[The poet once told Lady Byron that he had two natural children, and one of these may possibly have been the subject of this poem; but in all likelihood it is purely fictitious.] THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, And thou canst lisp a father's name Her lowly grave the turf has prest, And yields thee scarce a name on earth; 10 Yet shall not these one hope destroy, Why, let the world unfeeling frown, Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace, Although so young thy heedless sire, SONG 20 30 [First published in the Edition of 1898 from a manuscript in the possession of the Earl of Lovelace.] BREEZE of the night in gentler sighs More softly murmur o'er the pillow; For Slumber seals my Fanny's eyes, And Peace must never shun her pillow. Or breathe those sweet Eolian strains Stolen from celestial spheres above, To charm her ear while some remains, And soothe her soul to dreams of love. But Breeze of night again forbear, To lift those auburn locks on high. Chill is thy Breath thou breeze of night! Blest be that lip and azure eye! Sweet Fanny, hallow'd be thy Sleep! Those lips shall never vent a sigh, Those eyes may never wake to weep February 23, 1808. 'THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME' THERE was a time, I need not name, And from that hour when first thy tongue None, none hath sunk so deep as thisTo think how all that love hath flown; Transient as every faithless kiss, But transient in thy breast alone. And yet my heart some solace knew, When late I heard thy lips declare, In accents once imagined true, Remembrance of the days that were. Yes; my adored, yet most unkind! Though thou wilt never love again, To me 't is doubly sweet to find Remembrance of that love remain. Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me, Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 'AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW?' AND wilt thou weep when I am low? Sweet lady! speak those words again: Yet if they grieve thee, say not so I would not give that bosom pain. My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, Wilt sigh above my place of rest. And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace To know thy heart hath felt for mine. Oh lady! blessed be that tear It falls for one who cannot weep; 20 And then those pensive eyes would close, I dreamt last night our love return'd, Than if for other hearts I burn'd, Then tell me not, remind me not, 30 LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL Till thou and I shall be forgot, And senseless as the mouldering stone Which tells that we shall be no more. August 13, 1808. [First published, 1809.] TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND FEW years have pass'd since thou and I Were firmest friends, at least in name, And childhood's gay sincerity Preserved our feelings long the same. But now, like me, too well thou know'st And those, and those alone, may claim The prostituted name of friend. Such is the common lot of man: Can we then 'scape from folly free? Can we reverse the general plan, Nor be what all in turn must be ? No; for myself, so dark my fate Through every turn of life hath been, Man and the world so much I hate, I care not when I quit the scene. 153 But thou, with spirit frail and light, Alas! whenever folly calls Where parasites and princes meet (For cherish'd first in royal halls, The welcome vices kindly greet), Ev'n now thou 'rt nightly seen to add 40 To join the vain, and court the proud. 60 There dost thou glide from fair to fair, That taint the flowers they scarcely taste. But say, what nymph will prize the flame What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, In time forbear; amidst the throng Be something, any thing, but -mean. 70 LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL [Byron gave the following account of this cup in his Conversations with Medwin: "The gardener, in digging, discovered a skull that had probably belonged to some jolly friar or monk of the abbey, about the time it was demonasteried. Observing it to be of giant size, and in a perfect state of preservation, a strange fancy seized me of having it set and mounted as a drinking cup. I accordingly sent it to town, and it returned with a very high polish, and of a mottled colour like tortoiseshell.'] START not nor deem my spirit fled: Better to hold the sparkling grape, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Degraded mass of animated dust! Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy Pass on-it honours none you wish to brood; And circle in the goblet's shape The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone, Quaff while thou canst: another race, When thou and thine like me are sped, May rescue thee from earth's embrace, And rhyme and revel with the dead. Why not? since through life's little day Our heads such sad effects produce; Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, This chance is theirs, to be of use. Newstead Abbey, 1808. INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been. But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, |