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.

From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
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.

2.

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

Stop the boat-I'm sick-oh Lord!" "Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker Ere you've been an hour on board"

Thus are screaming
Men and women,

Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,
All are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax.-
Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

3.

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapt in,

Some to grumble, some to spew.
"Heyday! call you that a cabin?
Why, 't is hardly three feet square;
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in-
Who the deuce can harbour there?"

"Who, sir? plentv-
Nobles twenty

Did at once my vessel fill."-
"Did they?" Jesus,
How you squeeze us!

Would to God they did so still: Then I'd scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

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,

Sick 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?

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:一

"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."

ΒΕΝΕΑΤΗ WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING
REPLY:-

THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
"ymes on our names, but wisely hides his own:
But yet whoe'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 pr.de,
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.

"WHAT say I?"-not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom,-so, here goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time, On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme. If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the flood,

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud, Where the Divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap, And Southey's last ræan has pillow'd his sleep;That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malnisey, Wa'k'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE.

[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, is, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and con densation 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 pre serving.]-Moore.

I.

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.

2.

"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.

3.

"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.

5.

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!"

*

8.

*

*

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 aır
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!

*

*

But the Devil has reach'd our cliffs so white,
And what did he there, I pray?

If his eyes were good, he but saw by night
What we see every day;

But he made a tour, and kept a journal

Of all the wondrous sights nocturnal,

And he sold it in shares to the Men of the Row, Who bid pretty well-but they cheated him, though!

11.

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."

*

*

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 crew-
This treachery-was truth to thee!