Another view! not less renown'd for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song.1
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,

To me, this little scene of joys and woes;

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign

70

Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were

mine :

Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew ;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.

80

Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was created Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the council-table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain." -Specimens of the British Poets, by Thomas Campbell, London, 1819, ii. 134, sq.]

1. Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset [1637-1706], esteemed the most accomplished man of his day, was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on the day previous to which he composed his celebrated song [" To all you Ladies now at Land"]. His character has been drawn in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve. Vide Anderson's British Poets, 1793, vi. 107, 108.

To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one parti
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.

And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,

We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe-
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;

No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,

Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught

To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,

If these, but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,—

Oh! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain,

The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate

Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.

1805.

i. D—r—t farewell.—[Poems O. and T.]

TO THE EARL OF CLARE.

Tu semper amoris

Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago.
VAL. FLAC. Argonaut, iv. 36.

I.

FRIEND of my youth! when young we rov'd,

Like striplings, mutually belov'd,

With Friendship's purest glow;

The bliss, which wing'd those rosy hours,

Was such as Pleasure seldom showers

On mortals here below.

2.

The recollection seems, alone,

Dearer than all the joys I've known,

When distant far from you:

Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, adieu !

3.

My pensive mem'ry lingers o'er,

Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,

Those scenes regretted ever;
The measure of our youth is full,
Life's evening dream is dark and dull,
And we may meet-ah! never !

i. To the Earl of - .-[Poems O. and T.]

4.

As when one parent spring supplies

Two streams, which from one fountain rise, Together join'd in vain ;

How soon, diverging from their source,

Each, murmuring, seeks another course,

Till mingled in the Main !

5.

Our vital streams of weal or woe,

Though near, alas! distinctly flow,

Nor mingle as before:

Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till Death's unfathom'd gulph appear,
And both shall quit the shore.

6.

Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,

Now flow in different channels:

Disdaining humbler rural sports,

'Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,

And shine in Fashion's annals;

7.

'Tis mine to waste on love my time,

Or vent my reveries in rhyme,

Without the aid of Reason;

For Sense and Reason (critics know it)
Have quitted every amorous Poet,

Nor left a thought to seize on.

8.

Poor LITTLE! sweet, melodious bard!

Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard

That he, who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,

By dire Reviewers should be branded,
As void of wit and moral.1

9.

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!

Repine not at thy lot.

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,

And critics are forgot.

IO.

Still I must yield those worthies merit

Who chasten, with unsparing spirit,

Bad rhymes, and those who write them:

I. These stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique in a northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon. [Byron refers to the article in the Edinburgh Review, of July, 1807, on "Epistles, Odes, and other Poems, by Thomas Little, Esq."]