Selected Poems (7 page)

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Authors: Byron

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BOOK: Selected Poems
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The double principle that has guided our selection – works of
interest to Byron’s contemporaries and his nineteenth-century readers as well as works of interest to readers today – has also shaped our Notes, which collate citations from contemporary reviews with concise pointers to modern criticism of each poem. (The list of Works Cited in the Notes has complete references for all items mentioned therein.) These Notes also give information about the circumstances of composition and publication of each work and gloss the salient literary, biographical and historical references. Readers wanting extensive scholarly commentaries on the compositional histories, manuscript states and stages, textual variants and disputed readings, as well as more detailed annotations of historical circumstances, references, allusions, etc., may refer to Jerome J. McGann’s major seven-volume edition of
Lord Byron: The Complete Poetical Works
(1980–93).

The Introduction is supplemented by a Table of Dates that situates a detailed chronology of Byron’s life and career in relation to prominent events in England and abroad, and indicates some of the other works of literature being published alongside his. The chronology extends past Bryon’s death to note the most important of the posthumous presentations of his life and works that preceded the publication of Murray’s landmark edition.

November 1995

A Fragment

When, to their airy hall, my fathers’ voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois’d upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain’s side:

5

Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur’d 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,

10

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.

To Woman

Woman! experience might have told me
That all must love thee who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought;

5

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

10

When hope is fled and passion’s over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,

15

Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope ’twill last for aye,

20

When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
‘Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.’

The Cornelian

No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver.

5

Some, who can sneer at friendship’s ties,
Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize, –
For I am sure the giver loved me.
He offer’d it with downcast look,

10

As fearful that I might refuse it;
I told him when the gift I took,
My only fear should be to lose it.
This pledge attentively I view’d,
And sparkling as I held it near,

15

Methought one drop the stone bedew’d,
And ever since I’ve loved a tear.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,
Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he who seeks the flowers of truth,

20

Must quit the garden for the field.
‘Tis not the plant uprear’d in sloth,
Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature’s wild luxuriance bloom.

25

Had Fortune aided Nature’s care,
For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,
If well proportion’d to his mind.
But had the goddess clearly seen,

30

His form had fix’d her fickle breast;
Her countless hoards would his have been,
And none remain’d to give the rest.

To Caroline

I
You say you love, and yet your eye
No symptom of that love conveys,
You say you love, yet know not why
Your cheek no sign of love betrays.
II

5

Ah! did that breast with ardour glow,
With me alone it joy could know,
Or feel with me the listless woe,
Which racks my heart when far from you.
III
Whene’er we meet, my blushes rise,

10

And mantle through my purpled cheek,
But yet no blush to mine replies,
Nor do those eyes your love bespeak.
IV
Your voice alone declares your flame,
And though so sweet it breathes my name,

15

Our passions still are not the same,
Though Love and Rapture still are new.
V
For e’en your lip seems steep’d in snow,
And, though so oft it meets my kiss,
It burns with no responsive glow,

20

Nor melts, like mine, in dewy bliss.
VI
Ah! what are words to love like mine,
Though uttered by a voice divine,
I still in murmurs must repine,
And think that love can ne’er be true,
VII

25

Which meets me with no joyous sign;
Without a sigh which bids adieu:
How different is that love from mine,
Which feels such grief when leaving you.
VIII
Your image fills my anxious breast,

30

Till day declines adown the West,
And when, at night, I sink to rest,
In dreams your fancied form I view.
IX
‘Tis then, your breast, no longer cold,
With equal ardour seems to burn,

35

While close your arms around me fold,
Your lips my kiss with warmth return.
X
Ah! would these joyous moments last!
Vain H
OPE
! the gay delusion’s past;
That voice! – ah! no, ’tis but the blast,

40

Which echoes through the neighbouring grove!
XI
But, when
awake
, your lips I seek,
And clasp, enraptur’d, all your charms,
So chills the pressure of your cheek,
I fold a statue in my arms.
XII

45

If thus, when to my heart embrac’d,
No pleasure in your eyes is trac’d,
You may be prudent, fair, and chaste,
But ah! my girl, you
do not love
!

ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS

A Satire

‘I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers.’

SHAKSPEARE
.

‘Such shameless bards we have; and yet ’tis true,
There are as mad, abandon’d critics too.’

POPE.

PREFACE
1

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish this Satire with my name. If I were to be ‘turned from the career of my humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain,’ I should have complied with their counsel. But I am not to be terrified by abuse, or bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have attacked none personally, who did not commence on the offensive. An author’s works are public property: he who purchases may judge, and publish his opinion if he pleases; and the authors I have endeavoured to commemorate may do by me as I have done by them. I dare say they will succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to make others write better.

As the poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations, to render it more worthy of public perusal.

In the first edition of this satire, published anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of Bowles’s Pope were written by, and inserted at the request of, an ingenious friend of
mine,
1
who has now in the press a volume of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own substituted in their stead; my only reason for this being that which I conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner, – a determination not to publish with my name any production, which was not entirely and exclusively my own composition.

With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose performances are mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, it is presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the public at large; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are over-rated, his faults overlooked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius by several of the writers here censured renders their mental prostitution more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at and forgotten; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. No one can wish more than the author that some known and able writer had undertaken their exposure; but Mr Gifford has devoted himself to Massinger, and, in the absence of the regular physician, a country practitioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here offered; as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing
rabies
for rhyming. – As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would indeed require an Hercules to crush the Hydra; but if the author succeeds in merely ‘bruising one of the heads of the serpent,’ though his own hand should suffer in the encounter, he will be amply satisfied.

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