« PredošláPokračovať »
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flowerOh! breathe on it softly--it dies in au hour.
Adieu, thou damu'dest quarantine,
That gave me fever and the spleen;
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, sirs;
Adieu his excellency's dancers;
Actieu 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 where 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 't is 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 llatter :
But she must be content to shine
Jo 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, oh Malta! since thou'st got us,
Thou little military hot-house,
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 mcant ?
Then, in my solitary nook,
Return to scribbling, or a book ;
Or take my physic, while I'm able,
Two spoonfuls, hourly, by this label;
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless my stars I've got a fever.
THE TRIUMPHI OF THE WHALE.
Jo Pran! lo! sing
To the finny people's king-
Not a mighlier whale than this
In the vast Atlantic is;
Not a fatter fish than he
Flounders round the Polar sea;
See his blubber-at his gills
What a world of drink he swills!
From his trunk as from a spout,
Which next moment he pours out.
Such his person : next declare,
Muse! who his companions are.
Every fish of
Scuds aside or slinks behind,
But about his person keep
All the monsters of the deep ;
Mermaids, with their tales and singiog,
His delighted fancy stinging ;-
Crooked dolphins, they surround him;
Dog-like seals, they fawn around him :
Following hard, the progress mark
Of the intolerant salt sca shark-
For his solace and relief
Flat tish arc his courtiers chief;-
Last and lowest of his train,
lok-fish, libellers of the main,
Their black liquor shed in spite-
(Such on earth the things that write.)
In his stomach, some do say,
No good thing can ever stay;
Blad it been the fortune of it
To have swallow'd the old prophet,
Three days there he d not have dwelli,
But in one have been expeli'd.
Napless mariners are they,
Who, beguiled, as seamen say,
Deeming it some rock or island,
spot, and dry land,
Anchor in his scaly rind;
Soon the difference they find,
Sudden, plump, he sinks beneath them -
Does to ruthless waves bequeath them.
Name or title, what has he?
Is be regent of the sea ?
From the difficulty free us,
Buffon, Banks, or sage Lionzus!
With bis wondrous attributes
Say-what appellation suits ?
By his bulk and by his size,
By his oily qualities,
This, or else my eye-sight fails,
This should be the- Prince of Whales!
ENIGMA. *T was whisperd in heaven, 't was mutterd in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell: On the confines of earth 'I was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confest. 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunter, Be seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder. "T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends at his birth, and awaits him in deatlı; It presides o'er his happiness, honour, and healdı, Is the prop of his house, and the end of liis wealtha : Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, But woe to the wretch who expels it from home. in the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor c'en in the whirlwind of passion be drown'd: "I will not soften the heart, and, though deaf to the car, 'T will make it acutely and instantly licar.
The following Stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron
to his Lady, a few months before their separation.
There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreathed with minc alone,
That destiny's relentless knife
Al once must sever both or none.
A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret prayer,
And as he seekz bis last repose,
Thine image ease life's parting throes.
Then hail, sweet miniature of life!
Hail to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears!
Sweet promise of ecstatic years!
How could I fainly bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!
When man, expelld from Eden's bower,
A moment linger'd near the gate, Each scene recalld the vanish'd hour,
And bade himn curse his future fate.
But wandering on through distant climes,
He learn'd to bear his load of grief, And gave a sigh to other times,
And found in busier scenes relief. Thus, lady, will it be with me,
And I shall view thy charms no more; For whilst I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before. In flight I shall be surely wise,
Escaping from templation's snare: cannot view my paradise Without a wish to enter there.
LINES Addressed by Lord Byron to Mr Bobhouse, on his
Election for Westminster.
Would you get to the house through the true gate,
Much quicker than ever Whig Charley went Let Parliament send you to Newgate
And Newgate will send you to--Parliament.
TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. And say'st thou that I have not felt,
Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st how dearly I have dwell
On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be,
And I will learn to prize thee less; As thou hast fled, so let me flee,
And change the heart thou mayst not bless. They 'll tell thee, Clara! I have seemd,
Of late, another's charms to woo, Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd That thou wert banish'd from my
view Clara! this struggle--10 undo
What thou hast done too well, for meThis mask before the babbling crew
This treachery-was truth to thee! I have not wept while thou wert gone,
Nor worn one look of sullen woe; But sought, in many, all that one
(Ah! need l name her?) could beslow. It is a duty which I owe
To thine-to thee-to man-to God, To crush, to quench this guilty glow,
Ere yet the path of crime be trod. But, since my breast is not so pure
Since still the vulture tears my heart Let me this agony endure,
Not thee-oh! dearest as thou art! In mercy, Clara! let us part,
And I will seek, yet know not how, To shun, in time, the threatening dart;
Guilt must not aim at such as thou. But thou must aid me in the task,
And nobly thus exert thy power; Then spurn me bence-t is all I ask
Ere time mature a quiltier hour; Ere wrath's impending vials shower
Remorse redoubled on my head; Ere fires uoquenchably devour
A heart, whose hope bas long been dead. Deceive no more thyself and me,
Deceive not better hearts than mine; Ah! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee,
From woe like ours-from sbame like thine? And, if there be a wrath divine,
A pang beyond this fleeting breath, Een now all future hope resign :
Such thoughts are guilt--such guilt is death.
TO A LADY.
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.
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 anguisha shine; And for a while 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 eye 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 80
I would not give that bosom pain.
llow many number il are, low few agreed,
In age, or climc, or character, or creed!
Tiere wandering genius leaves a deathless name,
And Folly writes- for others do the same.
Italian treachery, and English pride,
Dutch crafı, and German dulness, side by side!
The hardy Russian hails congenial snow;
The Spaniard shivers as these breezes blow.
knew men the objects of this varied crew,
To stare bow many, and to feel how few!
Jere Nature's child, ecsturic from lier school;
And travelling problems, that admire lay rule.
The timorous poel woos luis modest muse,
And thanks his stars he's safe from all reviews.
The pedant drags from out his mouey store
A line some hundred bills have lieard before.
Here critics 100 (for where's the happy spot
So blest by nature as to have them not?)
Spit their vile slander o'er some simple phrase
Of foolish wonder or of bonest praise;
Some pompous lint, some comment on mine lost,
Some direful failure, or some empty boast.
Not blacker spleen coull fill these furious men,
If Jeffrey's soul had perelid on Gifford's pen.
Here envy, hatred, and the fool of fame,
Jomil in one act of wonder when they came :
Bere beauty's worshipper in tlesli or rock,
The incarnate fancy, or the breathing block,
Sces the wlule giant in his robe of light,
Stretch his huge form to look o'er Jura's height;
And stops, wluile hastcuing to the blesi remains
And calmer beauties of the classic plains.
And bere, whom hope beguiling; bids to seek
Ease for his breast and colour for his chech,
Suill steals a moment from Ausonia's sky,
And views and wonders on liis way to die,
Then the season of youth and its jollities 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 bow).
When the Box of Pandora was opened on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,
llope was left!-- Was she not ?- But the goblet we kiss,
And care pot for hope who are certain of bliss!
Long life to the grape! and when summer is flown,
ale of our nectar shall gladden our own; We must die!-- Who shall not?--Vay
given, And Hebe shall never be idle in Ileaven!
But hic, the author of these idle lines, What passion leads him, and what tie confines? For him what friend is true, what mistress blooms, What joy clates liim, and what zrief consumes?
Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not.
Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot,