No, no-it is my sorrow's pride
That last dear duty to fulfil;
Though all the world forget beside,
'T is meet that I remember still.

For well I know, that such had been
Thy gentle care for him, who now
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene,
Where none regarded him, but thou.
And, oh! I feel in that was given

A blessing never meant for me;
Thou wert too like a dream of heaven,
For earthly love to merit thee.

March 14th, 1812.

ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.

ILL-FATED heart! and can it be

That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?
Have years of care for thine and thee
Alike been all employ'd in vain ?

Yet precious seems each shatter'd part,
And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee feels thou art
A fitter emblem of his own.

March 16, 1812.

LINES TO A LADY WEEPING.*

WEEP, daughter of a royal line,
A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;

Ah! happy if each tear of thine

Could wash a father's fault away!

*This impromptu owed its birth to an on dit, that the late Princess Charlotte of Wales burst into tears on hearing that the Whigs had found it impossible to put together a cabinet, at the period of Mr. Perceval's death. They were appended to the first edition of the "Corsair," and excited a sensation, marvellously disproportionate to their length, or, we may add, their merit. The ministerial prints raved for two months on end, in the most foul-mouthed vituperation of the poet, and all that belonged to him-the Morning Post even announced a motion in the House of Lords "and all this," Lord Byron writes to Mr. Moore, "as Bedreddin in the Arabian Nights remarks, for making a cream tart with pepper: how odd, that eight lines should have given birth, I really think, to eight thousand!"-E.

Weep-for thy tears are Virtue's tears—
Auspicious to these suffering isles;
And be each drop in future years

Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!

THE CHAIN I GAVE.

March, 1812.

FROM THE TURKISH.

THE chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offered both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,-
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.`

That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;

That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.

Let him, who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,

Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute.

'Tis past-to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE "PLEASURES OF MEMORY."

ABSENT or present, still to thee,

My friend, what magic spells belong!
As all can tell, who share, like me,
In turn thy converse and thy song.

But when the dreaded hour shall come
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh,
And MEMORY " o'er her Druid's tomo
Shall weep that aught of thee can die,

How fondly will she then repay

Thy homage offer'd at her shrine,

And blend, while ages roll away,

Her name immortally with thine!

April 19, 1812

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY,

OCTOBER 10, 1812.*

In one dread night our city saw,

and sigh'd,

Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;

In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourn'd,
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn'd !)
Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven,
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven;
Saw the long column of revolving flames
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,
While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome,
Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their home,
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own,

Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall

Usurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall;

*The theatre in Drury Lane, which was opened, in 1747, with Dr. Johnson's masterly address, beginning,

"When Learning's triumph o'er her barbarous foes
First rear'd the Stage, immortal Shakspeare rose,"

and witnessed the last glories of Garrick, having failen into decay, was rebuilt in 1794. The new building perished by fire in 1811; and the Managers, in their anxiety that the opening of the present edifice should be distinguished by some composition of at least equal merit, advertised in the newspapers for a general competition. Scores of addresses, not one tolerable, showered on their desk, and they were in sad despair, when Lord Holland interfered, and, not without difficulty, prevailed on Lord Byron to write these verses-"at the risk," as he said, "of offending a hundred scribblers and a discerning public." The admirable jeu d'esprit of the Messrs. Smith will long preserve the memory of the "Rejected Addresses."-E.

Tome II, feuille 27.

Say-shall this new, nor less aspiring pile,
Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle,
Know the same favour which the former knew,
A shrine for Shakspeare-worthy him and you?

Yes-it shall be-the magic of that name
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;
On the same spot still consecrates the scene,
And bids the Drama be where she hath been:
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell-
Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last,
Oh! might we draw our omens from the past,
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost.
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest heart.
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ;
Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew,
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu :
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb.
Such Drury claim'd and claims-nor you refuse
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse;
With garlands deck your own Menander's head!
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead!

Dear are the days which made our annals bright.
Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley * ceased to write.
Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs,
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs ;
While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass,
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line,

Pause-ere their feebler offspring you condemn,

Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

* Originally, "Ere Garrick died," &c.—“By the bye, one of my corrections in the copy sent yesterday has dived into the bathos some sixty fathom

'When Garrick died, and Brinsley ceased to write.'

Ceasing to live is a much more serious concern, and ought not to be first. Second thoughts in every thing are best; but, in rhyme, third and fourth don't come amiss. I always scrawl in this way, and smooth as fast as I can, but never sufficiently; and, latterly, I can weave a nine-line stanza faster than a couplet, for which measure I have not the cunning. When I began Childe Harold,' I had never tried Spenser's measure, and now I cannot scribble in any other." B. to Lord H.--E.

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise,

Whose judging voice and eye alone direct
The boundless power to cherish or reject;
If e'er frivolity has led to fame,

And made us blush that you forbore to blame;
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend,
All past reproach may present scenes refute,
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! *
Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws,
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause;
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers,
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours! :

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 your own.
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!

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,
I faint, I die beneath the blow.
That Love had arrows, well I knew;
Alas! I find them poison'd too.

*The following lines were omitted by the Committee

"Nay, lower still, the Drama yet deplores
That late she deign'd to crawl upon all-fours.
When Richard roars in Bosworth for a horse,
If you command, the steed must come in course.
If you decree, the stage must condescend
To soothe the sickly taste we dare not mend.
Blame not our judgment should we acquiesce,
And gratify you more by showing less.
The past reproach let present scenes refute,

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.