Adieu, ye packets-without letters!
Adieu, ye fools-who ape your betters!
Adieu, thou damned'st quarantine,

That gave me fever, and the spleen!
Adieu that stage which makes us yawn, Sirs,
Adieu his Excellency's dancers ! 1

Adieu to Peter-whom no fault's in,
But could not teach a colonel waltzing;
Adieu, ye females fraught with graces!
Adieu red coats, and redder faces!
Adieu the supercilious air

Of all that strut en militaire ! 2

I go-but God knows when, or why,
To smoky towns and cloudy sky,
To things (the honest truth to say)
As bad but in a different way.

Farewell to these, but not adieu,
Triumphant sons of truest blue!
While either Adriatic shore,3

And fallen chiefs, and fleets no more,

ΙΟ

20

1. [Major-General Hildebrand Oakes (1754-1822) succeeded Admiral Sir Richard Goodwin Keates as "his Majesty's commissioner for the affairs of Malta," April 27, 1810. There was an outbreak of plague during his tenure of office (1810-13).—Annual Register, 1810, p. 320; Dict. Nat. Biog., art. Oakes."]

66

2. ["Lord Byron. was once rather near fighting a duel—and that was with an officer of the staff of General Oakes at Malta " (1809).- Westminster Review, January, 1825, iii. 21 (by J. C. Hobhouse). (See, too, Life (First Edition, 1830, 4to), i. 202, 222.)]

3. [On March 13, 1811, Captain (Sir William) Hoste (17801828) defeated a combined French and Italian squadron off the island of Lissa, on the Dalmatian coast. "The French commodore's ship La Favorite was burnt, himself (Dubourdieu) being killed." The four victorious frigates with their prizes arrived at Malta, March 31, when the garrison “ran out unarmed to receive and hail them." The Volage, in which Byron returned to England, took part in the engagement. Captain Hoste had taken a prize off Fiume in the preceding year.--Annual Register, 1811; Memoirs and Letters of Sir W. Hoste, ii. 79.]

And nightly smiles, and daily dinners,1
Proclaim you war and women's winners.
Pardon my Muse, who apt to prate is,
And take my rhyme-because 'tis “gratis.”

And now I've got to Mrs. Fraser,'
Perhaps you think I mean to praise her-
And were I vain enough to think
My praise was worth this drop of ink,
A line-or two-were no hard matter,
As here, indeed, I need not flatter:
But she must be content to shine
In better praises than in mine,
With lively air, and open heart,
And fashion's ease, without its art;
Her hours can gaily glide along.

Nor ask the aid of idle song.

And now, O Malta! since thou'st got us,
Thou little military hot-house!

I'll not offend with words uncivil,
And wish thee rudely at the Devil,

But only stare from out my casement,

And ask, "for what is such a place meant?"

Then, in my solitary nook,

Return to scribbling, or a book,

30

40

50

1. ["We have had balls and fêtes given us by all classes here, and it is impossible to convey to you the sensation our success has given rise to."-Memoirs and Letters of Sir W. Hoste, ii. 82.]

2. [Mrs. (Susan) Fraser published, in 1809, “ Camilla de Florian (the scene is laid in Valetta) and Other Poems. By an Officer's Wife." Byron was, no doubt, struck by her admiration for Macpherson's Ossian, and had read with interest her version of "The Address to the Sun," in Carthon, p. 31 (see Poetical Works, 1898, i. 229). He may, too, have regarded with favour some stanzas in honour of the Bolero (p. 82), which begin, "When, my Love, supinely laying."]

Or take my physic while I'm able
(Two spoonfuls hourly, by this label),
Prefer my nightcap to my beaver,
And bless my stars I've got a fever.

May 26, 1811.'

[First published, 1816.]

NEWSTEAD ABBEY.

I.

IN the dome of my Sires as the clear moonbeam falls
Through Silence and Shade o'er its desolate walls,
It shines from afar like the glories of old;

It gilds, but it warms not-'tis dazzling, but cold.

2.

Let the Sunbeam be bright for the younger of days :
'Tis the light that should shine on a race that decays,
When the Stars are on high and the dews on the ground,
And the long shadow lingers the ruin around.

3.

And the step that o'erechoes the gray floor of stone
Falls sullenly now, for 'tis only my own;

And sunk are the voices that sounded in mirth,
And empty the goblet, and dreary the hearth.

4.

And vain was each effort to raise and recall
The brightness of old to illumine our Hall;
And vain was the hope to avert our decline,
And the fate of my fathers had faded to mine.

1. [Byron left Malta for England June 13, 1811. (See Letter to H. Drury, July 17, 1811, Letters, 1898, i. 318.)]

5.

And theirs was the wealth and the fulness of Fame, And mine to inherit too haughty a name;1

And theirs were the times and the triumphs of yore, And mine to regret, but renew them no more.

6.

And Ruin is fixed on my tower and my wall,
Too hoary to fade, and too massy to fall;
It tells not of Time's or the tempest's decay,
But the wreck of the line that have held it in sway.

ii.

August 26, 1811. [First published in Memoir of Rev. F. Hodgson, 1878, i. 187.]

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,'

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO BANISH CARE."

"OH! banish care "--such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care.”
But not in Morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,

Mock with such taunts the woes of one,

i. And mine was the pride and the worth of a name.—{MS. M.] ii. It tells not of time —.—[MS. M.]

1. [Francis Hodgson.]

Whose every thought-but let them pass----
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of anything but Love.

'Twere long to tell, and vain to hear, The tale of one who scorns a tear; And there is little in that tale

Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffered more than well
"Twould suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,—
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part,
And made my cheek belie my heart,
Returned the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave ;
Have kissed, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And showed, alas! in each caress

Time had not made me love the less.

But let this pass-I'll whine no more,

Nor seek again an eastern shore;