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Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, The Drama's homage by her herald paid, Receive our welcome too, whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win The curtain rises-may our stage unfold Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please—long, long may you preside! (1)
"Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores
Nor shift from man to babe, from babe to brute."
"Is Whitbread," said Lord Byron, "determined to castrate all my cavalry lines? I do implore, for my own gratification, one lash on those accursed quadrupeds—' a long shot, Sir Lucius, if you love me.""— E]
(1) ["Soon after the Rejected Addresses' scene in 1812, I met Sheridan. In the course of dinner, he said, ' Lord Byron, did you know that amongst the writers of addresses was Whitbread himself?' I answered by an enquiry of what sort of an address he had made. 'Of that,' replied Sheridan, 'I remember little, except that there was a phoenix in it.'-' A phoenix!! Well, how did he describe it?'-'Like a poulterer,' answered Sheridan: it was green, and yellow, and red, and blue: he did not let us off for a single feather.'" B. Letters, 1821.—E]
TIME! on whose arbitrary wing
Hail thou! who on my birth bestow'd
For now I bear the weight alone.
I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee, since thou could'st spare All that I loved, to peace or heaven.
To them be joy or rest, on me
Yet even that pain was some relief;
Retards, but never counts the hour.
In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight
For then, however drear and dark,
My soul was suited to thy sky;
That beam hath sunk, and now thou art
One scene even thou canst not deform;
And I can smile to think how weak
TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.
AH! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt,
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
While day and night roll darkling by.
Without one friend to hear my woe,
Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.
A bird of free and careless wing
Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain,
In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine;
My light of life! ah, tell me why
Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow:
My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain,
And still thy heart, without partaking
Pour me the poison; fear not thou!
My wounded soul, my bleeding breast,
["THOU ART NOT FALSE."]
THOU art not false, but thou art fickle,
'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, Too well thou lov'st-too soon thou leavest.
The wholly false the heart despises,