The Works of Lord Byron

TO THOMAS MOORE.
1.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
2.

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky 's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
3.
'Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

4.
Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.
5.

With that water as this wine,
The libation I would pour
Should be-peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

July, 1817.

STANZAS TO THE RIVER PO.
1.

RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls,
Where dwells the laay of my love, when she
Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls
A faint and fleeting memory of me;

What if thy deep and ample stream should be
A mirror of my heart, where she may read
The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee,
Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!
3.

What do I say a mirror of my heart?

Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and strong? Such as my feelings were and are, thou art; And such as thou art were my passions long.

Time may have somewhat tamed them.-not for over,
Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for ave
Thy bosom overboils, congenial river!
Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk away,

But left long wrecks behind, and now again
Borne in our old unchanged career, we move,
Thou tendest wildly onwards to the main,
And 1-to loving one I should not love.
6.

The current I behold will sweep beneath

Her native walls and murmur at her feet; Her eyes will look on thee, when she shall breathe The twilight air, unharm'd by summer's beat.

She will look on thee,-I have look'd on thee,
Full of that thought; and, from that moment, ne'er
Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her;

Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now: Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

That happy wave repass me in its flow!

The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep?-.
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

10.

But that which keepeth us apart is not

Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth. But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth. 11.

A stranger loves the lady of the land,

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

By the bleak wind that chills the polar flood.

12.

My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot,

A slave again of love, at least of thee.
13.

"T is vain to struggle-let me perish young-
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,
And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.
June, 1819.

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH, ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALL'I

FORFEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,

To stretch the hand from the throne's height and rame His offspring, who expired in other days To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,— This is to be a monarch, and express

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
To make thyself beloved? and to be
Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus
Thy sovereignty would grow but more compiete,
A despot thou, and yet thy people free,
And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.

The Countess Guiccioll

August, 1819.

FRANCESCA OF RIMINI. TRANSLATED FROM THE INFERNO OF DANTE, CANTO FIFTH.

THL land where I was born sits by the seas, Upon that shore to which the Po descends, With all his followers, in search of peace. Love, which the gentle heart soon apprehends, Seized him for the fair person which was ta'en From me, and me even yet the mode offends. Love, who to none beloved to love again

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-

}

And recommenced :" Alas! unto such ill
How many sweet thoughts, what strong ecstasies
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 recognise?"
Then she to me: "The greatest of all woes
recall to mind
remind us of

Is to

our happy days

*In some of the editions,it is, " diro," in others " faro;”—an essential

True, the great of her bright and brief era are gone,
The rainbow-like epoch where Freedom could pauso
For the few little years, out of centuries won,
Which betray'd not, or crush'd not, or wept not her

cause.

True, the chains of the Catholic clank o'er his rags The castle still stands, and the senate's no more, And the famine which dwelt on her freedomless crags Is extending its steps to her desolate shore.

To her desolate shore-where the emigrant stands
For a moment to gaze ere he flies from his hearth,
Tears fall on his chain, though it drops from his hands,
For the dungeon he quits is the place of his birth.
5.

But he comes! the Messiah of royalty comes!
Like a goodly Leviathan roll'd from the waves!
Then receive him as best such an advent becomes,
With a legion of cooks and an ariny of slaves!

He comes in the promise and bloom of threescore,
To perform in the pageant the sovereign's part-
But long live the shamrock which shadows him o'er!
Could the green in his hat be transferr'd to his heart!

Could that long-wither'd spot but be verdant again,
And a new spring of noble affections arise-
Then might freedom forgive thee this dance in thy chain
And this shout of thy slavery which saddens the skier.
8.

Is it madness or meanness which clings to thee now!
Were he God-as he is but the commonest clay,
With scarce fewer wrinkles than sins on his brow-
Such servile devotion might shame him away.

Ay, roar in his train! let thine orators lash
Their fanciful spirits to pamper his pride-
Not thus did thy Grattan indignantly flash
His soul o'er the freedom implored and denied.

10.

Ever glorious Grattan ! the best of the good!
So simple in heart, so sublime in the rest!
With all which Demosthenes wanted endued,
And his rival or victor in all he possess'd.
11.

Ere Tully arose in the zenith of Rome,

Though unequall'd, preceded, the task was begun-
But Grattan sprung up like a God from the tomb
Of ages, the first, last, the saviour, the one!
12.

With the skill of an Orpheus to soften the brute,
With the fire of Prometheus to kindle mankind;
Even Tyranny listening sate melted or mute,
And Corruption shrunk scorch'd from the glance of his

13.

[mind.

But back to our theme! Back to despots and slaves Feasts furnish'd by Famine! rejoicings by Pain! True Freedom but welcomes, while slavery still raves When a week's saturnalia hath loosen'd her chain.

14.

Let the poor squalid splendour thy wreck can afford (As the bankrupt's profusion his ruin would hide)

Ofference between saying" and "doing," which I know not how to Gild over the palace. Lo! Erin, thy lord!

decide. Ask Foscolo. The d-dl editionă drive me mad.

1 On the King's visit to Ireland in 1821.

Kiss his foot with thy blessing for blessings denied.

15.

Or if freedom past hope be extorted at last,
If the idol of brass find his feet are of clay,
Must what terror or policy wring forth be class'd
With what monarchs ne'er give, but as wolves yield
their prey?

16.

Each brute hath its nature, a king's is to reign,-
To reign in that word see, ye ages, comprised
The cause of the curses all annals contain,

From Cæsar the dreaded to George the despised.

17.

Wear, Fingal, thy trappings! O'Connell, proclaim
His accomplishments! His !!! and thy country con-

vince

Half an age's contempt was an error of fame,

28.

Yes, I loved thee and thine, though thou art not my land,
I have known noble hearts and great souls in thy sms,
And I wept with the world o'er the patriot band
Who are gone, but I weep them no longer as once,

29.

For happy are they now reposing afar,

Thy Grattan, thy Curran, thy Sheridan, ali
Who, for years, were the chiefs in the eloquent war,
And redeem'd, if they have not retarded, thy fall.

30.

Yes, happy are they in their cold English graves!
Their shades cannot start to thy shouts of to-day,
Nor the steps of enslavers and chain-kissing slaves
Be stamp'd in the turf o'er their fetterless clay.
31.

And that "Hal is the rascaliest, sweetest young Till now I had envied thy sons and their shore,

prince!"

18.

Will thy yard of blue riband, poor Fingal, recall
The fetters from millions of Catholic limbs?

Or, has it not bound thee the fastest of all

The slaves, who now hail their betrayer with hymns?

19.

Ay! "build him a dwelling!" let each give his mite!
Till, like Babel, the new royal dome hath arisen!
Let thy beggars and helots their pittance unite-
And a palace bestow for a poor-house and prison!
20.

Spread-spread, for Vitellius the royal repast,

Till the gluttonous despot be stuff'd to the gorge! And the roar of his drunkards proclaims him at last The Fourth of the fools and oppressors call'd "George!"

21.

Let the tables be loaded with feasts till they groan!
Till they groan like thy people, through ages of wo!
Let the wine flow around the old Bacchanal's throne,
Like their blood which has flow'd, and which yet has
to flow.

22.

But let not his name be thine idol alone

On his right hand behold a Sejanus appears! Thine own Castlereagh! let him still be thine own! A wretch, never named but with curses and jeers,

23.

Till now, when the isle which should blush for his birth,
Deep, deep as the gore which he shed on her soil,
Seems proud of the reptile which crawl'd from her earth,
And for murder repays him with shouts and a smile!
24.

Without one single ray of her genius, without
The fancy, the manhood, thy fire of her race-
The miscreant who well might plunge Erin in doubt
If she ever gave birth to a being so base.

25.

If she did-let her long-boasted proverb be hush'd,
Which proclaims that from Erin no reptile can spring,
See the cold-blooded serpent, with venom full flush d,
Still warming its folds in the breast of a king!

26.

Shout, drink, feast, and flatter! Oh! Erin, how low
Wert thou sunk by misfortune and tyranny, till
Thy welcome of tyrants hath plunged thee below
The depth of thy deep in a deeper gulf still.

27.

My voice, though but humble, was raised for thy right,
My vote, as a freeman's, still voted thee free,
This hand, though but feeble, would arm, in thy fight,
And this heart, though outworn, had a throb still for
thee!

Though their virtues were hunted, their liberties fled There was something so warm and sublime in the core Of an Irishman's heart, that I envy-thy dead.

32.

Or, if aught in my bosom can quench for an hour
My contempt for a nation so servile, though sore,
Which though trod like the worm will not turn upo
power,

'T is the glory of Grattan, and genius of Moore.
September 16th, 1921

STANZAS.

TO HER WHO CAN BEST UNDERSTAND THEM.

Be it so! we part for ever!

Let the past as nothing be;-
Had I only loved thee, never

Hadst thou been thus dear to me.

Had I loved, and thus been slighted,
That I better could have borne ;-
Love is quelled, when unrequited,
By the rising pulse of scorn."

Pride may cool what passion heated,
Time will tame the wayward will;
But the heart in friendship cheated
Throbs with wo's most maddening thrill.

Had I loved, I now might hate thee,
In that hatred solace seek,
Might exult to execrate thee,

And, in words, my vengeance wreak.

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
Thou hast caused this heart to know,
Stabbed the deeper by concealing
From the world its bitter wo.

Once it fondly, proudly, deemed thee
All that fancy's self could paint,
Once it honoured and esteemed thee,
As its idol and its saint!

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?

'T is but as a dead flowe with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 3.

Oh Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'T was less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY
SIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 12.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move! Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! 2.

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone

THE FOLLOWING POEMS FROM MANUSCRIPTS COLLECTED AFTER THE DEATH
OF LORD BYRON WERE FIRST PUBLISHED IN LONDON IN 1833.

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The Works of Lord Byron: In Verse and Prose. Including His Letters, Journals ...