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GREAT Jove! to whose Almighty

Throne
Both Gods and mortals homage

pay,
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.

5. 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;

6.
Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,

Forgot to scare the hovering flies, 1 Yet envied every fly the kiss,

It dar'd to give your slumbering eyes:

7. See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,

The elm I clamber'd for your sake.

How different now thy joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride,
When plac'd aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean

smil'd, And mirthful strains the hours

beguil'd; The Nymphs and Tritons danc'd

around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove

relentless frown'd.

Harrow, December 1, 1804. [First printed, December, 1806.]

8. 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?

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9. 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.

WRITTEN IN LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN

NUN AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN, BY J. J. ROUSSEAU : FOUNDED ON FACTS.'

IO.

“Away, away, — your flattering arts May now betray some simpler hearts; And you will smile at their believing, And ihey shall weep at your deceiving."

This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close, Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu !

1805. [First printed, December, 1806,}

*(A second edition of this work, of which the title is, Letters, etc., translated from the French oj Jean Jacques Rousseau, was published in London, in 1784. It is, probably, a literary forgery.)

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED

TO MISS

He governs, sanction'd but by self

applause; With him the same dire fate, attending

Rome, Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your

doom: Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to

fame, No trace of science left you, but the

name. HARROW, July, 1805. [First printed, December, 1800,]

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

praises, But envy in the other raises. Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, Believe me, only does his duty: Ah! fly not from the candid youth; It is not flattery, — 'tis truth.

July, 1804. [First printed, December, 1806.]

EPITAPH ON A BELOVED

FRIEND.

ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT

A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.

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 Cæsar'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 con

troul; 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 enforc'd in

schools). Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws,

'Αστήρ πρίν μεν έλαμπες ενί ζωοίσιν εφος.

- Plato's Epitaph. Oh, Friend! for ever lov’d, for ever

dear! What fruitless tears have bathed thy

honour'd bier ! What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting

breath, Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs

of death! Could tears retard the tyrant in his

course; Could sighs avert his dart's relentless

force; Could youth and virtue claim a short

delay, Or beauty charm the spectre from his

prey; Thou still hadst liv'd to bless my aching

sight, Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's

delight. If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering

ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my

heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's No marble marks thy couch of lowly

sleep, But living statues there are seen to

weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy

tomb, Amiction's self deplores thy youthful

doom.

art.

+ [In March, 1805, Dr Drury, the Probus of the piece, retired from the Head-mastership of Harrow School, and was succeeded by Dr Butler, the Pomposus.

* Dr

Drury,” said Bvron, in one of his note-books,"was the best, the kindest (and yet strict, too) friend I ever had; and I look upon him still as a father.")

No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-en

cumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone: 1
If ihai with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

1803
[First printed, December, 1806.)

What though thy sire lament his failing

line, A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour

will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish

here: But, who with me shall hold thy former

place? Thine image, what new friendship can

efiace? Ah, none ! a father's tears will cease

to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother's

wot; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary Friendship sighs alone.

HARROW, 1803. [First printed, December, 1806.]

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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, hewailing,

rehearses Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this

3. Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red

fury flakes bright’ning, Would my lips breathe a fiame 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.

4. But now tears and curses, alike un

availing, Would add to the souls of our tyrants

delight; Could they vicw 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."')

A FRAGMENT.

WHEN, to their airy hall, my Father's

voice Shall call my spirit, joyful in their

cboice; Wher., pois'd upon the gale, my form

shall ride, Or, dark in mist, descend the moun

tain's side; Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd

ums, To mark the spot where earth to earth

returns!

4.

'Tis this, my belov'd, which spreads

gloom o'er my features, Though I ne'er shall presume to

arraign the decree Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of

his creatures, In the death which one day will de

prive you of me.

5. Yet, still, though we bend with a feign'd

resignation, Life beams not for us with one ray

that can cheer; Love and Hope upon earth bring no

more consolation, In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear,

6. Oh! when, my ador’d, in the tomb will

they place me, Since, in life, love and friendship for

ever are fled ? If again in the mansion of death I em

brace thee,
Perhaps they will leave unmolested
the dead.

1805.
[First printed, December, 1806.]

5. Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of

emotion, No doubt can the mind of your lover

invade; He worships each look with such faith

ful devotion, A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade.

6. But as death, my belov'd, soon or late

shall o'ertake us, And our breasts, which alive with such

sympathy glow, Will sleep in the grave, till the blast shall

awake us, When calling the dead, in Earth's

bosom laid low.

TO CAROLINE.

I.

WHEN I hear you express an affection so

warm, Ne'er think, my belov’d, that I do not

believe; For your lip would the soul of suspicion

disarm, And your eye beams a ray which can

never deceive.

2.

Yet still, this fond bosom regrets, while

adoring, That love, like the leaf, must fall into

7. Oh! then let us drain, while we may,

draughts of pleasure, Which from passion, like ours, must

unceasingly flow; Let us pass round the cup of Love's bliss

in full measure, And quaff the contents as our nectar below.

1805. (First printed, December, 1806.]

the sear,

That Age will come on, when Remem

brance, deploring, Contemplates the scenes of her youth,

with a tear;

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3. That the time must arrive, hen, no

longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave

thin to the breeze, When a few silver hairs of those tresses

remaining, Prove nature a prey to decay and dis

I.

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd

recollection Embitters the present, compar'd with

the past;

ease.

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