[Greek: Aeì d’ aeí me pheugei.]—[Pseud.]
ANACREON, [Greek: Eis chruson].
1.
The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ’mid
weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful
knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in
Love’s last adieu!
2.
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the
sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age
to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to
part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s
last adieu!
3.
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the
grief-swollen breast, [i]
Will whisper, “Our meeting
we yet may renew:”
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s
represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of
Love’s last adieu!
4.
Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine
of youth,
Love twin’d round their
childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of
truth,
Till chill’d by the
winter of Love’s last adieu!
5.
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal
its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals
thy bosom in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction
a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d,
with Love’s last adieu!
6.
Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the
forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint
to the wind;
The mountains reverberate
Love’s last adieu!
7.
Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s
easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous
blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of
his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on
Love’s last adieu!
8.
How he envies the wretch, with a soul
wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce,
yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can
feel,
And dreads not the anguish
of Love’s last adieu!
9.
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is
o’ercast;
No more, with Love’s
former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires
with the blast;
The shroud of affection is
Love’s last adieu!
10.
In this life of probation, for rapture
divine,
Astrea1 declares that some
penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at
Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in
Love’s last adieu!
11.
Who kneels to the God, on his altar of
light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately
strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of
Love’s last adieu!
[Footnote 1: The Goddess of Justice.]
[Footnote i:
Still, hope-beaming peace.
[’P. on V. Occasions.’]]
LINES. [i]
ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER,
ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR
TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY.
1.
Dear BECHER, you tell me to mix with mankind;
I cannot deny such a precept
is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of
my mind:
I will not descend to a world
I despise.
2.
Did the Senate or Camp my exertions require,
Ambition might prompt me,
at once, to go forth;
When Infancy’s years of probation
expire,
Perchance, I may strive to
distinguish my birth.
3.
The fire, in the cavern of Etna, conceal’d,
Still mantles unseen in its
secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific, reveal’d,
No torrent can quench it,
no bounds can repress.
4.
Oh! thus, the desire, in my bosom, for
fame [i]
Bids me live, but to hope
for Posterity’s praise.
Could I soar with the Phoenix on pinions
of flame,
With him I would wish to expire
in the blaze.
5.
For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the
death,
What censure, what danger,
what woe would I brave!
Their lives did not end, when they yielded
their breath,
Their glory illumines the
gloom of their grave.[ii]
6.
Yet why should I mingle in Fashion’s
full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders,
or cringe to her rules?
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the
absurd?
Why search for delight, in
the friendship of fools?
7.
I have tasted the sweets, and the bitters,
of love,
In friendship I early was
taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove,
I have found that a friend
may profess, yet deceive.
8.
To me what is wealth?—it may
pass in an hour,
If Tyrants prevail, or if
Fortune should frown:
To me what is title?—the phantom
of power;
To me what is fashion?—I
seek but renown.
9.
Deceit is a stranger, as yet, to my soul;
I, still, am unpractised to
varnish the truth:
Then, why should I live in a hateful controul?
Why waste, upon folly, the
days of my youth?
1806.
[Footnote 1: The Rev. John Thomas
Becher (1770-1848) was Vicar of Rumpton and Midsomer
Norton, Notts., and made the acquaintance of Byron
when he was living at Southwell. To him was submitted
an early copy of the ‘Quarto’, and on
his remonstrance at the tone of some of the verses,
the whole edition (save one or two copies) was burnt.
Becher assisted in the revision of ‘P. on V.
Occasions’, published in 1807. He was in
1818 appointed Prebendary of Southwell, and, all his
life, took an active interest and prominent part in
the administration of the poor laws and the welfare
of the poor. (See Byron’s letters to him of
February 26 and March 28, 1808.)]
[Footnote i:
‘To the Rev. J. T. Becher.’
[’P. on V. Occasions’]]
[Footnote ii:
‘Oh! such the desire.’
[’P. on V. Occasions’]]
[Footnote iii:
‘—the gloom of the grave.’
[’P. on V. Occasions’.]]
ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES SENT BY A FRIEND TO
THE AUTHOR,
COMPLAINING THAT ONE OF HIS DESCRIPTIONS
WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN.
“But if any old Lady,
Knight, Priest, or Physician,
Should condemn me for
printing a second edition;
If good Madam Squintum
my work should abuse,
May I venture to give
her a smack of my muse?”
Anstey’s ‘New
Bath Guide’, p. 169.
Candour compels me, BECHER! to commend
The verse, which blends the censor with
the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause;
For this wild error, which pervades my
strain, [ii]
I sue for pardon,—must I sue
in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom’s
ways depart;
Can youth then hush the dictates of the
heart?
Precepts of prudence curb, but can’t
controul,
The fierce emotions of the flowing soul.
When Love’s delirium haunts the
glowing mind,
Limping Decorum lingers far behind;
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace,
Outstript and vanquish’d in the
mental chase.
The young, the old, have worn the chains
of love;
Let those, they ne’er confined,
my lay reprove;
Let those, whose souls contemn the pleasing
power,
Their censures on the hapless victim shower.
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song,
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng,
Whose labour’d lines, in chilling
numbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne’er
can know!
The artless Helicon, I boast, is youth;—
My Lyre, the Heart—my Muse,
the simple Truth.
Far be’t from me the “virgin’s
mind” to “taint:”
Seduction’s dread is here no slight
restraint:
The maid whose virgin breast is void of
guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton
leer,
Firm in her virtue’s strength, yet
not severe;
She, whom a conscious grace shall thus
refine,
Will ne’er be “tainted”
by a strain of mine.
But, for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne’er
had read.
For me, I fain would please the chosen
few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature
true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not
destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd;
Of fancied laurels, I shall ne’er
be proud;
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely
prize,
Their sneers or censures, I alike despise.
November 26, 1806.
[Footnote i:
the heedless and unworthy cause.
[P. on V. Occasions.]]
[Footnote ii:
For this sole error.
[P. on V. Occasions.]]
[Footnote iii:
The light effusions of an amorous boy.
[P. on V. Occasions.]]
