Oh, Lovely! thus low I implore thee,
Receive this fond truth from my tongue,
Which utters its song to adore thee,

Yet trembles for what it has sung;

As the branch, at the bidding of Nature,
Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree,
Through her eyes, through her every feature,
Shines the soul of the young Haidée.

But the loveliest garden grows hateful
When Love has abandon'd the bowers;
Bring me hemlock—since mine is ungrateful,
That herb is more fragrant than flowers.
The poison, when pour'd from the chalice,
Will deeply embitter the bowl;
But when drunk to escape from thy malice,
The draught shall be sweet to my soul.
Too cruel! in vain I implore thee

My heart from these horrors to save:
Will nought to my bosom restore thee?
Then open the gates of the grave.

As the chief who to combat advances
Secure of his conquest before,

Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances,
Hast pierced through my heart to its core.

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
ORCHOMENUS.

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.]

ON PARTING.

THE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left
Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift
Untainted back to thine.

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams,
An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest
In gazing when alone;

Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.

-

Nor need I write to tell the tale
My pen were doubly weak:
Oh! what can idle words avail,
Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or woe,
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent ache for thee.

March, 1811.

EPITAPH FOR JOSEPH BLACKETT, LATE
POET AND SHOEMAKER. (1)

STRANGER! 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 immortal as his sole.
But still to business he held fast,
And stuck to Phoebus 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, 'twere shame to "Black-it."

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
CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE."

"OH! banish care"-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and " banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought-but let them pass-
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of any thing but love.

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'T would suit philosophy to tell.

(1) [i. e. Mr. Francis Hodgson (not then the Reverend). See Vol. VII.