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'Tis morn:—from these I turn my sight:

What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,”

Across the green in numbers fly.
Loud rings in air the chapel bell ;

'Tis hush'd :—what sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell

Rolls deeply on the listning ear.
To this is join'd the sacred song,

The royal minstrel’s hallow'd strain ;
Though he who hears the music long

Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excused,

Even as a band of raw beginners ;
All mercy now must be refused

To such a set of croaking sinners.
If David, when his toils were ended,

Had heard these blockleads sing before him,
To us his psalms had ne'er descended,

In furious mood he would have tore 'em.

6 On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.

The luckless Israelites, when taken

By some inbuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,

On Babylonian river's border.

Oh! had they sung in notes like these,

Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease,

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.

But if I scribble longer now,

The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low;

T'is almost time to stop, indeed.

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires !

No more, like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my muse inspires :

The reader's tired, and so am I.




“Oh! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos." -VIRGIL. Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection

Embitters the present, compared with the past; Where science first dawn’d on the powers of reflection,

And friendships were form’d, too romantic to last;'

Where fancy yet joys to retrace the resemblance

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance,

Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied !

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; The school where, loud warn’d by the bell, we resorted,

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. ? ["My school-friendships were with me passions (for I was always violent), but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be sure, some have been cut short by death) till now.”Byron Diary, 1821.)

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder’d,

As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone ® I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,

Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,

I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.

Or, as Lear, I pour’d forth the deep imprecation,'

By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived ; Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,

I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!

Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast; Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.

To Ida full oft may remeinbrance restore me,'

While fate shall the shades of the future unroll! Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,

More dear is the beam of the past to my soul !

But if, through the course of the years which await me,

Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,

“Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew."


8 [A tomb in the churchyard at Harrow was so well known to be his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it “ Byron's Tomb :" and here, they say, he usel to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought. —Moore.]

9 Mossop, a contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga.

? [For the display of his declamatory powers, on the speech-days, he selected always the most vehement passages ; such as the speech of Zanga over the body of Alonzo, and Lear's address to the storm.-MOORE.) [In the private volume the two last stanzas ran

“I thought this poor brain, fever'd even to madness,

Of tears, as of reason, for ever was drain'd ;
But the drops which now flow down this bosom of sadness,

Convince me the springs have some moisture retain'd.
“Sweet scenes of my childhood ! your blest recollection

Has wrung from these eyelids, to weeping long dead,
In torrents the tears of my warmest affection,

The last and the fondest I ever shall shed."]


Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright but mild affection shine, Though they might kindle less desire,

Love, more than mortal, would be thine.

For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,

Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair ;

That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,

So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear’d that, too divine for earth,

The skies might claim thee for their own :
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels

might dispute the prize, She bade a secret lightning lurk

Within those once celestial eyes. These might the boldest sylph appal,

When gleaming with meridian blaze; Thy beauty must enrapture all;

But who can dare thine ardent gaze ?

'Tis said that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven; But they would ne'er permit thee there,

Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear :
E'en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere."

1806. 3 « Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do intreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return."-SHAKSPF.ARE.

TO M. S. G.

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;

Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live,

I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast,

Shed o’er me your languor benign ;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,

What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

Mortality's emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,

Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it row,

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.
Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,

Oh! think not my penance deficient ! When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,

To awake will be torture sufficient.


WOMAN! experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh memory! thou choicest blessing
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled and passion's over.

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