Он!

Nor Hope nor Memory yield their aid,
But Pride may teach me to forget thee.
Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures;
These varied loves, these matron's fears,

These thoughtless strains to passion's measures,

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:-
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For nature seem'd to smile before thee; (1)
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,-

For then it beat but to adore thee.

But now I seek for other joys;

To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet, even in these a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavour,-
And fiends might pity what I feel,-
To know that thou art lost for ever.

TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR.

yes,

I will own we were dear to each other; The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true; The love which you felt was the love of a brother, Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;

The attachment of years in a moment expires: Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires. Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,

And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But winter's rude tempests are gathering now.
No more with affection shall memory, blending,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbending,
And what would be justice appears a disgrace.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you-
The few whom I love I can never upbraid-
The chance which has lost may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection,

That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.

You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, If danger demanded, were wholly your own; You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, Devoted to love and to friendship alone.

(1) "Our meetings," says Lord Byron in 1822, "were stolen ones, and a gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews. But the ardour was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she, however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses upon. Had I married her, perhaps the whole tenor of my life would have been different."-L. E.

The picture alluded to in the foregoing note was inse

You knew, but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours.
For the present, we part,-I will hope not for ever;
For time and regret will restore you at last :
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour;
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.

TO THE EARL OF CLARE.

"Tu semper amoris

Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago."-VAL. FLAC. FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved, Like striplings, mutually beloved,

With friendship's purest glow,

The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.

The recollection seems alone

Dearer than all the joys I've known,
When distant far from you:

Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu!

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,

Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,

And we may meet-ah! never!

As when one parent spring supplies
Two streams which from one fountain rise,
Together join'd in vain;

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each, murmuring, seeks another course,
Till mingled in the main!

Our vital streams of weal or woe,

Though near, alas! distinctly flow,
Nor mingle as before:

Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear,

And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels:
Disdaining humbler human sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in fashion's annals.

"Tis mine to waste on love my time,
Or vent my reveries in rhyme,
Without the aid of reason;
For sense and reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous poet,
Nor left a thought to seize on.

parable from his Lordship's person. "He had always," says Captain Medwin, "a black ribbon round his neck, to which was attached a locket, containing hair and a picture. We had been playing at billiards one night, till the balls appeared double, when all at once he searched hastily for something under his waistcoat, and said, in great alarm, Good God! I have lost my- !' but before

he had finished the sentence, he discovered the hidden treasure."-Medwin's Conversations of Lord Byron. -P. E.

Poor LITTLE! Sweet, melodious bard!
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard

That he, who sang before all,-
He who the lore of love expanded,—
By dire reviewers should be branded
As void of wit and moral.(1)

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!
Repine not at thy lot;

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,
And critics are forgot.

Still I must yield those worthies merit,
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them;
And though myself may be the next
By critic sarcasm to be vext,

I really will not fight them.(2)

Perhaps they would do quite as well
To break the rudely-sounding shell
Of such a young beginner :
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.

Now, Clare, I must return to you;
And, sure, apologies are due:

Accept, then, my concession.

In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight
I soar along from left to right;

My muse admires digression.

I think I said 't would be your fate
To add one star to royal state;-
May regal smiles attend you!
And should a noble monarch reign,
You will not seek his smiles in vain,
If worth can recommend you.

(1) These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique, in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon.-[See Edinburgh Review, July, 1807, article on Epistles, Odes, and other Poems, by Thomas Little, Esq.-L. E.]

(2) A bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped in the river Styx; for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants?

(3) "Of all I have ever known, Clare has always been the least altered in every thing from the excellent qualities and kind affections which attached me to him so strongly at school. I should hardly have thought it possible for society (or the world, as it is called) to leave a being with so little of the leaven of bad passions. I do not speak from personal experience only, but from all I have ever heard of him from others, during absence and distance.”—Diary, 1821-L. E.

"Gor

(4) Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. mal of Snow," is an expression frequently to be found in Ossian.

(5) This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the mountains. It is by no means un common, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-e-bourd, etc. to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occasionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the storm, perfectly secure from its effects.

(6) In Lord Byron's Diary for 1813, he says, "I have been thinking lately a good deal of Mary Duff.

How very

odd that I should have been so utterly, devotedly, fond of that girl, at an age when I could neither feel passion, nor

Yet since in danger courts abound,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

From snares may saints preserve you! And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care,

But those who best deserve you!

Not for a moment may you stray
From truth's secure unerring way!
May no delights decoy!

O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever siniles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy!

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;
Be still as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,-
Be still as you are now.(3)

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a poet's fame,
To prove a prophet here.

I

know the meaning of the word! And the effect! My mother used always to rally me about this childish amour; and, at last, many years after, when I was sixteen, she told me one day: 'Oh, Byron, I have had a letter from Edinburgh, from Miss Abercromby, and your old sweetheart, Mary Duff, is married to a Mr. Cockburn.' [Robert Cockburn, Esq. of Edinburgh.] And what was my answer? really cannot explain or account for my feelings at that moment; but they nearly threw me into convulsions-to the horror of my mother, and the astonishment of every body. And it is a phenomenon in my existence (for I was not eight years old), which has puzzled, and will puzzle me to the latest hour of it."-Again, in January, 1815, a few days after his marriage, in a letter to his friend Captain Hay, the poet thus speaks of his childish attachment:-" Pray tell me more- or as much as you like, of your cousin Mary. I believe I told you our story some years ago. I was twenty. seven a few days ago, and I have never seen her since we were children, and young children too; but I never forget her, nor ever can. You will oblige me with presenting her with my best respects, and all good wishes. It may seem ridiculous-but it is at any rate, I hope, not offensive to her nor hers-in me to pretend to recollect any thing about her, at so early a period of both our lives, almost, if not quite, in our nurseries; but it was a pleasant dream, which she must pardon me for remembering. Is she pretty still? I have the most perfect idea of her person, as a child; but Time, I suppose has played the devil with us both."-L. E. "Dante is said, as early as nine years old, to have fallen in love with Beatrice; Alfieri, who was himself precocious in the passion, considered such early sensibility to be an unerring sign of a soul formed for the fine arts; and Canova used to say that he was in love when but five years old." Gall.-P. E.

Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name,What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But still I perceive an emotion the same

As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: One image alone on my bosom impress'd,

I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd; And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with

you.

I arose with the dawn; with my dog as my guide,
From mountain to mountain I bounded along;
I breasted the billows of Dee's (1) rushing tide,
And heard at a distance the Highlander's song:
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose,

No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view; And warm to the skies my devotions arose,

For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you.

I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone; The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no more; As the last of my race, I must wither alone,

And delight but in days I have witness'd before: Ah! splendour has raised but embitter'd my lot;

More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew: Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not forgot;

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen; (2) When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; When, haply, some light-waving locks I behold, That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue,

I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold,

The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once more Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow: (3) But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, Will Mary be there to receive me?—ah, no! Adieu then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred! Thou sweet flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu! No home in the forest shall shelter my head,

Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but with you?

(I) The Dee is a beautiful river, which rises near Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen.

(2) Colbleen is a mountain near the verge of the Highlands, not far from the ruins of Dee Castle.

(3) In the spring of 1807, on recovering from a severe illness, Lord Byron had projected a visit to Scotland. The plan was not put into execution; but he thus adverts to it, in a letter dated in August, and addressed to his fair correspondent of Southwell :-"On Sunday, I set off for the Highlands. A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it, and proceed in a tandem through the western parts to Inverary, where we shall purchase shelties, to enable us to view places inaccessible to vehicular conveyances. On the coast we shall hire a vessel, and visit the most remarkable of the Hebrides, and, if we have time and favourable weather, mean to sail as far as Iceland, only three hundred miles from the northern extremity of Caledonia, to peep at Hecla. I mean to collect all the Erse traditions, poems, etc. etc. and translate, or expand the subject to fill a volume, which may appear next spring, under the denomination of The Highland Harp,' or some title equally picturesque. What would you say to some stanzas on Mount Hecla ? They would be written at least with fire."-L. E.

(4) Sassenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or English.

I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD.
I WOULD I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon (4) pride
Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side

And seeks the rocks where billows roll.
Fortune! take back these cultured lands,

Take back this name of splendid sound I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the slaves that cringe around. Place me along the rocks I love,

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; I ask but this-again to rove

Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel

The world was ne'er design'd for me:
Ah! why do darkening shades conceal
The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam
Awake me to a world like this?

I loved-but those I loved are gone;
Had friends-my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone

When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
Dispel awhile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
The heart-the heart-is lonely still. (5)

How dull! to hear the voice of those

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, Have made, though neither friends nor foes, Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boisterous joy is but a name.

poet who ever lived has assigned as the distinguishing badge of his brethren, is in every case a dangerous gift. It exaggerates, indeed, our expectations, and can often bid its possessor hope, where hope is lost to reason: but the delusive pleasure arising from these visions of imagination resembles that of a child, whose notice is attracted by a fragment of glass to which a sun-beam has given momentary splendour. He hastens to the spot with breathless impatience, and finds the object of his curiosity and expectation is equally vulgar and worthless. Such is the man of quick and exalted powers of imagination. His fancy over-estimates the object of his wishes, and pleasure, fame, distinction, are alternately pursued, attained, and despised when in his power. Like the enchanted fruit in the palace of a sorcerer, the objects of his admiration lose their attraction and value as soon as they are grasped by the adventurer's hand, and all that remains is regret for the time lost in the chase, and astonishment at the hallucination under which it was undertaken. The disproportion between hope and possession, which is felt by all men, is thus doubled to those whom nature has endowed with the power of gilding a distant prospect by the rays of imagination. These reflections, though trite and obvious, are in a manner forced from us by the poetry of Lord Byron,-by the sentiments of weariness of life and enmity with the world which they so frequently express, and by the singular analogy which such sentiments hold with well-known incidents of his life."

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
My hope, my comforter, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign

This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men—
I seek to shun, not hate, mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bear the turtle to her nest! Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, To flee away, and be at rest. (1)

LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM
THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW. (2)
SPOT of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mused the twilight hours away;

IN

(2) On losing his natural daughter, Allegra, in April, 1822, Lord Byron sent her remains to be buried at Harrow, where," he says, in a letter to Mr. Murray, "I once hoped to have laid my own." "There is," he adds, "a spot in the church-yard, near the footpath, on the brow of the hill looking towards Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing the name of Peachie or Peachey), where I used to sit for hours and hours when a boy. This was my favourite spot; but, as I wish to erect a tablet to her memory, the body had better be deposited in the church;" -and it was so accordingly.-L. E.

Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the bosom to recall the past,

And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering last farewell!"

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast, And calm its cares and passions into rest, Oft have I thought, 't would soothe my dying hour,If aught may soothe when life resigns her power,To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell; With this fond dream, methinks, 't were sweet to die--And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie; Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose, Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose; For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd; Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved, Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved; Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear, Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here; Deplored by those in early days allied, And unremember'd by the world beside.

September 2, 1807.

[The "Lines written beneath an Elm at Harrow," were the last in the little volume printed at Newark in 1807. The reader is referred to Mr. Moore's Life, for various interesting particulars respecting the impression produced on Lord Byron's mind by the celebrated Critique of his juvenile performances, put forth in the Edinburgh Review,—a journal which, at that time, possessed nearly undivided influence and authority. The poet's diaries and letters afford evidence that, in his latter days, he considered this piece as the work of Mr. (now Lord) Brougham; but on what grounds he had come to that conclusion he no where mentions. It forms, however, from whatever pen it may have proceeded, so important a link in Lord Byron's literary history, that we insert it at length.-L. E.]

HOURS OF IDLENESS; a Series of Poems, original and translated. By George Gordon, Lord Byron, a Minor. 8vo. pp. 200. Newark, 1807.

THE poesy of this young lord belongs to the class which neither gods nor men are said to permit. Indeed, we do not recollect to have seen a quantity of

(1) This memorable criticism has been designated by Moore, as an article which, if not witty in itself, deserves eminently the credit of causing wit in others. Never, whilst the short but glorious race of Byron's genius is remembered, can the critic, whoever he may be, that so unintentionally ministered to its first start, be forgotten. The effect which the review produced upon the poet can with difficulty be conceived. A friend, who found him in the first moments of excitement after reading the article, inquired anxiously whether he

As an

verse with so few deviations in either direction from that exact standard. His effusions are spread over a dead flat, and can no more get above or below the level, than if they were so much stagnant water. extenuation of this offence, the noble author is peculiarly forward in pleading minority. We have it in the title-page, and on the very back of the volume; it

had just received a challenge, not knowing how else to account for the fierce defiance of his looks. Among the less sentimental effects of the critique upon his mind, he used to mention that, on the day he read it, he drank three bottles of claret to his own share after dinner; --that nothing however relieved him till he had given vent to his indignation in rhyme, and that "after the first twenty lines he felt himself considerably better."

-P.E.

follows his name like a favourite part of his style. Much stress is laid upon it in the preface; and the poems are connected with this general statement of his case, by particular dates, substantiating the age at which each was written. Now the law upon the point of minority we hold to be perfectly clear. It is a plea available only to the defendant; no plaintiff can offer it as a supplementary ground of action. Thus, if any suit could be brought against Lord Byron, for the purpose of compelling him to put into court a certain quantity of poetry, and if judgment were given against him, it is highly probable that an exception would be taken, were he to deliver for poetry the contents of this volume. To this he might plead minority; but, as he now makes voluntary tender of the article, he hath no right to sue, on that ground, for the price in good current praise, should the goods be unmarketable. This is our view of the law on the point; and, we dare to say, so will it be ruled. Perhaps, however, in reality, all that he tells us about his youth is rather with a view to increase our wonder than to soften our censures. He possibly means to say, "See how a minor can write! This poem was actually composed by a young man of eighteen, and this by one of only sixteen!" But, alas! we all remember the poetry of Cowley at ten, and Pope at twelve; and so far from hearing, with any degree of surprise, that very poor verses were written by a youth from his leaving school to his leaving college, inclusive, we really believe this to be the most common of all occurrences; that it happens in the life of nine men in ten who are educated in England; and that the tenth man writes better verse than Lord Byron.

His other plea of privilege our author rather brings forward in order to waive it. He certainly, however, does allude frequently to his family and ancestorssometimes in poetry, sometimes in notes; and, while giving up his claim on the score of rank, he takes care to remember us of Dr. Johnson's saying, that when a nobleman appears as an author, his merit should be handsomely acknowledged. In truth, it is this consideration only that induces us to give Lord Byron's poems a place in our review, beside our desire to counsel him, that he do forthwith abandon poetry, and turn his talents, which are considerable, and his opportunities, which are great, to better account.

With this view, we must beg leave seriously to assure him, that the mere rhyming of the final syllable, even when accompanied by the presence of a certain number of feet,-nay, although (which does not always happen) those feet should scan regularly, and have been all counted accurately upon the fingers,-is not the whole art of poetry. We would entreat him to believe, that a certain portion of liveliness, somewhat of fancy, is necessary to constitute a poem; and that a poem in the present day, to be read, must contain at least one thought, either in a little degree different from the ideas of former writers, or differently expressed. We put it to his candour, whether there is any thing so deserving the name of poetry in verses like the following, written in 1806; and whether, if a youth of eighteen could say any thing so uninteresting to his ancestors, a youth of nineteen should publish

it:

"Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad or at home, your remembrance 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."

Now, we positively do assert, that there is nothing better than these stanzas in the whole compass of the noble minor's volume.

Lord Byron should also have a care of attempting what the greatest poets have done before him, for comparisons (as he must have had occasion to see at his writing-master's) are odious. Gray's Ode on Eton College should really have kept out the ten hobbling stanzas On a distant View of the Village and School of Harrow.

"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 denied." In like manner, the exquisite lines of Mr. Rogers, On a Tear, might have warned the noble author off those premises, and spared us a whole dozen such stanzas as the following:

"Mild charity's glow, to us mortals below
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

"The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave, which may soon be his grave,
The green sparkles bright with a Tear."

And so of instances in which former poets had failed. Thus, we do not think Lord Byron was made for translating, during his nonage, Adrian's Address to his Soul, when Pope succeeded so indifferently in the attempt. If our readers, however, are of another opinion, they may look at it.

"Ah! gentle, fleeting, wavering 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."

However, be this as it may, we fear his translations and imitations are great favourites with Lord Byron. We have them of all kinds, from Anacreon to Ossian; and, viewing them as school exercises, they may pass. Only, why print them after they have had their day and served their turn? And why call the thing in p. 79(1) a translation, where two words (y) of the original are expanded into four lines, and the other thing in p. 81, (2) where μεσονυκτίοις ποθ' ώραις is rendered by means of six hobbling verses? As to his Ossianic poesy, we are not very good judges, being, in truth, so moderately skilled in that species of composition, that we should, in all probability, be criticising some bit of the genuine Macpherson itself, were we to express our opinion of Lord Byron's rhapsodies. If, then, the following beginning of a Song of Bards is by his lordship, we venture to object to it, as far as we can comprehend it:-" What form rises on the roar of clouds, whose dark ghost gleams on the red stream of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder; 't is Orla,