Whether at morn, in lucid lustre gay,

On eastern clouds thy yellow tresses play,
Or else at eve, in radiant glory drest,
Thou tremblest at the portals of the west,
I see no more! But thou mayest fail at length,
Like Ossian lose thy beauty and thy strength,
Like him-but for a season-in thy sphere
To shine with splendour, then to disappear!
Thy years shall have an end, and thou no more
Bright through the world enlivening radiance pour,
But sleep within thy clouds, and fail to rise,
Heedless when Morning calls thee to the skies!
Then now exult, O Sun! and gaily shine,

While Youth and Strength and Beauty all are thine.
For Age is dark, unlovely, as the light

Shed by the Moon when clouds deform the night,
Glimmering uncertain as they hurry past.
Loud o'er the plain is heard the northern blast,
Mists shroud the hills, and 'neath the growing gloom,
The weary traveller shrinks and sighs for home.

1806.

[First published, Atlantic Monthly, December, 1898.]1

1. [I am indebted to the courtesy of Mr. Pierre De La Rose for sending me a copy of the foregoing Version of Ossian's Address to the Sun, which was "Privately printed at the Press of Oliver B. Graves, Cambridge, Massachusetts, June the Tenth, MDCCCXCVIII.," and was reprinted in the Atlantic Monthly in December, 1898. A prefatory note entitled, "From Lord Byron's Notes," is prefixed to the Version: "In Lord Byron's copy of The Poems of Ossian (printed by Dewick and Clarke, London, 1806), which, since 1874, has been in the possession of the Library of Harvard University as part of the Sumner Bequest. The notes which follow appear in Byron's hand." (For the Notes, see the Atlantic Monthly, 1898, vol. lxxxii. pp. 810-814.)

It is strange that Byron should have made two versions (for another "version" from the Newstead MSS., see Poetical Works, 1898, i. 229-231) of the "Address to the Sun," which forms the conclusion of "Carthon ;" but the Harvard version appears to be genuine. It is to be noted that Byron appended to the earlier

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.

I.

HUZZA! Hodgson,1 we are going,

Our embargo 's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvas 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 unsearched amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.

2.

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!"

version eighteen lines of his own composition, by way of moral or application.]

1. [For Francis Hodgson (1781-1852), see Letters, 1898, i. 195, note 1.]

"Sick, Ma'am, damme, you 'll be sicker,
Ere you 've been an hour on board."
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.

3.

Now we 've reached her, lo! the Captain,
Gallant Kidd,1 commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
"Hey day! call you that a cabin ?
Why 't is 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."

1. [Compare Peter Pindar's Ode to a Margate Hoy

"Go, beauteous Hoy, in safety ev'ry inch!

That storm should wreck thee, gracious Heav'n forbid ! Whether commanded by brave Captain Finch

Or equally tremendous Captain Kidd."]

4.

Fletcher! Murray! Bob!1 where are you?
Stretched along the deck like logs--
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth-and damns our souls.
"Here's a stanza 2

On Braganza

Help!"-"A couplet?"—" No, a cup
Of warm water-"

"What's the matter?"

"Zounds! my liver 's coming up;

I shall not survive the racket

Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

5.

Now at length we 're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back!

Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.

But, since Life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,

Still to laugh by far the best is,

Then laugh on

-as I do now.

Laugh at all things,

Great and small things,

1. [Murray was "Joe" Murray, an ancient retainer of the "Wicked Lord." Bob was Robert Rushton, the "little page" of "Childe Harold's Good Night." (See Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 26, note 1.)] 2. [For "the stanza," addressed to the "6 Princely offspring of Braganza," published in the Morning Post, December 30, 1807, see English Bards, etc., line 142, note 1, Poetical Works, 1898, i. 308, 309.1

Sick or well, at sea or shore ;
While we 're quaffing,

Let's have laughing

Who the devil cares for more ?

Some good wine! and who would lack it,

Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?

Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.

[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, i. 230-232.]

[TO DIVES.1 A FRAGMENT.]

UNHAPPY Dives! in an evil hour

power;

'Gainst Nature's voice seduced to deeds accurst! Once Fortune's minion now thou feel'st her Wrath's vial on thy lofty head hath burst. In Wit, in Genius, as in Wealth the first, How wondrous bright thy blooming morn arose ! But thou wert smitten with th' unhallowed thirst Of Crime unnamed, and thy sad noon must close In scorn and solitude unsought the worst of woes.

1809. [First published, Lord Byron's Works, 1833, xvii. 241.]

FAREWELL PETITION TO J. C. H., ESQRE.

O THOU уclep'd by vulgar sons of Men
Cam Hobhouse! 2 but by wags Byzantian Ben!
Twin sacred titles, which combined appear
To grace thy volume's front, and gild its rear,

1. [Dives was William Beckford. See Childe Harold, Canto I. stanza xxii. line 6, Poetical Works, 1899, ii. 37, note 1.]

2. [For John Cam Hobhouse (1786-1869), afterwards Lord Broughton de Gyfford, see Letters, 1898, i. 163, note 1.]