by Lord Byron
In the shade of her bow’r I remember the hour,
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.
By another possest, may she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere:
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine,
And forgive her deceit with a Tear.
Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier;
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name.
All I ask – all I wish – is a Tear.
October 26 1806
REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J.M.B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS
WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel’s disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret?
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh
Will never obtain a coquette.
Would you teach her to love? for a time seem to rove;
At first she may frown in a pet;
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,
And then you may kiss your coquette.
For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt:
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.
Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret;
If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny,
That yours is the rosy coquette.
If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;
Some other adiaiire, who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.
For me I adore some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly but yet
Though my heart they enthral, I’d abandon them all,
Did they act like your blooming coquette.
No longer repine, adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear
To fly from the captious coquette.
Then quit her, my friend your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you’re beset;
Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the smart,
Should lead you to curse the coquette.
TO THE SIGHING STREPHON
Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend;
Your pardon, a thousand times o’er:
From friendship I strove your pangs to remove,
But, I swear, I will do so no more.
Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid,
No more I your folly regret
She’s now most divine, and I bow at the shrine
Of this quickly reformed coquette.
Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
From your verses what else she deserved;
Your pain seem’d so great, I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so devilish reserved.
Since the baim-br’eathing kiss of this magical miss
Can such wonderful transports produce;
Since the ‘world you forget, when your lips once have met,’
My counsel will get but abuse.
You Say, ‘When I rove, I know nothing of love;’
‘Tis true, ‘I am given to range;
If I rightly remember, I’ve loved a good number,
Yet there’s pleasure, at least, in a change.
I will not advance, by the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won’t affright,
Or drlve me to dreadful despair.
While my blood is thus warm I ne’er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonists’ school;
Of this l am sure, was my passion so pure,
Thy mistress would think me a fool.
And if I should shun every woman for one,
Whose image must fill my whole breast –
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her –
What an insult ‘twould be to the rest!
Now, Strephon, good bye, I cannot deny
Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,
For it only consists in the word.
TO ELIZA
Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to woman deny the soul’s future existence!
Could they see thee, Eliza, they’d own their defect,
And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance.
Had their prophet possess’d half an atom of sense,
He ne’er would have woman from paradise driven;
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,
With woman alone he had peopled his heaven.
Yet still, to increase your calamities more,
Not Content with depriving your bodies of spirit,
He allots one poor husband to share amongst four!-
With souls you’d dispense; but this last, who could bear it?
His religion to please neither party is made;
On husbands ‘tis hard, to the wives most uncivil;
Still I Can’t contradict, what so oft has been said,
‘Though women are angels, yet wedlock’s the devil.’
LACHIN Y GAIR
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye garden of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war;
Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d;
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains long perish’d my memory pondered,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade;
I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheered by traditional story,
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
“Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?”
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o’er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
“Ill-starred, though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?”
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,
Victory crown’d not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy in death’s earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar;
The pibroch resounds, to the piper’s loud number,
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Years have roll’d on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread
you again:
Nature of verdure and flow’rs has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion’s plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved o’er the mountains afar:
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!
TO ROMANCE
Parent of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys,
Who lead’st along, in airy dance,
Thy votive train of girls and boys;
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,
But leave thy realms for those of Truth.
And yet ‘tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy holds her boundless reign,
And all assume a varied hue;
When Virgins seem no longer vain,
And even Woman’s smiles are true.
And must we own thee, but a name,
And from thy hall of clouds descend?
Nor find a Sylph in every dame,
A Pylades in every friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air i
To mingling bands of fairy elves;
Confess that woman’s false as fair,
And friends have feeling for — themselves?
With shame, I own, I’ve felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o’er;
No more thy precepts I obey,
No more on fancied pinions soar;
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear;
To trust a passing wanton’s sigh,
And melt beneath a wanton’s tear!
Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly tears can never flow
For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,
To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine.
Now join with sable Sympathy,
With cypress crown’d, array’d in weeds,
Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,
Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,
To mourn a Swain for ever gone,
Who once could glow with equal fire,
But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears
On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,
With fancied flames and phrenzy glow
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!
The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E’en now the gulf appears in view,
Where unlamented you must lie:
Oblivion’s blackening lake is seen,
Convuls’d by gales you cannot weather,
Where you, and eke your gentle queen,
Alas! must perish altogether.
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN
‘But if any old lady, knight, priest or physician
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?’
New Bath Guide.
CANDOUR compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse which blends the censor with the friend.
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon, — must I sue In vain?
The wise sometlrnes ftom Wisdom’s ways depart:
Can youth then hush the dlctates of the heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can’t control
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love’s delirium haunts the glowing mind
Limping Decorum lingers far behind:
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish’d In the mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love;
Let those they ne’er confined my lay reprove:
Let those whose souls Conternn the pleasing power
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour’d lines In chilling numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne’er can know!
The artless Helicon I boast is youth; —
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be ‘t from me the ‘vlrgin’s stand’ to ‘taint’:
Seduction’s dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer,
Firzn in her virtue’s strength, yet not severe
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine
Will ne’er be ‘tainted’ by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread
Sho would have fallen, though she ne’er had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels I shall ne’er he proud;
Their warrnest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.
November 26, 1806
ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY
‘It is the voice of years that are gone!
they roll before me with all their deeds.’ — OSSIAN
Newstead! fast-falling, once-resplendent dome!
Religion’s shrine! repentant HENRY’s pride!
Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister’d tomb,
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide,
Hail to thy pile! more honour’d in thy fall
Than modern mansions in their pillar’d state;
Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall,
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate.
No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord,
In grim array the crimson cross demand;
Or gay assemble round the festive board
Their chief’s retainers, an immortal band:
Else might inspiting Fancy’s magic eye
Retrace their progress through the lapse of time,
Marking each ardent youth, ordaln’d to die,
A votive pilgrim in Judea’s clime.
But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blare of day.
Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound
The monk abjured a world he ne’er could view;
Or blood-stain’d guilt rep
enting solace found,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.
A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood’s outlaws once were wont to prowl;
And Superstition’s crimes, of various dyes,
Sought shelter in the priest’s protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pail of life-extinguish’d clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend
Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary pald.
Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed;
Religion’s charter their protecting shield,
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed,
One holy HENRY rear’d the Gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace
Another HENRY the kind gift recalls,
And bids devotion’s hallow’d echos cease.
Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world in deep despair —
No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God.
Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain
Shakes with the martial music’s novel din!
The heralds of a warrior’s haughty reign,
High crested banners wave thy wails within.
Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish’d arms,
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increased alarms.
An abbey once, a regal fortress now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers,
War’s dread machines o’erhang thy threat’ning brow,
And dart destruction in sulphureous showers.
Ah vain defence! the hostile traitor’s siege,
Though oft repulsed, by guile o’er-comes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,
Rebellion’s reeking standards o’er him wave.
Not unavenged the raging baron yields;
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain
Unconqu’r’d still, his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory yet for him remain.
Still in that hour the warrior wish’d to strew
Self-gather’d laurel on a self-sought grave;
But Charles’ protecting genius hither flew,
The monarch’s friend, the monarch’s hope, to save.
Trembling, she snatch’d him ftom th’ unequal strife,
In other fields the torrent to repel;
For nobler combats, here reservedhis life,