Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series

by Lord Byron

  Our childish days were days of joy:

  My spring of life has quickly fled;

  Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy.

  And when we bid adieu to youth,

  Slaves to the specious world’s control,

  We sigh a long farewell to truth;

  That world corrupts the noblest soul.

  Ah, joyous season! when the mind

  Dares all things boldly but to lie;

  When thought ere spoke is unconfined,

  And sparkles in the placid eye.

  Not so in Man’s maturer years,

  When Man himself is but a tool;

  When interest sways our hopes and fears,

  And all must love and hate by rule.

  With fools in kindred vice the same,

  We learn at length our faults to blend;

  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.

  But thou, with spirit frail and light,

  Wilt shine awhile, and pass away;

  As glow-worms sparkle through the night,

  But dare not stand the test of day.

  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

  One insect to the fluttering crowd;

  And still thy trifling heart is glad

  To join the vain and court the proud.

  There dost thou glide from fair to fair,

  Still simpering on with eager haste,

  As flies along the gay parterre

  That taint the flowers they scarcely taste.

  But say, what nymph will prize the flame

  Which seems, as marshy vapours move,

  To flit along from dame to dame,

  An ignis-fatuus gleam of love?

  What friend for thee, howe’er inclined,

  Will deign to own a kindred care?

  Who will debase his manly mind,

  For friendship every fool may share?

  In time forbear; amidst the throng

  No more so base a thing be seen;

  No more so idly pass along;

  Be something, anything, but — mean.

  LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FROM A SKULL

  Start not — nor deem my spirit fled:

  In me behold the only skull

  From which, unlike a living head,

  Whatever flows is never dull.

  I lived, I loved, I quaffed like thee;

  I died: let earth my bones resign:

  Fill up — thou canst not injure me;

  The worm hath fouler lips than thine.

  Better to hold the sparkling grape

  Than nurse the earthworm’s slimy brood,

  And circle in the goblet’s shape

  The drink of gods than reptile’s food.

  Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone,

  In aid of others’ let me shine;

  And when, alas! our brains are gone,

  What nobler substitute than wine?

  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?

  Redeemed from worms and wasting clay,

  This chance is theirs to be of use.

  WELL! THOU ART HAPPY

  Well! thou art happy, and I feel

  That I should thus be happy too;

  For still my heart regards thy weal

  Warmly, as it was wont to do.

  Thy husband’s blest — and ‘twill impart

  Some pangs to view his happier lot:

  But let them pass — Oh! how my heart

  Would hate him if he loved thee not!

  When late I saw thy favourite child,

  I thought my jealous heart would break;

  But when the unconscious infant smiled,

  I kiss’d it for its mother’s sake.

  I kiss’d it, — and repress’d my sighs

  Its father in its face to see;

  But then it had its mother’s eyes,

  And they were all to love and me.

  Mary, adieu! I must away:

  While thou art blest I’ll not repine;

  But near thee I can never stay;

  y~ heart would soon again be thine.

  I deem’d that time, I deem’d that pride,

  Had quench’d at length my boyish flame;

  Nor knew, till seated by thy side

  My heart in all, — save hope, — the same.

  Yet was I calm: I knew the time

  My breast would thrill before thy look;

  But now to tremble were a crime

  We met, — and not a nerve was shook.

  I saw thee gaze upon my face,

  Yet meet with no confusion there:

  One only feeling could’st thou trace;

  The sullen calmness of despair.

  Away! away! my early dream

  Remembrance never must awake:

  Oh! where is Lethe’s fabled stream?

  My foolish heart, be still, or break.

  November 2, 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 rest 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,

  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.

  Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

  Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

  Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,

  Degraded mass of animated dust!

  Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

  Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

  By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

  Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

  Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,

  Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn:

  To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;

  I never knew but one, — and here he lies.

  TO A LADY, ON BEING ASKED MY REASONS FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING

  When Man, expell’d from Eden’s bowers,

  A moment linger’d near the gate,

  Each scene recall’d the vanish’d hours,

  And bade him curse his future fate.

  But, wandering on through distant climes,

  He learnt to bear his load of grief;

  Just gave a sigh to other times,

  And found in busier scenes relief.

  Thus, lady! will it be with me,

  And I must view thy charms no mor
e;

  For, while I linger near to thee,

  I sigh for ail I knew before.

  In flight I shall be surely wise,

  Escaping from temptation’s snare;

  I cannot view my paradise

  Without the wish of dwelling there.

  December 2, 1808

  REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT

  Remind me not, remind me not,

  Of those beloved, those vanish’d hours,

  When all my soul was given to thee;

  Hours that may never be forgot,

  Till Time unnerves our vital powers,

  And thou and I shall cease to be.

  Can I forget — canst thou forget,

  When playing with thy golden hair,

  How quick thy fluttering heart did move?

  Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,

  With eyes so languid, breast so fair,

  And lips, though silent, breathing love.

  When thus reclining on my breast,

  Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,

  As half reproach’d yet rais’d desire,

  And still we near and nearer prest,

  And still our glowing lips would meet,

  As if in kisses to expire.

  And then those pensive eyes would close,

  And bid their lids each other seek,

  Veiling the azure orbs below;

  While their long lashes’ darken’d gloss

  Seem’d stealing o’er thy brilliant cheek,

  Like raven’s plumage smooth’d on snow.

  I dreamt last night our love return’d,

  And, sooth to say, that very dream

  Was sweeter in its phantasy,

  Than if for other hearts I burn’d,

  For eyes that ne’er like thine could beam

  In Rapture’s wild reality.

  Then tell me not, remind me not,

  Of hours which, though for ever gone,

  Can still a pleasing dream restore,

  Till Thou and I shall be forgot,

  And senseless, as the mouldering stone

  Which tells that we shall be no more.

  THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME

  There was a time, I need not name,

  Since it will ne’er forgotten be,

  When all our feelings were the same

  As still my soul hath been to thee.

  And from that hour when first thy tongue

  Confess’d a love which equall’d mine,

  Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,

  Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine,

  None, none hath sunk so deep as this —

  To 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 ‘tis doubly sweet to find

  Remembrance of that love remain.

  Yes! ‘tis a glorious thought to me,

  Nor longer shall my soul repine,

  Whate’er thou art or e’er shalt be,

  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,

  My blood runs coldly through my breast;

  And when I perish, thou alone

  Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

  And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace

  Doth through my cloud of anguish shine:

  And for a while my sorrows cease,

  To know thy heart hath felt for mine.

  Oh lady! blessd be that tear —

  It falls for one who cannot weep;

  Such precious drops are doubly dear

  To those whose eyes no tear may steep.

  Sweet lady! once my heart was warm

  With every feeling soft as thine;

  But Beauty’s self hath ceased to charm

  A wretch created to repine.

  Yet 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.

  FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN

  A Song

  Fill the goblet again! for I never before

  Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core;

  Let us drink! — who would not? — since, through life’s varied round,

  In the goblet alone no deception is found.

  I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;

  I have bask’d in the beam of a dark rolling eye;

  I have loved! — who has not? — but what heart can declare

  That pleasure existed while passion was there?

  In the days of my youth, when the heart’s in its spring,

  And dreams that affection can never take wing,

  I had friends! — who has not? — but what tongue will avow,

  That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

  The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange,

  Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst change;

  Thou grow’st old — who does not? — but on earth what appears,

  Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

  Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,

  Should a rival bow down to our idol below,

  We aree jealous! — who is not? — thou hast no such alloy;

  For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy.

  Then the season of youth and its vanities past,

  For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;

  There we find — do we not? — in the flow of the soul,

  That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.

  When the box of Pandora was opened on earth,

  And Misery’s triumph commenced over Mirth,

  Hope was left, — was she not? — but the goblet we kiss,

  And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss.

  Long life to the grape! for when summer is flown,

  The age of our nectar shall gladden our own:

  We must die — who shall not? — May our sins be forgiven,

  And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven.

  STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND

  ‘Tis done — and shivering in the gale

  The bark unfurls her snowy sail;

  And whistling o’er the bending mast,

  Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;

  And I must from this land be gone,

  Because I cannot love but one.

  But could I be what I have been,

  And could I see what I have seen —

  Could I repose upon the breast

  Which once my warmest wishes blest —

  I should not seek another zone,

  Because I cannot love but one.

  ‘Tis long since I beheld that eye

  Which gave me bliss or misery;

  And I have striven, but in vain,

  Never to think of it again:

  For though I fly from Albion,

  I still can only love but one.

  As some lone bird, without a mate,

  My weary heart is desolate;

  I look around, and cannot trace

  One friendly smile or welcome face,

  And ev’n in crowds am still alone,

  Because I cannot love but one.

&nb
sp; And I will cross the whitening foam,

  And I will seek a foreign home;

  Till I forget a false fair face,

  I ne’er shall find a resting-place;

  My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,

  But ever love, and love but one.

  The poorest, veriest wretch on earth

  Still finds some hospitable hearth,

  Where Friendship’s or Love’s softer glow

  May smile in joy or soothe in woe;

  But friend or leman I have none,’

  Because I cannot love but one.

  I go — but wheresoe’er I flee

  There’s not an eye will weep for me;

  There’s not a kind congenial heart,

  Where I can claim the meanest part;

  Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,

  Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

  To think of every early scene,

  Of what we are, and what we’ve been,

  Would whelm some softer hearts with woe —

  But mine, alas! has stood the blow;

  Yet still beats on as it begun,

  And never truly loves but one.

  And who that dear lov’d one may be,

  Is not for vulgar eyes to see;

  And why that early love was cross’d,

  Thou know’st the best, I feel the most;

  But few that dwell beneath the sun

  Have loved so long, and loved but one.

  I’ve tried another’s fetters too,

  With charms perchance as fair to view;

  And I would fain have loved as well,

  But some unconquerable spell

  Forbade my bleeding breast to own

  A kindred care for aught but one.

  ‘Twould soothe to take one lingering view,

  And bless thee in my last adieu;

  Yet wish I not those eyes to weep

  For him that wanders o’er the deep;

  His home, his hope, his youth are gone,

  Yet still he loves, and loves but one.

  LINES ON MR. HODGSON WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET

  Huzza! Hodgson, we are going,

  Our embargo’s off at last;

  Favourable breezes blowing

  Bend the canvass o’er the mast.

  From aloft the signal’s streaming,

  Hark! the farewell gun is fir’d;

  Women screeching, tars blaspheming,

  Tell us that our time’s expir’d.

  Here’s a rascal

  Come to task all,

  Prying from the custom-house;

  Trunks unpacking

  Cases cracking,

  Not a corner for a mouse

  ‘Scapes unsearch’d amid the racket,

  Ere we sail on board the Packet.

  Now our boatmen quit their mooring,

  And all hands must ply the oar;

  Baggage from the quay is lowering,

  We’re impatient — push from shore.

  “Have a care! that case holds liquor —