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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 even in crowds am still alone
Because I cannot love but one.

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 loved one may be

Is not for vulgar eyes to see,
And why that early love was crost,
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.

"T would 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.

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But, since life at most a jest is,
As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is;
Then laugh on-as I do now.
Laugh at all things,

Great and small things, Bick or well, at sea or shore; While we're quaffing,

Let's have laughing

Who the devil cares for more?

Some good wine! and who would lack it, Even on board the Lisbon Packet?



"FAIR Albion smiling, sees her son depart To trace the birth and nursery of art: Noble his object, glorious is his aim:

He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."


THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
"ymes on our names, but wisely hides his own:
But yet whoc'er he be, to say no worse,

His name would bring more credit than his verse.

I've seen my bride another's bride,-
Have seen her seated by his side,-
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore
When she and I in youth have smiled
As fond and faultless as her child;-
Have seen her eyes, in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain.
And I have acted well my part,

And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress
Time had not made me love the less.

But let this pass-I'll whine no more
Nor seek again an eastern shore;
The world befits a busy brain,-
I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,
When Britain's "May is in the sere,"
Thou hear'st of one, whose deep'ning crimes
Suit with the sablest of the times,
Of one, whom love nor pity sways,
Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise.
One, who in stern ambition's,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside.
One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,
Him wilt thou know-and knowing pause,
Nor will the effect forget the cause.

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Newstead Abbey, Oct. 11, 1811.

"OH! banish care"-such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care."
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,
Whose every thought-but let them pass
Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou wouldst hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak-speak of anything but love.
'I were long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;
And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
Twould suit philosophy to tell.

WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent,)

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant. 2.

And since not ev'n our Rogers' praise

To common sense his thoughts could raiseWhy would they let him print his lays?



To me, divine Apollo, grant-O! Hermilda's first and second canto, I'm fitting up a new portmanteau;


And thus to furnish decent lining,
My own and others' bays I'm twining-
So, gentle Thurlow, throw me thine in.


"I lay my branch of laurel down, Then thus to form Apollo's crown Let every other bring his own."

Lord Thurlow's Lines to Mr Ragn 1.

"I lay my branch of laurel down."

Thou "lay thy branch of laurel down!"
Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow;

And, were it lawfully thine own,

Does Rogers want it most, or thou? Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,

Or send it back to Doctor DonneWere justice done to both, I trow, He'd have but little, and thou-none. 2.

"Then thus to form Apollo's crown." A crown! why, twist it how you will, Thy chaplet must be foolscap still. When next you visit Delphi's town,

Inquire among your fellow-lodgers, They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown, Some years before your birth, to Rogers. 3.

"Let every other bring his own.” When coals to Newcastle are carried,

And owls sent to Athens as wonders, From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried, Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders; When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, And thou shalt have plenty to spare.

Singing "Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never

man saw.


The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het.


And what dignity decks the flat face of the great


I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. You know, we are used to quite different graces,


The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;

And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the


Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted With majesty's presence as those she invited.

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But now to my letter-to yours 't is an answer-
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers,
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote.
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.

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[Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and fifty lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, he presented to Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigour and imagination, it is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and condensation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, adopt ing a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson. There are, however, some of the stanzas of "The Devil's Drive" well worth preserving.]-Moore.


THE Devil return'd to hell by two,

And he staid at home till five;

Where he dined on some homicides done in ragout,

And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew,
And bethought himself what next to do;
"And." quoth he, "I'll take a drive.

I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night;
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I'll see how my favourites thrive.

"And what shall I ride in ?" quoth Lucifer, then"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

I should mount in a wagon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.

But these will be furnish'd again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed;

To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.


"I have a state-coach at Carlton House, A chariot in Seymour-place;

But they 're lent to two friends, who make me amends

By driving my favourite pace:

And they handle their reins with such a grace.

I have something for both at the end of their race. 4.

"So now for the earth to take my chance."
Then up to the earth sprung he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France.
He stepp'd across the sea,

And rested his hoof on a turnpike road.
No very great way from a bishop's abode.


But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hover'd a moment upon his way

To look upon Leipsic plain;

And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare, And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

That he perch'd on a mountain of slain:
And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half so well:

For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blush'd like the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he:
"Methinks they have here little need of me!"


But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying-
As round her fell her long fair hair:

And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,
With its hollow check, and eyes half shut,

A child of famine dying:

And the carnage begun, when resistance is done, And the fall of the vainly flying!

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The Devil first saw, as he thought, the Mail,
Its coachman and his coat;

So instead of a pistol he cock'd his tail,
And seized him by the throat:

"Aha," quoth he, "what have we here?
"Tis a new barouche, and an ancient peer!"
So he sat him on his box again,

And bade him have no fear,

But be true to his club, and staunch to his rein, His brothel, and his beer;

"Next to seeing a lord at the council board, I would rather see him here."



The Devil gat next to Westminster.

And he turn'd "to the room" of the Commons; But he heard, as he proposed to enter in there, That "the Lords" had received a summons; And he thought as a "quondam aristocrat," He might peep at the peers, though to hear them were flat;

And he walk'd up the house so like one of our own,

That they say that he stood pretty near the throne. 18.

He saw the Lord Liverpool seemingly wise,
The Lord Westmoreland certainly silly,
And Johnny of Norfolk-a man of some size-
And Chatham, so like his friend Billy;

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TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB. AND say'st thou that I have not felt, Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me? Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt On one unbroken dream of thee? But love like ours must never be, And I will learn to prize thee less; As thou hast fled, so let me flee,

And change the heart thou may'st not bless They'll tell thee, Clara! I have seem'd, Of late, another's charms to woo, Nor sigh'd, nor frown'd, as if I deem'd That thou wert banish'd from my view. Clara! this struggle-to undo

What thou hast done too well, for me This mask before the babbling crewThis treachery-was truth to thee!

I have not wept while thou wert gone,
Nor worn one look of sullen woe;
But sought, in many, all that one
(Ah! need I name her?) could bestow.
It is a duty which I owe

To thine-to thee-to man-to God,
To crush, to quench this guilty glow,
Ere yet the path of crime be trod.

But since my breast is not so pure,
Since still the vulture tears my heart,
Let me this agony endure,

Not thee-oh! dearest as thou art!
In mercy, Clara! let us part,

And I will seek, yet know not how,
To shun, in time, the threatening dart;
Guilt must not aim at such as thou.

But thou must aid me in the task.

And nobly thus exert thy power;
Then spurn me hence-t is all I ask-
Ere time n.ature a guiltier hour;
Ere wrath's impending vials shower
Remorse redoubled on my head;
Ere fires unquenchably devour

A heart, whose hope has long been dead.

Deceive no more thyself and me,

Deceive not better hearts than mine;
Ah! shouldst thou, whither wouldst thou flee,
From woe like ours-from shame like thine?
And, if there be a wrath divine,

A pang beyond this fleeting breath,
E'en now all future hopes resign,

Such thoughts are guilt-such guilt is death.

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WHO hath not glow'd above the page where fame
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name;
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman chain,
And battled back the fiery-crested Dane,
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No foe could tame-no tyrant could command?
That race is gone-but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath:
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And England! add their stubborn strength to thine.
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free,
But now 't is only shed for fame and thee!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support-the world hath given him fame!
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led,
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath-'t is all their fate allows-
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
While sad, she chants the solitary song,
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave.

Tis Heaven-not man-must charm away the woe
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow.
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

May, 1814.


WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord,

We repent-we abjure- - we will break from our Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd,


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Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave or just;
What most admired each scrutinizing eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus-for his was not there!
That absence proved his worth,-that absence fixu
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less
Amid those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's throne and shatter'd wits,
If his corrupted eye and wither'd heart
Could with thy gentle image bear depart,
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief,
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:

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