Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heaven:

  There must thou soon direct thy flight,

  If errors are forgiven.

  To bigots and to sects unknown,

  Bow down beneath the Almighty’s Throne;

  To Him address thy trembling prayer:

  He, who is merciful and just,

  Will not reject a child of dust,

  Although his meanest care.

  Father of Light! to Thee I call;

  My soul is dark within:

  Thou who canst mark the sparrow’s fall,

  Avert the death of sin.

  Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,

  Who calm’st the elemental war,

  Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,

  My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive:

  And, since I soon must cease to live,

  Instruct me how to die.

  TO A VAIN LADY

  Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclose

  What ne’er was meant for other ears:

  Why thus destroy thine own repose

  And dig the source of future tears?

  Oh, thou wilt weep, imprudent maid,

  While lurking envious foes will smile,

  For all the follies thou hast said

  Of those who spoke but to beguile.

  Vain girl! thy ling’ring woes are nigh,

  If thou believ’st what striplings say:

  Oh, from the deep temptation fly,

  Nor fall the specious spoiler’s prey.

  Dost thou repeat, in childish boast,

  The words man utters to deceive?

  Thy peace, thy hope, thy all is lost,

  If thou canst venture to believe.

  While now amongst thy female peers

  Thou tell’st again the soothing tale,

  Canst thou not mark the rising sneers

  Duplicity in vain would veil?

  These tales in secret silence hush,

  Nor make thyself the public gaze:

  What modest maid without a blush

  Recounts a flattering coxcomb’s praise?

  Will not the laughing boy despise

  Her who relates each fond conceit –

  Who, thinking Heaven is in her eyes,

  Yet cannot see the slight deceit?

  For she who takes a soft delight

  These amorous nothings in revealing,

  Must credit all we say or write,

  While vanity prevents concealing.

  Cease, if you prize your beauty’s reign!

  No jealousy bids me reprove:

  One, who is thus from nature vain,

  I pity, but I cannot love.

  January 15,1807.

  TO ANNE

  Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:

  I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you:

  But woman is made to command and deceive us —

  I look ‘d in your face, and I almost forgave you.

  I vow’d I could ne’er for a moment respect you,

  Yet thought that a day’s separation was long;

  When we met, I determined again to suspect you

  Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong.

  I swore, in a transport of young indignation,

  With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you:

  I saw you – my anger became admiration;

  And now, all my wish, all my hope’s to regain you.

  With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention!

  Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you;

  At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension,

  Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!

  January 16, 1807.

  TO ANNE: OH, SAY NOT, SWEET ANNE

  Oh, say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed

  The heart which adores you should wish to dissever;

  Such Fates were to me most unkind ones indeed,

  To bear me from love and from beauty for ever.

  Your frowns, lovely girl, are the Fates which alone

  Could bid me from fond admiration refrain;

  By these, every hope, every wish were o’erthrown,

  Till smiles should restore me to rapture again.

  As the ivy and oak, in the forest entwined,

  The rage of the tempest united must weather;

  My love and my life were by nature design’d

  To flourish alike, or to perish together.

  Then say not, sweet Anne, that the Fates have decreed

  Your lover should bid you a lasting adieu;

  Till Fate can ordain that his bosom shall bleed,

  His soul, his existence, are centred in you.

  TO THE AUTHOR OF A SONNET,

  BEGINNING “SAD IS MY VERSE, YOU SAY, AND YET NO TEAR”

  Thy verse is ‘sad’ enough, no doubt:

  A devilish deal more sad than witty!

  Why we should weep I can’t find out,

  Unless for thee we weep in pity.

  Yet there is one I pity more;

  And much, alas! I think he needs it;

  For he, I’m sure, will suffer sore,

  Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

  Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,

  May once be read – but never after:

  Yet their effect’s by no means tragic,

  Although by far too dull for laughter.

  But would you make our bosoms bleed,

  And of no common pang complain –

  If you would make us weep indeed,

  Tell us, you’ll read them o’er again.

  March 8, 1807

  ON FINDING A FAN

  In one who felt as once he felt

  This might, perhaps, have fann’d the flame;

  But now his heart no more will melt,

  Because that heart is not the same.

  As when the ebbing flames are low,

  The aid which once improved their light,

  And bade them burn with fiercer glow,

  Now quenches all their blaze in night.

  Thus has it been with passion’s fires-

  As many a boy and girl remembers

  While every hope of love expires,

  Extinguish’d with the dying embers.

  The first, though not a spark survive,

  Some careful hand may teach to barn;

  The last, alas l can ne’er survive;

  No touch can bid its warmth reform

  Or, if it chance to wake again.

  Not always doom ‘d its heat to smother,

  It sheds (so wayward fates ordain)

  Its former warmth around another.

  FAREWELL TO THE MUSE

  Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy’s days,

  Young offspring of Fancy, ‘tis time we should part;

  Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,

  The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

  This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,

  Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;

  The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,

  Are wafted far distant on Apathy’s wing.

  Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,

  Yet even these themes are departed for ever;

  No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,

  My visions are flown, to return, alas, never!

  When drain’d is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,

  How vain is the effort delight to prolong!

  When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,

  What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

  Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,

  Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?

  Or dwell with delight on the hours th
at are flown?

  Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

  Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?

  Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!

  But how can my numbers in sympathy move,

  When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?

  Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,

  And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?

  For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!

  For Heroes’ exploits how unequal my fires!

  Untouch’d, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast —

  ‘Tis hush’d; and my feeble endeavors are o’er;

  And those who have heard it will pardon the past,

  When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.

  And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,

  Since early affection and love is o’ercast:

  Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,

  Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.

  Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne’er meet;

  If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:

  Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet —

  The present — which seals our eternal Adieu.

  TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD

  Young Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground,

  I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine;

  That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around,

  And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.

  Such, such was my hope, when in infancy’s

  On the land of my fathers I rear’d thee with pride;

  They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,

  Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can hide.

  I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,

  A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;

  Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,

  But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.

  Oh! hardy thou went — even now little care

  Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal:

  But thou went not fated affection to share —

  For who could suppose that a stranger would feel!

  Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;

  Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run,

  The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,

  When Infancy’s years of probation are done.

  Oh, live then, my Oak! tow’r aloft from the weeds,

  That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,

  For still in thy bosom are life’s early seeds,

  And still may thy branches their beauty display.

  Oh! yet, if maturity’s years may be thine,

  Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,

  On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine,

  Uninjured by time, or the rude winter’s breath.

  For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave

  O’er the Gorse of thy lord in thy canopy laid;

  While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,

  The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

  And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,

  He will tell them is whispers more softly to tread.

  Oh! surely, by these I shall ne’er be forgot;

  Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

  And here, will they say, when in life’s glowing prime,

  Perhaps he has pour’d forth his young simple lay,

  And here must he sleep, till the moments of time

  Are lost in the hours of Eternity’s day.

  ON REVISITING HARROW

  Here once engaged the stranger’s view

  Young Friendship’s record simply traced;

  Few were her words; but yet, though few,

  Resentment’s hand the line defaced.

  Deeply she cut — but not erased,

  The characters were still so pain,

  That Friendship once return’d, and gazed, —

  Till Memory hail’d the words again.

  Repentance placed them as before;

  Forgiveness join d her gentle name;

  So fair the inscription seem’d once more,

  That Friendship thought it still the same.

  Thus might the Record now have been;

  But, ah, in spite of Hopes endeavour,

  Or Friendships tears, Pride rush’d between

  And blotted out the line for ever.

  EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL – A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS

  JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell,

  A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well:

  He carried so much, and he carried so fast,

  He could carry no more-so was carried at last;

  For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one,

  He could not carry off, — so he’s now carri-on.

  TO MY SON

  Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue

  Bright as thy mother’s in their hue;

  Those rosy lips, whose dimples play

  And smile to steal the heart away,

  Recall a scene of former joy,

  And touch thy fathers heart, my Boy!

  And thou canst lisp a father’s name —

  Ah, William, were thine own the same,

  No self-reproach — but, let me cease —

  My care for thee shall purchase peace;

  Thy mother’s shade shall smile in joy,

  And pardon all the past, my Boy!

  Her lowly grave the turf has prest,

  And thou hast known a stranger’s breast;

  Derision sneers upon thy birth,

  And yields thee scarce a name on earth;

  Yet shall not these one hops destroy, —

  A Father’s heart is throe, my Boy!

  Why, let the world unfeeling frown,

  Must I fond Nature’s claim disown?

  Ah, no — though moralists reprove,

  I hail thee, dearest child of love,

  Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy

  A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

  Oh, ‘twill be sweet in thee to trace,

  Ere age has wrinkled o’er my face,

  Ere half my glass of life is run,

  At once a brother and a son;

  And all my wane of years employ

  In justice done to thee, my Boy!

  Although so young thy heedless sire,

  Youth will not damp parental fire;

  And, wert thou still less dear to me,

  While Helen’s form revives in thee,

  The breast which beat to former joy,

  Will ne’er desert its pledge, my Boy!

  FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER

  Farewell! if ever fondest prayer

  For other’s weal avail’d on high,

  Mine will not all be lost in air,

  But waft thy name beyond the sky.

  Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

  Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,

  When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,

  Are in that word — Farewell! — Farewell!

  These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;

  But in my breast and in my brain,

  Awake the pangs that pass not by,

  The thought that ne’er shall sleep again.

  My soul nor deigns nor dares complain

  Though grief and passion there rebel;

  I only know we loved in vain —

  I only feel — Farewell! — Farewell!

  BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL!

  Bright be the place of thy soul!

  No lovelier
spirit than thine

  E’er burst from its mortal control

  In the orbs of the blessed to shine.

  On earth thou wert all but divine,

  As thy soul shall immortally be;

  And our sorrow may cease to repine,

  When we know that thy God is with thee.

  Light be the turf of thy tomb!

  May its verdure like emeralds be:

  There should not be the shadow of gloom

  In aught that reminds us of thee.

  Young flowers and an evergreen tree

  May spring from the spot of thy rest:

  But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

  For why should we mourn for the blest?

  WHEN WE TWO PARTED

  When we two parted

  In silence and tears,

  Half broken-hearted

  To sever for years,

  Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

  Colder thy kiss;

  Truly that hour foretold

  Sorrow to this.

  The dew of the morning

  Sunk chill on my brow —

  It felt like the warning

  Of what I feel now.

  Thy vows are all broken,

  And light is thy fame;

  I hear thy name spoken,

  And share in its shame.

  They name thee before me,

  A knell to mine ear;

  A shrudder comes o’er me —

  Why wert thou so dear?

  They know not I knew thee,

  Who knew thee so well —

  Long, long I shall rue thee,

  Too deeply to tell.

  In secret we met —

  In silence I grieve,

  That thy heart could forget,

  Thy spirit deceive

  If I should meet thee

  After long years,

  How should I greet thee? —

  With silence and tears.

  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

  What trifles oft the heart recall;

  And those who once have loved the most

  Too soon forget they loved at all.

  And such the change the heart displays,

  So frail is early friendship’s reign,

  A month’s brief lapse, perhaps a day’s,

  Will view thy mind estranged again.

  If so, it never shall be mine

  To mourn the loss of such a heart;

  The fault was Nature’s fault, not thine

  Which made thee fickle as thou art.

  As rolls the ocean’s changing tide,

  So human feelings ebb and flow;

  And who would in a breast confide

  Where stormy passions ever glow?

  It boots not that, together bred,