Selected Works of George Gordon, Lord Byron

   Herein is contained selected works from the volumes Fugitive Pieces, Poems on Various 
Occasions, and Hours of Idleness, which were published in 1806, 1807, and 1807, respectively.

   Thus far, the following poems are included:

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,
  Suffus'd in tears, implore to stay;
And heard unmov'd thy plenteous sighs,
  Which said far more than words can say?

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest,
  When love and hope lay both o'erthrown;
Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast
  Throbb'd, with deep sorrow, as thine own.

But, when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
  When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine;
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd
  Were lost in those which fell from thine.

Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek,
  Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame,
And, as thy tongue essay'd to speak,
  In sighs alone it breath'd my name.

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain,
  In vain our fate in sighs deplore;
Remembrance only can remain,
  But that, will make us weep the more.

Again, thou best belov'd, adieu!
  Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret,
Nor let thy mind past joys review,
  Our only hope is, to forget!

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.

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 thee

Whene'er we meet my blushes rise,
  And mantle through my purpled cheek; 
But yet no blush to mine replies,
  Nor e'en your eyes your love bespeak.

Your voice alone declares your flame, 
  And though so sweet it breathes my name 
Our passions still are not the same;
  Alas! you can not love like me.

For e'en your lip seems steep'd in snow,
  And though so oft it meets my kiss, 
It burns with no responsive glow,
  Nor melts like mine in dewy bliss.

Ah what words to love like mine,
  Though utter'd by a voice like thine,
I still in murmurs must repine
  And then that love can ne'er be true

Which meets me with no joyous sign,
  Without a sigh which bids adieu;--
How different is my love from thine,
  How keen my grief when leaving you.

Your image fills my anxious breast,
  Till day declines adown the West; 
And when at night I sink to rest,
  In dreams your fancied form I view.

'T is then your breast, no longer cold,
  With equal ardour seems to burn,
While close your arms around me fold,
  Your lips my kiss with warmth return.

Ah! would these joyous moments last;
  Vain HOPE! the gay delusion 's past,
That voice!--ah, no, 't is but the blast
  Which echoes through the neighbouring grove. 

But when awake, your lips I seek,
  And clasp enraptured all your charms, 
So chill's the pressure of your cheek,
  I fold a statue in my arms.

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

Oh when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrow?
  Oh when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay?
The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow
  But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day.

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses
  I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss;
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses
  Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this.

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes bright'ning,
  Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuage
On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning,
  With transport my tongue give loose to its rage.

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing,
  Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;
Could they view us our sad separation bewailing
  Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation,
  Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;
Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation,
  In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.

Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me,
  Since, in life, love and friendship for ever are fled?
If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee,
  Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead.

I wish to tune my quivering lyre
To deeds of fame and notes of fire;
To echo from its rising swell.
How heroes fought and nations fell,
When Atreus' sons advanced to war,
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar;
But still, to martial strains unknown,
My lyre recurs to love alone.
Fired with the hope of future fame,
I seek some nobler hero's name;
The dying chords are strung anew,
To war, to war, my harp is due.
With glowing strings, the epic strain
To Jove's great son I rise again;
Alcides and his glorious deeds,
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds.
All, all in vain; my wayward lyre
Wakes silver notes of soft desire.
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms!
Adieu the clang of war's alarms!
To other deeds my soul is strung,
And sweeter notes shall now be sung;
My harp shall all its powers reveal,
To tell the tale my heart must feel;
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim,
In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

Since now the hour is come at last,
  Wen you must quit your anxious lover,
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
  One pang, my girl, and all is over.

Alas! that pang will be severe,
  Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
  Departing for a distant shore.

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
  And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,
  The shelter of our infant years;

Where from this Gothic casement's height,
  We view'd the lake, the park, the dell,
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,
  We lingering look a last farewell,

O'er fields through which we used to run,
  And spend the hours in childish play;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,
  Reposing on my breast you lay;

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,
  Forgot to scare the hovering flies,
Yet enveid every fly the kiss
  It dared to give your slumbering eyes:

See still the little painted bark,
  In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waveing o'er the park,
  The elm I clamber'd for your sake.

These times are past--our joys are gone,
  You leave me, leave this happy vale;
These scenes I must retrace alone:
  Without thee what will they avail?

Who can conceive, who has not proved,
  The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly loved,
  You bid a long adieu to peace.

This is the deepest of our woes,
  For these tears our cheeks bedew;
This is of love the final close,
  Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu!

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever,
E'en though the numbers did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavour:
Could I desist?--ah! never--never!

In law an infant and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Versed in hypocrisy while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in this world, though scarcely broke from school;
Dam�tus ran through the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin.
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss apears his bane.

When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
  Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visons alone your affection can live,--
  I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,
  Shed o'er me your languor benign;
Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,
  What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,
  Mortality's emblem is given;
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,
  If this be a foretaste of Heaven!

Ah! frown not, sweet Lady, unbend your soft brow,
  Nor deem me too happy in this;
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
  Thus doom'd, but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in my visions, sweet Lady, perhaps you may smile,
  Oh! think not my penance deficient!
When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,
  To awake, will be torture sufficient.

Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, 'I love,' but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sight,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers'd,
And all our bosoms felt rehears'd,
No spirit, from within, reprov'd us,
Say rather, ''twas the spirit mov'd us.'
Though, what they utter'd, I repress,
Yet I concieve thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:
'May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her, each hour, new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!'

These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th'unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen,
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And set her by a sea-coal fire;
Or had the bard at Christmass written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang'd the place of declaration.
In Italy, I've no objection;
But here our climate is so rigid:
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There, we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves,
That ever witness'd rural loves;
Then, if my passions fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate for ever after.

Ye scenes of my childhood, whose lov'd recollection
  Embitters the present, compar'd with the past;
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,
  And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last;

Where fancy, yet, joys to retrace the resemblance
  Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne'er fading remembrance,
  Which rests in the bosom, though hope is deny'd!

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,
  The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought;
The school where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,
  To pore o'er the precepts by Pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd,
  As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,
  To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
  Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
  I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,
  By my daughters, of kingdom and reason depriv'd;
Till, fir'd by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
  I regarded myself as a Garrick reviv'd.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
  Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
  Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest.

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
  While Fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since Darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
  More dear is the beam of the past to my soul!

But if, through the course of the years which await me,
  Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,
I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me,
  Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew. 

I would I were a careless childe,
  Still dwelling in my Highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,
  Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave;
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride
  Accords not with the freeborn soul,
Which loves the mountain's craggy side,
  And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

Fortune! Take back these cultured lands,
  Take back this name of splendid sound!
I hate the touch of servile hands,
  I hate the slaves that cringe around.
Place me among the rocks I love,
  Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar;
I ask but this--again to rove
  Through scenes my youth hath known before.

Few are my years, and yet I feel
  The world was ne'er designed for me:
Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal
  The hour when man must cease to be?
Once I beheld a splendid dream,
  A visionary scene of bliss:
Truth!--wherefore did thy hated beam
  Awake me to a world like this?

I loved--but those I loved are gone;
  Had friends--my early friends are fled:
How cheerless feels the heart alone,
  When all its former hopes are dead!
Though gay companions o'er the bowl
  Dispel awile the sense of ill;
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul,
  The heart--the heart--is lonely still.

How dull! to hear the voice of those
  Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power,
Have made, though neither friends nor foes
  Associates of that festive hour.
Give me again the faithful few,
  In years and feelings still the same,
And I will fly the midnight crew,
  Where boist'rous joy is but a name.

And woman, lovely woman! thou,
  My hope, my comfortet, my all!
How cold must be my bosom now,
  When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!
Without a sigh would I resign
  This busy scene of splendid woe,
To make that calm contentment mine,
  Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

Fain would I fly the haunts of men--
  I seek to shun, not hate mankind;
My breast requires the sullen glen,
  Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind.
Oh! that to me the wings were given
  Which bear the turtle to her nest!
Then I would cleave the vault of heaven,
  To flee away, and be at rest.

Dear Long, in this sequester'd scene,
  While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days, which ours have been

  Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye;
Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
  And interrupt the golden dream
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
  And, still, indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,
  In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chace
  Our raptured visions, as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yields some hours of sober joy.
  Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring:
But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
In frowning Age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears, unmov'd, Misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn
  To soothe its wonted heedless flow;
Still may I rove untutor'd, wild,
And even in age, at heart a child.

Though, now, on airy visions borne,
  To you my soul is still the same.
Oft has it ben my fate to mourn,
  And all my former joys are tame:
But, hence! ye hours of sabl hue!
  Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
  I'll think upon your shade no more.

Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past,
  And caves their sullen roar enclose,
We heed no more the wintery blast,
  When lull'd by zephyr to repose.

Full often has my infant Muse
  Attun'd to love her languid lyre;
But, now, without a theme to choose,
  The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymps, alas! are flown;
  E----- is a wife, and C----- a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,
  And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,
  Can now no more my love recall--
In truth, dear LONG, 'twas time to flee--
  For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams aike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,
These last should be confin'd to one.
The souls' meridian don't become her,
Whose SUn desplays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name;
As, when the ebbing flames ar low,
  The aid which once improv'd their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
  Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with Passion's fires,

  As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,
  Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

  But now, dear LONG, 't is midnight's noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Describ'd in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er
Which every bard has trod before?
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
  Had thrice performed her stated round,
Has thrice retrac'd her path of light,
  And chas'd away the gloom profound,
I trust that we, my gentle Friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
Above the dear-lov'd peaceful seat,
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat;
And then, with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle in the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of souls shall pour
Tha sacred intellectual shower,
Nor cease, till Luna's waning horn
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.

More Selections

Index
Hebrew Melodies
The Giaour
The Prisoner of Chillon
Don Juan
Posthumous Verse

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