Lord Byron - Delphi Poets Series Read online

  LORD BYRON

  (1788–1824)

  Contents

  The Poetry Collections

  HOURS OF IDLENESS

  CHILDE HAROLD’S PILGRIMAGE

  HEBREW MELODIES

  STANZAS FOR MUSIC

  OCCASIONAL PIECES, 1807-1824

  DOMESTIC PIECES, 1816

  SATIRES

  TALES

  DRAMAS

  BEPPO

  DON JUAN

  MINOR POEMS

  The Poems

  LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Short Story

  FRAGMENT OF A NOVEL

  The Letters

  THE LETTERS AND JOURNALS OF LORD BYRON

  The Biography

  THE LIFE OF LORD BYRON by John Galt

  © Delphi Classics 2012

  Version 1

  LORD BYRON

  By Delphi Classics, 2012

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  The Poetry Collections

  Holles Street, Central London — Byron’s birthplace

  The plaque commemorating his birthplace

  Holles Street in 1775

  Byron, aged 15

  HOURS OF IDLENESS

  Lord Byron’s first volume of poetry was published in 1807, when the poet was only 19 years old. He had previously printed a volume under the title Fugitive Pieces the year before, but with the Reverend John Beecher’s objections to some of the poems, the volume was withdrawn. Then Byron privately printed Poems on Various Occasions, an expurgated version of Fugitive Pieces. Following the warm recpetion it received from friends, he later in the year released the volume under the new title Hours of Idleness.

  At the time, Byron worte to a friend, “In every Bookseller’s I see my own name and say nothing, but enjoy my fame in secret.” The collection contains mostly short poems, many in imitation of classic Roman poets, and they received mixed reviews. One particularly scathing criticism in the Edinburgh Review spurred Byron to reply with the satire English Bards and Scotch Reviewers in 1809.

  Captain John ‘Mad Jack’ Byron, the poet’s father

  Lady Catherine Gordon, the poet’s mother

  CONTENTS

  ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY

  TO E—

  TO D—

  EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND

  A FRAGMENT

  ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY

  LINES

  ADRIAN’S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN DYING

  TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS

  TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS

  IMITATION OF TIBULLUS

  TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS

  IMITATED FROM CATULLUS

  TRANSLATION FROM HORACE

  FROM ANACREON

  FROM ANACREON

  FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ÆSCHYLUS

  TO EMMA

  TO M. S. G.

  TO CAROLINE

  TO CAROLINE

  TO CAROLINE

  STANZAS TO A LADY, WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOËNS

  THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE

  ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBUC SCHOOL

  TO THE DUKE OF DORSET

  FRAGMENT

  GRANTA

  ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF THE HARROW HILL

  TO M —

  TO WOMAN

  TO M.S.G.

  TO MARY

  TO LESBIA

  LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY

  LOVE’S LAST ADIEU

  DAMÆTAS

  TO MARION

  TO A LADY

  OSCAR OF ALVA

  THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALUS

  TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIPIDES

  THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION

  TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER

  THE CORNELIAN

  AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE

  ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX

  THE TEAR

  REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J.M.B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS

  TO THE SIGHING STREPHON

  TO ELIZA

  LACHIN Y GAIR

  TO ROMANCE

  ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN

  ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY

  CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS

  ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM

  TO A LADY

  LINES

  REMEMBRANCE

  THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA

  L’AMITTÉ EST L’AMOUR SANS AILES

  THE PRAYER OF NATURE.

  TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ.

  TO A LADY

  I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD

  WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER

  TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR

  TO THE EARL OF CLARE

  LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCHYARD OF HARROW

  The first edition of the collection

  HOURS OF IDLENESS

  A SERIES OF POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED

  First published in 1807

  ‘Virginibus puerisqe canto.’— Horace, lib. iii, Ode 1.

  ‘He whistled as he went, for want of thought.’— Dryden.

  PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

  In submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only to combat the difficulties that writers of verse generally encounter, but may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed.

  These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man who has lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depression of spirits: under the former influence, ‘Childish Recollections,’ in particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considerable portion of these poems has been privately printed, at the request and for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which poetical genius is to be estimated, yet ‘to do greatly’ we must ‘dare greatly’; and I have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing this volume. I have ‘passed the Rubicon,’ and must stand or fall by the ‘cast of the die.’ In the latter event I shall submit without a murmur; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, my expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may have dared much and done little; for, in the words of Cowper, ‘it is one thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, are apt to be a little biassed in our favour, and another to write what may please everybody; because they who have no connexion, or even knowledge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can.’ To the truth of this, however, I do not wholly subscribe; on the contrary, I feel convinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, if they possess any, will be liberally allowed; their numerous faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that favour which has been denied to others of maturer years, decide
d character, and far greater ability.

  I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any particular model for imitation; some translations are given, of which many are paraphrasic. In the original pieces there may appear a casual coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read; but I have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me ‘to this sin’: little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions; and I shall never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive considerable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions; while I shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. I leave to others ‘virum volitare per ora.’ I look to the few who will hear with patience, ‘dulce est desipere in loco.’ To the former worthless I resign, without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself with the not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst ‘the mob of gentlemen who write’;—my readers must determine whether I dare say ‘with ease,’ or the honour of a posthumous page in ‘The Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors,’—a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obligations, inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily overshadows several voluminous production of their illustrious bearers.

  With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt. To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age the contents may afford amusement; I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor even, in the very doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the poems of a noble relation of mine*, ‘That when a man of rank appeared in the character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely allowed,’ can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical, censors; but were it otherwise, I should be loth to avail myself of the privilege, and would rather incur this bitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than triumph in honours granted solely to a title.

  The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applause, to which, by their intrinsic worth, they are well entitled.

  TO

  THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE,

  KNIGHT OF THE GARTER, ETC., ETC.,

  THE SECOND EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED,

  BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN,

  THE AUTHOR.

  ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY

  Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him

  Hush’d are the winds, and still the evening gloom,

  Not e’en a zephyr wanders through the grove,

  Whilst I return, to view my Margaret’s tomb,

  And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

  Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

  That clay, where once such animation beam’d;

  The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,

  Not worth nor beauty have her life redeem’d.

  Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

  Or heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,

  Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,

  Not here the muse her virtues would relate.

  But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars

  Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;

  And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

  Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.

  And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign,

  And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?

  Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;—

  I’ll ne’er submission to my God refuse.

  Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

  Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;

  Still they call forth my warm affection’s tear,

  Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

  (1802)

  TO E—

  Let Folly smile, to view the names

  Of thee and me in friendship twined;

  Yet Virtue will have greater claims

  To love, than rank with vice combined.

  And though unequal is thy fate,

  Since title deck’d my higher claims

  Yet envy not this gaudy state;

  Thine is the pride of modest worth.

  Our souls at least congenial meet,

  Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;

  Our intercourse is not less sweet,

  Since worth of rank supplies the place.

  November 1802

  TO D—

  In thee I fondly hoped to clasp

  A friend whom death alone could sever;

  Till envy, with malignant grasp,

  Detach’d thee from my breast for ever.

  True, she has forced thee from my breast,

  Yet in my heart thou keep’st thy seat;

  There, there thine image still must rest,

  Until that heart shall cease to beat.

  And when the grave restored her dead,

  When life again to dust is given,

  On thy dear breast I’ll lay my head—

  Without thee where would be my heaven?

  February 1803

  EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND

  Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!

  What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour’d bier!

  What sighs re’echo’d to thy parting breath,

  Wilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!

  Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;

  Could sighs avert his dart’s relentless force;

  Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,

  Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;

  Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,

  Thy comrade’s honour and thy friends delight.

  If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

  The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,

  Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,

  A grief too deep to trust the sculptor’s art.

  No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,

  But living statues there are seen to weep;

  Affliction’s semblance bands not o’er thy tomb,

  Affliction’s self deplores thy youthful doom.

  What though thy sire lament his failing line,

  A father’s sorrows cannot equal mine!

  Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,

  Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here:

  But who with me shall hold thy former place?

  Thine image what new friendship can efface?

  Ah, none! – a father’s tears will cease to flow,

  Time will assuage an infant brother’s woe;

  To all, save one, is consolation known,

  While solitary friendship sighs alone.

  1803

  A FRAGMENT

  When, to their airy hall, my father’s voice

  Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;

  Whe
n, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,

  Or, dark in mist, descend the mountains side;

  Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns,

  To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!

  No lengthen’d scroll, no praise-encumber’d stone;

  My epitaph shall be my name alone:

  If that with honour fail to crown my clay,

  Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!

  That, only that, shall single out the spot;

  By that remember’d, or with that forgot.

  1803

  ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY

  ‘Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court.’ – Ossian

  Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;

  Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay;

  In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle

  Have choked up the rose which late bloom’d in the way.

  Of the mail-cover’d Barons, who proudly to battle

  Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine’s plain,

  The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,

  Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

  No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,

  Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell’d wreath;

  Near Askalon’s towers, John of Horistan slumbers,

  Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.

  Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy;

  For the safety of Edward and England they fell:

  My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye;

  How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.

  On Marston, with Rupert, ‘gainst traitors contending,

  Four brothers enrich’d with their blood the bleak field;

  For the rights of a monarch their country defending,

  Till death their attachment to royalty seal’d.

  Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing

  From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!

  Abroad, or at home, your remebrance imparting

  New courage, he’ll think upon glory and you.

  Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,

  ‘Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;

  Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,

  The fame of his fathers he ne’er can forget.

  That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;

  He vows that he ne’er will disgrace your renown: