I'll send it
Then you've ***'s Tour,-
No great things, to be sure,-

You could hardly begin with a less work;
For the pompous rascallion,
Who don't speak Italian

Nor French, must have scribbled by guess-wort
You can make any loss up
With “Spence" and his gossip,

A work which must surely succeed;
Then Queen Mary's Epistle-cras,
With the new "Fytte" of " Whistlecran,"

Must make people purchase and read.

Then you 've General Gordon,
Who girded his sword on,

To serve with a Muscovite master
And help him to polish
A nation so owlish,

They thought shaving their beards a lionsler

EPITAPH FOR WILLIAM PITT.

For the man,“ poor and shrewd,"
With whom you 'd conclude

A compact without more delay,
Perhaps some such pen is
full extant in Venice;
But please, sir, to mention your pay.

Venice, January 8, 1918.

With death doom'd to grapple

Beneath this cold slab, he Who lied in the Chapel

Now lies in the Abbey.

ON MY WEDDING-DAY. Here's a happy new year! but with reason

I beg you 'll permit me to sayWish me many returns of the scason,

But as few as you please of the day

EPIGRAM.
The world is a bundle of hay,

Mankind are the asses who pull;
Each tugs in a different way,

And the greatest of all is John Bull.

TO MR. MURRAY.
STRAIAN, Tonson, Lintot of the tincs,
Patron and publisher of rhymes,
For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,

My Murray.
To thee, with hope and terror dumb,
The unfledged MS. authors come:
Thou printest all-and sellest some-

My Murray.
l'pon thy table's baize so green
The last new Quarterly is seen,--
But where is thy new Magazine,

My Murray?
Along thy sprucest book-shelves shine
The works thou deemest most divine-
The “ Art of Cookery," and mine,

My Murray.
Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist,
And Sermons to thy mill bring grist;
And then thou hast the “ Navy List,"

My Murray,
And Heaven forbid I should conclude
Without “the Board of Longitude,"
Although this narrow paper would,

My Murray!

Venice, Narch 25, 1818.

THE CHARITY BALL. [On hearing that Lady Byron had been Patroness of a Ball in aid of me

charity at Hinckley.) What malter the pangs of a husband and fathe:

If his sorrows in exile be great or be small, So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,

And the saint patronizes her “charity ball!" What matters-a heart which, though faulty, was

feeling, Be driven to excesses which once could appalThat the sinner should suffer is only fair dealing.

As the saint keeps her charity back for “the ball la

EPIGRAM, ON THE BRASIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED TO PRE

SENT AN ADDRESS TO QUEEN CAROLINE

Tue brasiers, it seems, are preparing to pass
An address, and present it themselves all in brass ;
A super pageant-for, by the Lord Harry!
They 'll find where they are going much more than

they carry.

TO THOMAS MOORE What are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore? What are you doing now,

Oh Thomas Moore ? Sighing or suing now, Rhyming or wooing now, Billing or cooing now,

Which, Thomas Moore ? But the Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore ! The Carnival's coming,

Oh Thomas Moore ! Masking and humming, Fiting and drumming, Guitarring and strumming,

Oh Thomas Moore !

TO MR. MURRAY.

STANZAS.

For Orford and for Waldegrave
You give much more than me you gave;
Which is not fairly to behave,

My Murray.
Because if a live dog, 't is said,
Be worth a lion fairly sped,
A live lord must be worth to dead,

My Murray.
And if, as the opinion goes,
Verse hath a better sale than proses
Certes, I should have more than those,

My Murray.
But now this sheet is nearly crammid,
So, if you will, I shan't be shamm'd,
And if you won't, you may be damn'd

My Murray

When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,

Let him combat for that of his neighbours; Let him think of the glories of Grerce and of Rome,

And get knock'd on the head for his labours.
To do good to mankind is the chivalrous plan,

And is always as nobly required;
Then battle for freedom wherever you can,

And, if not shot or hang'd, you 'll get knighted.

ON THE BIRTH OF JOHN WILLIAM RIZZO

HOPPNER.

His father's sense, his mother's grace,

In him, I hope, will always fit so; With-still to keep him in good case

The health and appetite of Rizzio.

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STANZAS, TO A HINDOO AIR. [These verses were written by Lord Byrop a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-" Alla Malla Punea," which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing.) On!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Where is my lover? where is my lover ? Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover ? Far-far away! and alone along the billow ? Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow! Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay? How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly, And my head droops over thee like the willow.Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow! Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breaking, la reliirn for the tears I shed upon thee waking; Let me not dic till he comes back o'er the billow.Then if thou wilt-110 more my lonely Pillow, Ir. one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold hiin! Oh! my lone bosom!--oh! my lonely Pillow!

Wait not, fond lover!
Till years are over,
And then recover,

As from a drcam.
While each, bewailing
The other's failing,
With wrath and railings

All hideous seem-
While first decreasing, 1
Yet not quite ceasing,
Wait not till teasing

All passion blight :
If once diminish'd,

Love's reign is finishid
Then part in friendship,--and bid good night

STANZAS.
[“ COULD LOVE FOR EVER.")

I.
Could Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time's endeavour

Be tried in vain
No other pleasure
With this could measure ;
And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And form'd for flying.

Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason

Let's love a season;
But let that scason be only Spring.

II.
When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,

Expect to die;
A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her

For whom they sigh!
When link'll together,
In every weather,
They pluck Love's feather

From out his wing-
Ile'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver
Without his plumage, when past the Spring.

V.
So shall Affection
To recollection
The dear connexion

Bring back with joy:
You had not waited
Till, tired or hated,
Your passions saled

Began to cloy.
Your last embraces
Leave no cold traces-
The same fond faces

As througlı the past;
And eyes, the mirrors

or your sweet errors, Reflect but rapture-not least, Ibongo jast,

VI.

True, separations
Ask more than patience;
What desperations

From such have risen!
But yet remaining.
What is 't but chaining
Hearts which, once waning,

Beat 'gainst their prison 1
Time can but cloy love,
And use destroy love:
The winged boy, Love,

Is but for boys-
You 'll find it torture

Though sharper, shorter,
To wean, and not wear out, your jopa.

THE END.

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