Seat of my youth! thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;
My bosom glows with former fire,-
In mind again a boy.

Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,
Thy every path delights me still,

Each flower a double fragrance flings; Again, as once, in converse gay, Each dear associate seems to say "Friendship is Love without his wings!" 6.

My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,

But oh, 't will wake again.

Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet!

From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

7.

In one, and one alone deceived,
Did I my error mourn?
No-from oppressive bonds relieved,
I left the wretch to scorn.

I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,

Twined with my heart's according strings; And till those vital chords shall break. For none but these my breast shall wake,

« Friendship, the power deprived of wings!"

8.

Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love ensures,
Unfetter'd in its scope;

From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,

Let Adulation wait on kings.
With joy elate, by smares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne er forget
"Friendship is Love without his wings"

9.

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard
Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and Truth be my reward,

To me no bays belong :

If laurell'd fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings:
Simple and young, I dare not feign,
Mine be the rude yet hear:felt strain,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
December, 1806.

TO MY SON.*

1.

THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy Father's heart, my Boy!

2.

And thou canst lisp a father's nameAh, William, were thine own the same, No self-reproach-but, let me ceaseMy care for thee shall purchase peace; Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy, And pardon all the past, my Boy.

3.

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast.
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy-
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!

4.

Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claim disown?
Ah, no-though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy-
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

"The only circumstance I know, that hears even remotely on the st Ject of this poem, is the following. About a year or two before the de affixed to it, he wrote to his mother, from Harrow, (as I have been told a person, to whom Mrs. Byron herself communicated the circumstance) to say, that he had lately a good deal of uneasiness on account of a you{" woman, whom he knew to have been a favourite of his late friend, Curto, and who, finding herself after his death in a state of progress towar maternity, had declared Lord! Byron was the fati er of her child. Th he positively assured his mother was not the case; but, believing, a

did firmly, that the child belonged to Curzon, it was his wish that it ahould be brought up with all possible care, and he therefore entreated it. There such a request might well (as my informant expresses it) have diar eft posed a temper more mild than Mrs Byron's, she notwithstanding at swered her son in the kindest terms, saying that she would willingly receive the child as soon as it was born, and bring it up in whateve manner be desired. Happily, however, the infant died air it i ately, and was thus spared the being a tax on the good red” sug body."-Moore.

5.

Oh, 't will be sweet in thee to trace
Ere age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In/ustice done to thee, my Boy!
6.

Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,
The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne er desert its pledge, my Boy!

[The following lines forra the conclusion of a poem written by Lord Byron under the melancholy impression that he should soon die.]

FORGET this world, my restless sprite,
Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven:
There must thou soon direct thy flight,
If errors are forgiven.

To bigots and to sects unknown,

Bow down beneath th' Almighty's Throne,

To him address thy trembling prayer,

He, who is merciful and just,
Will not reject a child of dust,

Although his meanest care.

Father of Light! to thee I call,
My soul is dark within;

Thou, who canst mark the sparrow fall,
Avert the death of sin.

Thou, who canst guide the wandering star,
Who calm'st the elemental war,

Whose mantle is yon boundless sky,
My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive;
And, since I soon must cease to live,
Instruct me how to die.

* TO MRS. ***,

1807.

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENG

LAND IN THE SPRING,

WHEN man, expell'd from Eden's bowers
A moment linger'd near the gate,
Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.

But, wandering on through distant climes, He learnt to bear his load of grief;

Just gave a sigh to other times,

And found in busier scenes relief.

This and the five following poems were first published in HobBonse's Miscellany.

In the original this line stands, "Without a wish to enter there.' The reading given above is from a MS. correction by Lord Byron

Now at length we 're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.

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 :

"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.'

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED 1AP FOLLOWING REPLY:

THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown,
Rhymes 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.

EPISTLE TO MR. HODGSON,

[ ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING HIM TO BE
CHEERFUL AND TO "BANISH CARE.
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 any thing but love.

'T 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
'T would suit philosophy to tell.
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.

5.

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

6.

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

TO LORD THURLOW.

"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. Rogers.

1.

"I lay my branch of laurel down.”
Thou"lay thy branch of laurel down!"
Why, what thou 'st stole is not enow;
And, where it lawfully thine own,
Does Rogers want it most, or thou
Keep to thyself thy wither'd bough,
Or send it back to Doctor Donne-
Were justice done to both, I trow,
He'd have but little, and thou-none.
2.

"Then thus to form Apollo's crown."
A crown! wny, 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 quarrels, When Castlereagh's wife has an heir, Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel, And thou shalt have plenty to spare.