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The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due:
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I raise again ;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms !
Adieu the clang of war's alarms !
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my lieart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In

songs of bliss and siglis of flame.

FROM ANACREON.

[Μεσονυκτίαις ποθ' ώραις, κ. τ.

7.1.]
'Twas now the hour when Nighit had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Boötes, only, seem'd to roll
His arctic charge around the pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to iny gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,
What stranger breaks my

blest
Alas !” replies the wily child
In faltering accents sweetly mild,

A hapless infant here I roam,
Far froin my dear maternal hoine.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast !
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here.
A wandering baby who can fear?”
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:

repose ?

66

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My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver lung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt bis wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow :-
“I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, “if this its strength has lost ;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse.”
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies;
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :-
“My bow can still impel the shaft:
"Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighis reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?”

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS

[Μηδαμο και πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.]
Great Jove, to whose almighty throne

Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;

My voice shall raise no impious strain
'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

How different now thy joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride,

When placed aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty by thy side,
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled,
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled;

The Nymphs and Tritons danced around,
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.'

HARROW, Dec. 1, 1804.

TO EMMA.

Since now the hour is come at last,

When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,

One pang, my girl, and all is over.

Alas! that pang will be severe,

Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,

Departing for a distant shore.
Well! we have pass'd some liappy hours,

And joy will mingle with our tears ;
When thinking on these ancient towers,

The shelter of our infant years;

Where from this Gothic casement's height,

We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,

We lingering look a last farewell,

O'er fields through which we used to run,

And spend the hours in childish play ;
O’er shades where, when our race was done,

Reposing on my breast you lay;

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,

Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet envied every Ay the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes : ["My first Harrow verses (that is, English, as Exercises), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Æschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head master), but coully. No one had, at that time, the least notion that I should subsiile into poesy." -- Byron Diary.]

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See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o’er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,

The elm I clamber'd for your sake. These times are past—our joys are gone,

You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone :

Without thee what will they avail?
Who can conceive, who has not proved,

The anguish of a last embrace ?
When, torn from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace.
This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,

Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu !

TO M. S. G.

WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine,

Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet I forego that bliss divine,

Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.

Whene'er I dream of that

pure

breast
How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet is the daring wish represt,

For that,—would banish its repose.
A glance from thy soul-searching eye

Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet I conceal my love,—and why?

I would not force a painful tear.
I ne'er had told my love, yet thou

Hast seen my ardent Aame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell ?

No! for thou never canst be mine,

United by the priest's decree: By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know : With joy I court a certain doom,

Rather than spread its guilty glow.

I will not ease my tortured heart,

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine, Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign.

Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave

More than I here shall dare to tell; Thy innocence and mine to save,

I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair,

And hope no more thy soft embrace; Which to obtain my soul would dare,

All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shalt thou be free,

No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me,

No martyr shalt thou be to love.

TO CAROLINE.

THINK'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,

Suffused in tears, implore to stay; And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,

Which said far more than words can say ?

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,

When love and hope lay both o'erthrown • Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

Throbb’d with deep sorrow is thine own.

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