by Thomas Moore
“November 30. 1807.
Byron.”
Among the papers of his in my possession are several detached poems (in all nearly six hundred lines), which he wrote about this period, but never printed — having produced most of them after the publication of his “Hours of Idleness.” The greater number of these have little, besides his name, to recommend them; but there are a few that, from the feelings and circumstances that gave rise to them, will, I have no doubt, be interesting to the reader. When he first went to Newstead, on his arrival from Aberdeen, he planted, it seems, a young oak in some part of the grounds, and had an idea that as it flourished so should he. Some six or seven years after, on revisiting the spot, he found his oak choked up by weeds, and almost destroyed. In this circumstance, which happened soon after Lord Grey de Ruthen left Newstead, originated one of these poems, which consists of five stanzas, but of which the few opening lines will be a sufficient specimen: —
“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 years, 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,” &c. &c.
The subject of the verses that follow is sufficiently explained by the notice which he has prefixed to them; and, as illustrative of the romantic and almost lovelike feeling which he threw into his school friendships, they appeared to me, though rather quaint and elaborate, to be worth preserving.
“Some years ago, when at H —— , a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left H —— . On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it the following stanzas: —
“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 plain, 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 Hope’s endeavour, Or Friendship’s tears, Pride rush’d between, And blotted out the line for ever!”
The same romantic feeling of friendship breathes throughout another of these poems, in which he has taken for the subject the ingenious thought “L’Amitié est l’Amour sans ailes,” and concludes every stanza with the words, “Friendship is Love without his wings.” Of the nine stanzas of which this poem consists, the three following appear the most worthy of selection: —
“Why should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled? Days of delight may still be mine, Affection is not dead. In tracing back the years of youth, One firm record, one lasting truth Celestial consolation brings; Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, Where first my heart responsive beat,— ‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’
“Seat of my youth! thy distant spire Recalls each scene of joy; My bosom glows with former fire, — In mind again a boy. Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, Thy every path delights me still, Each flower a double fragrance flings; Again, as once, in converse gay, Each dear associate seems to say, ‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’
“My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep? Thy falling tears restrain; Affection for a time may sleep, But, oh, ‘twill wake again. Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wish’d intercourse, how sweet! From this my hope of rapture springs, While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell, ‘Friendship is Love without his wings!’”
Whether the verses I am now about to give are, in any degree, founded on fact, I have no accurate means of determining. Fond as he was of recording every particular of his youth, such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him; — and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote, — making allowance for the embellishments of fancy, — the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a poem, so full of natural tenderness, to have been indebted for its origin to imagination alone.
“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 Father’s 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 hope destroy, — A Father’s heart is thine, 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!
“B —— , 1807.”
But the most remarkable of these poems is one of a date prior to any I have given, being written in December, 1806, when he was not yet nineteen years old. It contains, as will be seen, his religious creed at that period, and shows how early the struggle between natural piety and doubt began in his mind.
“THE PRAYER OF NATURE.
“Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear’st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man’s be e’er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? Father of Light, on thee I call! Thou see’st my soul is dark within; Thou who canst mark the sparrow’s fall, Avert from me the death of sin. No shrine I seek, to sects unknown, Oh point to me the path of truth! Thy dread omnipotence I own, Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth. Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, With tales of mystic rites beguile. Shall man confine his Maker’s sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, ocean, heaven, thy boundless throne. Shall man condemn his race to hell Unless they bend in pompous form; Tell us that all, for one who fell, Must perish in the mingling storm? Shall each pretend to reach the skies, Yet doom his brother to expire, Whose soul a different hope supplies, Or doctrines less severe inspire? Shall these, by creeds they can’t expound, Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? Shall reptiles, grovelling on the ground, Their great Creator’s purpose know? Shall those who live for self alone, Whose years float on in daily crime — Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, And live beyond the bounds of Time? Father! no prophet’s laws I seek, — Thy laws in Nature’s works appear; — I own myself corrupt and weak, Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear! Thou, who canst guide the wandering star Through trackless realms of Æther’s space; Who calm’st the elemental war, Whose hand from pole to pole I trace: Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, Ah! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, Extend to me th
y wide defence. To Thee, my God, to Thee I call! Whatever weal or woe betide, By thy command I rise or fall, In thy protection I confide. If, when this dust to dust restored, My soul shall float on airy wing, How shall thy glorious name adored, Inspire her feeble voice to sing! But, if this fleeting spirit share With clay the grave’s eternal bed, While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer, Though doom’d no more to quit the dead. To Thee I breathe my humble strain, Grateful for all thy mercies past, And hope, my God, to thee again This erring life may fly at last.
“29th Dec. 1806. Byron.”
In another of these poems, which extends to about a hundred lines, and which he wrote under the melancholy impression that he should soon die, we find him concluding with a prayer in somewhat the same spirit. After bidding adieu to all the favourite scenes of his youth, he thus continues, —
“Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to Heav’n: There must thou soon direct thy night, 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 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.
1807.”
We have seen, by a former letter, that the law proceedings for the recovery of his Rochdale property had been attended with success in some trial of the case at Lancaster. The following note to one of his Southwell friends, announcing a second triumph of the cause, shows how sanguinely and, as it turned out, erroneously, he calculated on the results.
“Feb. 9. 1807.
Dear —— ,
“I have the pleasure to inform you we have gained the Rochdale cause a second time, by which I am, £60,000 plus. Yours ever,
“Byron.”
In the month of April we find him still at Southwell, and addressing to his friend, Dr. Pigot, who was at Edinburgh, the following note: —
“Southwell, April, 1807.
“My dear Pigot,
“Allow me to congratulate you on the success of your first examination— ‘Courage, mon ami.’ The title of Doctor will do wonders with the damsels. I shall most probably be in Essex or London when you arrive at this d —— d place, where I am detained by the publication of my rhymes.
“Adieu. — Believe me yours very truly,
“Byron.
“P.S. Since we met, I have reduced myself by violent exercise, much physic, and hot bathing, from 14 stone 6 lb. to 12 stone 7 lb. In all I have lost 27 pounds. Bravo! — what say you?”
His movements and occupations for the remainder of this year will be best collected from a series of his own letters, which I am enabled, by the kindness of the lady to whom they were addressed, to give. Though these letters are boyishly written, and a good deal of their pleasantry is of that conventional kind which depends more upon phrase than thought, they will yet, I think, be found curious and interesting, not only as enabling us to track him through this period of his life, but as throwing light upon various little traits of character, and laying open to us the first working of his hopes and fears while waiting, in suspense, the opinions that were to decide, as he thought, his future fame. The first of the series, which is without date, appears to have been written before he had left Southwell. The other letters, it will be seen, are dated from Cambridge and from London.
LETTER 12. TO MISS —— .
“June 11. 1807.
“Dear Queen Bess,
“Savage ought to be immortal: — though not a thorough-bred bull-dog, he is the finest puppy I ever saw, and will answer much better; in his great and manifold kindness he has already bitten my fingers, and disturbed the gravity of old Boatswain, who is grievously discomposed. I wish to be informed what he costs, his expenses, &c. &c., that I may indemnify Mr. G —— . My thanks are all I can give for the trouble he has taken, make a long speech, and conclude it with 1 2 3 4 5 6 7. I am out of practice, so deputize you as legate, — ambassador would not do in a matter concerning the Pope, which I presume this must, as the whole turns upon a Bull.
“Yours,
“Byron.
“P.S. I write in bed.”
LETTER 13. TO MISS —— .
“Cambridge, June 30. 1807.
“‘Better late than never, Pal,’” is a saying of which you know the origin, and as it is applicable on the present occasion, you will excuse its conspicuous place in the front of my epistle. I am almost superannuated here. My old friends (with the exception of a very few) all departed, and I am preparing to follow them, but remain till Monday to be present at three Oratorios, two Concerts, a Fair, and a Ball. I find I am not only thinner but taller by an inch since my last visit. I was obliged to tell every body my name, nobody having the least recollection of my visage, or person. Even the hero of my Cornelian (who is now sitting vis-à-vis, reading a volume of my Poetics) passed me in Trinity walks without recognising me in the least, and was thunderstruck at the alteration which had taken place in my countenance, &c. &c. Some say I look better, others worse, but all agree I am thinner — more I do not require. I have lost two pounds in my weight since I left your cursed, detestable, and abhorred abode of scandal, where, excepting yourself and John Becher, I care not if the whole race were consigned to the Pit of Acheron, which I would visit in person rather than contaminate my sandals with the polluted dust of Southwell. Seriously, unless obliged by the emptiness of my purse to revisit Mrs. B., you will see me no more.
“On Monday I depart for London. I quit Cambridge with little regret, because our set are vanished, and my musical protégé before mentioned has left the choir, and is stationed in a mercantile house of considerable eminence in the metropolis. You may have heard me observe he is exactly to an hour two years younger than myself. I found him grown considerably, and, as you will suppose, very glad to see his former Patron. He is nearly my height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know; — I hope I shall never have occasion to change it. Every body here conceives me to be an invalid. The University at present is very gay from the fêtes of divers kinds. I supped out last night, but eat (or ate) nothing, sipped a bottle of claret, went to bed at two, and rose at eight. I have commenced early rising, and find it agrees with me. The Masters and the Fellows all very polite, but look a little askance — don’t much admire lampoons — truth always disagreeable.
“Write, and tell me how the inhabitants of your Menagerie go on, and if my publication goes off well: do the quadrupeds growl? Apropos, my bull-dog is deceased— ‘Flesh both of cur and man is grass.’ Address your answer to Cambridge. If I am gone, it will be forwarded. Sad news just arrived — Russians beat — a bad set, eat nothing but oil, consequently must melt before a hard fire. I get awkward in my academic habiliments for want of practice. Got up in a window to hear the oratorio at St. Mary’s, popped down in the middle of the Messiah, tore a woeful rent in the back of my best black silk gown, and damaged an egregious pair of breeches. Mem. — never tumbled from a church window during service. Adieu, dear —— ! do not remember me to any body: — to forget and be forgotten by the people of Southwell is all I aspire to.”
LETTER 14. TO MISS —— .
“Trin. Coll. Camb. July 5. 1807.
“Since my last letter I have determined to reside another year at Granta, as my rooms, &c. &c. are finished in great style, several old friends come up again, and many new acquaintances made; consequently my inclination leads me forward, and I shall return to college in October if still alive. My life here has been one continued routine of dissipation — out at different places every day, engaged to more dinners, &c. &c. than my stay would permit me to fulfil. At this moment I write with a bottle of claret in my head and tears
in my eyes; for I have just parted with my ‘Cornelian,’ who spent the evening with me. As it was our last interview, I postponed my engagement to devote the hours of the Sabbath to friendship: — Edleston and I have separated for the present, and my mind is a chaos of hope and sorrow. To-morrow I set out for London: you will address your answer to ‘Gordon’s Hotel, Albemarle Street,’ where I sojourn during my visit to the metropolis.
“I rejoice to hear you are interested in my protégé; he has been my almost constant associate since October, 1805, when I entered Trinity College. His voice first attracted my attention, his countenance fixed it, and his manners attached me to him for ever. He departs for a mercantile house in town in October, and we shall probably not meet till the expiration of my minority, when I shall leave to his decision either entering as a partner through my interest, or residing with me altogether. Of course he would in his present frame of mind prefer the latter, but he may alter his opinion previous to that period; — however, he shall have his choice. I certainly love him more than any human being, and neither time nor distance have had the least effect on my (in general) changeable disposition. In short, we shall put Lady E. Butler and Miss Ponsonby to the blush, Pylades and Orestes out of countenance, and want nothing but a catastrophe like Nisus and Euryalus, to give Jonathan and David the ‘go by.’ He certainly is perhaps more attached to me than even I am in return. During the whole of my residence at Cambridge we met every day, summer and winter, without passing one tiresome moment, and separated each time with increasing reluctance. I hope you will one day see us together, he is the only being I esteem, though I like many.