When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth,
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth,

Hope was left, was she not ? — but the goblet we

kiss,

And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:

We must die- who shall not? - May our sins be

forgiven,

And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

STANZAS TO A LADY(1), ON LEAVING

ENGLAND.

'Tis done and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;

And whistling o'er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.

But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest
I should not seek another zone
Because I cannot love but one.

(1) Mrs. Musters.

'Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;

I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev❜n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,

I ne'er shall find a resting-place

My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, But ever love, and love but one.

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where friendship's or love's softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

I go-but whereso'er I flee,

There's not an eye will weep for me; There's not a kind congenial heart, Where I can claim the meanest part;

Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

To think of every early scene,

Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe-

But mine, alas! has stood the blow;

Yet still beats on as it begun,

And never truly loves but one.

And who that dear loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see,
And why that early love was crost,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

'Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. (1)

1809.

(1) Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany; the two last lines being originally

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvass o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time 's expired.
Here's a rascal

Come to task all,

Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,

Cases cracking,

Not a corner for a mouse

'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient-push from shore.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor-
Stop the boat-I'm sick-oh Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board."

VOL. VII.

"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,
I love but thee, I love but one."- E.

X

Thus are screaming
Men and women,

Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,

All are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax.— Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
Passengers their births are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
"Hey day! call you that a cabin?
Why 'tis hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in-
Who the deuce can harbour there?"
"Who, sir? plenty-
Nobles twenty

Did at once my vessel fill."
"Did they? Jesus,

How you squeeze us!

Would to God they did so still: Then I'd scape the heat and racket

Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! (1) where are you? Stretch'd along the deck like logs

Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!

Here's a rope's end for the dogs.

(1) Lord Byron's three servants. — E