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Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
And these must wait till every charm is gone
TO BELSHAZZAR, 1.
BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn,
Crown'd and anointed from on high;
Go! dash the roses from thy brow
Gray hairs but poorly wreathe with them; Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,
More than thy very diadem,
Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem:-
Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,
IN the valley of waters we wept o'er the day
n our souls as the wind that hath died on the hili,
They called for the harp, but our blood they shall spill,
THEY say that Hope is happiness,
But genuine Love must prize the past;
And all that Memory loves the most
Alas! it is delusion all,
The future cheats us from afar, Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are. October, 1814
LINES INTENDED FOR THE OPENING OF “TJE
In the year since Jesus died for men,
We were a gallant company,
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea.
We forded the river and clomb the high hill,
All our thoughts and words had scope,
Yet through the wide world might ye search,
But some are dead, and some are gone,
That look along Epirus' valleys,
But those bardy days flew cheerily,
Over the earth, and through the air,
A wild bird, and a wanderer.
The last tidings recently heard of Dervish (one of the Arvanuts who tal lowed me) state hun to be in revolt upon the mountains, at the head of soun of the bands common in that country in times of trouble.
What is this death?-a quiet of the heart?
The absent are the dead-for they are cold,
The under-earth inhabitants-are they
Or have they their own language? and a sense
Where are the past ?-and wherefore had they birth?
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past Recalling, as it lies beyond redress; Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore,-He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.
If my inheritance of storms hath been
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe.
Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward. My whole life was a contest since the day That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd The gift,-a fate, or will, that walk'd astray; And I at times have found the struggle hard, And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay But now I fain would for a time survive, If but to see what next can well arrive.
Kingdoms and empires in my little day I have outlived, and yet I am not old; And when I look on this the petty spray Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: Something I know not what-does still uphold A spirit of slight patience;-not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.
Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
(For even to this may change of soul refer,
I feel almost at times as I have felt
In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks Which do remember me of where I dwelt Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, Come as of yore upon me, and can melt My heart with recognition of their looks; And even at moments I could think I see Some living thing to love-but none like thee.
Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
But something worthier do such scenes insure
For much I view which I could most desire, And, above all, a lake I can behold Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.
Oh that thou wert but with ine!-but I grow
Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of "Fo weather Jack."
"But though it were tempest-tost, Still his bark could not be lost."
He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) aut subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after as commander of a similar expedition.
There may be others which I less may show ;I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.
I did remind thee of our own dear lake,* By the old hall which may be mine no more. Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore: Sad havoc Time must with my memory make Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resign'd for ever, or divided far.
The world is all before me; I but ask
Of Nature that with which she will comply-
She was my early friend, and now shall be My sister-till I look again on thee.
I can reduce all feelings but this one: And that I would not;-for at length I see Such scenes as those wherein my life begun, The earliest-even the only paths for meHad I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, I had been better than I now can be; The passions which have torn me would have slept; I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.
With false ambition what had I to do? Little with love, and least of all with fame; And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, And made me all which they can make-a name. Yet this was not the end I did pursue; Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. But all is over-I am one the more To baffled millions which have gone before.
And for the future, this world's future may From me demand but little of my care; I have outlived myself by many a day; Having survived so many things that were; My years have been no slumber, but the prey Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share Of life which might have fill'd a century, Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by.
And for the remnant which may be to come I am content; and for the past I feel Not thankless,-for within the crowded sum Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, And for the present I would not benumb My feelings farther.-Nor shall I conceal That with all this I still can look around And worship Nature with a thought profound.
For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart I know myself secure, as thou in mine; We were and are-I am, even as thou artBeings who ne'er each other can resign; It is the same, together or apart. From life's commencement to its slow decline We are entwined-let death come slow or fast, The tie which bound the first endures the last! October, 1816.
The lake of Newstead Abbey.
But left long wrecks behind, and now again,
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move;
The current I behold will sweep beneath
Her native walls, and murmur at her feet;
She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee,
1 The Countess Guiccioli
His offspring, who expired in other days
o make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,This is to be a monarch, and repress
Envy into unutterable praise.
Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits, For who would lift a hand, except to bless? Were it not easy, sire? and is 't not sweet 'o make thyself beloved? and to be Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus
Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete; despot thon, and yet thy people free, And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.
FRANCESCA OF RIMINI.
TRANSLATION FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE,
THE land where I was born sits by the seas,
Remits, seized me with wish to please, so strong, That, as thou seest, yet, yet it doth remain. Love to one death conducted us along,
But Caina waits for him our life who ended:" These were the accents utter'd by her tongue.Since first I listen'd to these souls offended,
I bow'd my visage and so kept it till
What think'st thou ?" said the bard; when
And recommenced: "Alas! unto such ili
How many sweet thoughts, what strange ecstacies Led these their evil fortune to fulfil !" And then I turn'd unto their side my eyes, And said, "Francesca, thy sad destinies Have made me sorrow till the tears arise. But tell me, in the season of sweet sighs, By what and how thy love to passion rose, So as his dim desires to recognize? Then she to me: "The greatest of all woes recall to mind
Is to remind us of
our happy days S this
In misery, and that thy teacher knows. But if to learn our passion's first root preys Upon thy spirit with such sympathy,
TO HER WHO BEST CAN UNDERSTAND THEM
Be it so we part for ever!
Pride may cool what passion heated,
Had I loved, I now might hate thee,
And, in words, my vengeance wreak.
In some of the editions, it is "diro," in others "faro;"-an essential di ference between "saying" and "doing." which I know not how to decide Ask Foscolo. The d-d editions drive me mad
But there is a silent sorrow,
Which can find no vent in speech, Which disdains relief to borrow
From the heights that song can reach.
Like a clankless chain enthralling,
Like the sleepless dreams that mock,Like the frigid ice-drops falling
From the surf-surrounded rock.
Such the cold and sickening feeling
From the world its bitter woe.
Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee
More than woman thou wast to me;
Why "heap man's worst curse on me."
Friendship's smile, and woman's art,
By that eye which once could glisten
By that lip, its smile bestowing,
Which could soften sorrow's gush ;By that cheek, once brightly glowing With pure friendship's well-feigned blush; By all those false charms united,
Thou hast wrought thy wanton will,
Still, I feel how dear thou wert;
When thy beauties all are faded,
When thy flatterers fawn no more,-
With thy past or present state;
TO THE COUNTESS OF BLESSINGTON.
You have ask'd for a verse:-the request In a rhymer 't were strange to deny; But my Hippocrene was but my breast,
And my feelings (its fountain) are dry.