« FöregåendeFortsätt »
O'er fields through which we us'd to run.
And spend the hours in childish play; O'er shades where, when our race was done,
Reposing on my breast you lay;
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
Vet envied every fly the kiss,
See still the little painted bark.
See there, high waving o'er the park,
These times are past, our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes, I must retrace alone; Without thee, what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not prov'd, Tbe anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly lov'd, You bid a long adieu to peace.
This is the deepest of our woes,
This is of love the final close,
[First printed, December, i8o6f~
FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL
FROM THE "PROMETHEUS VLNCTUS" OF
y\Tj5du 6 v&vra vi^uavt K.t.\.
Great Jove! to whose Almighty
Both Gods and mortals homage
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. Oft shall the sacred victim fall, In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall; My voice shall raise no impious strain, 'Gainst Him who rules the sky and azure main.
How different now thy joyless fate,
When plac'd aloft in godlike state,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean
And mirthful strains the hours beguil'd;
The Nymphs and Tritons dane'd
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove
WRITTEN IN "LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN, BY J. J. ROUSSEAU: 1 FOUNDED ON FACTS."
"away, away, — your flattering arts May now betray some simpler hearts; And you will smile at their believing, And they shall weep at your deceiving."
1 [A second edition of this work, of which the title is, Letters, etc., translated from the French of Jean Jacques Rousseau, was published in London, in 1784. It is, probably, a literary forgery.1
ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS .
Dear simple girl, those flattering arts, (From which thou'dst guard frail female
hearts,) Exist but in imagination, Mere phantoms of thine own creation; For he who views that witching grace, That perfect form, that lovely face, With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, He never wishes to deceive thee: Once in thy polish'd mirror glance Thou'lt there descry that elegance Which from our sex demands such
But envy in the other raises. —
ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT
Where are those honours, Ida! once your own,
When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne?
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, Hail'd a Barbarian in her Ca.-sar's place, So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate.
Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, Pomposus holds you in his harsh controul;
Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, With florid jargon, and with vain parade; With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules,
(Such as were ne'er before enfore'd in schools).
Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,
1 [In March, 180?, Dr Drurv, (lie Probus of the piece, retired from the Head-mastership of Harrow School, and was succeeded by l)r Butler, the Pomposus. "Dr Drury." said BvTon, in one of his note-hooks, "was the best, the kindest (und yet strict, too) friend I ever had; and I look upon him &tUl as a father.")
He governs, sanction'd but by st
applause; With him the same dire fate, attendi
Ill-fated Ida I soon must stamp yc
Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost fame,
No trace of science left you, but 1 name. Harrow, July, 1805. [First printed, December, 1806.]
EPITAPH ON A BELOVED
— Plato's Epitaj
Oh, Friend! for ever lov'd, for dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed t
honour'd bier! What sighs re-echo'd to thy parti
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pan of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in 1
Could sighs avert his dart's relentlf force;
Could youth and virtue claim a sta< delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from 1 prey;
Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my achi sight,
Thy comrade's honour and thy fricn< delight.
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy moulderi ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on 1 heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculpto art.
No marble marks thy couch of lov sleep,
But living statues there are seen
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er t tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youth doom.
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS —A FRAGMENT—TO CAROLINE 7
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his (lying hour
will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish
But, who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none! — a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone.
Harrow, 1803. [First printed, December, 1806.]
ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS
Ammula 1 vagula, Blandula,
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring Sprite, r riend and associate of this clay I
To what unknown region borne, Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight? No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
[First printed, December, 1806.]
Wires, to their airy hall, my Father's
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh • mar my shade behold no sculptur'd urns.
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praisc-en
cumber'd stone; My epitaph shall be my name alone: 1 If that with honour fail to crown my clay, Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay! That, only thai, shall single out the spot; By that remember'd, or with that forgot.
[First printed, December, 1806.]
Oh I when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow? Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell! and the coming tomorrow
But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.
From my eye flows no tear, from my lips
flow no curses, I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd
me from bliss; For poor is the soul which, bewailing,
Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this —
Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning, Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage, On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.
But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.
1 [In his will, drawn up in 1811, Byron gave directions that "no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb."]