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Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,
Yet trembles for what it has sung;
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
But the loveliest garden grows hateful
My heart from these horrors to save:
As the chief who to combat advances
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Ah, tell me, my soul! must I perish
By pangs which a smile would dispel?
Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherish, For torture repay me too well?
Now sad is the garden of roses,
Beloved but false Haidée! There Flora all wither'd reposes,
And mourns o'er thine absence with me.
LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT
IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:
"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art: Noble his object, glorious is his aim;
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."
BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING:
THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own; But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse. (1)
(1) [At Orchomenus, where stood the Temple of the Graces, I was tempted to exclaim, ' Whither have the Graces fled ?' Little did I expect to find them here; yet here comes one of them with golden cups and coffee, and another with a book. The book is a register of names, some of which are far sounded by the voice of fame. Among them is Lord Byron's, connected with some lines which I here send you. -H. W. WILLIAMS.]
THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
The tear that from thine eyelid streams
I ask no pledge to make me blest
Nor one memorial for a breast,
Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write to tell the tale
By day or night, in weal or woe,
And silent ache for thee.
EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE
STRANGER! behold, interr'd together,
His works were neat, and often found
Malta, May 16. 1811.
ON MOORE'S LAST OPERATIC FARCE, OR FARCICAL OPERA.
GOOD 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.
September 14. 1811. (2)
(1) [Some notice of this poetaster has been given, antè, Vol. VII. p. 269. He died in 1810, and his works have followed him. — E.]
(2) [The farce in question was called "M. P.; or, the Blue Stocking," and came out at the Lyceum Theatre, on the 9th of September.-E.]
EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, (1)
IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE
"OH! banish care"-such ever be
Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
(1) [i. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See Vol. VII.