Away! away! my early dream
Remembrance never must awake;

Oh! where is Lethe's fabled stream!
My foolish heart be still, or break.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

IN ANSWER TO SOME LINES EXHORTING THE AUTHOR TO BE CHEERFUL, AND TO "BANISH CARE."

"OH! banish care 99 such ever be
The motto of thy revelry!

Perchance of mine, when wassail nights
Renew those riotous delights,
Wherewith the Children of Despair
Lull the lone heart, and "banish care.
But not in morn's reflecting hour,
When present, past, and future lower,
When all I loved is changed or gone,
Mock with such taunts the woes of one,

Whose every thought — but let them pass

Thou know'st I am not what I was.
But, above all, if thou would'st hold
Place in a heart that ne'er was cold,
By all the powers that men revere,
By all unto thy bosom dear,
Thy joys below, thy hopes above,
Speak speak of anything but love.

'T were long to tell, and vain to hear,
The tale of one who scorns a tear;

And there is little in that tale
Which better bosoms would bewail.
But mine has suffer'd more than well
'T would suit philosophy to tell.
I've seen my bride another's bride, -
Have seen her seated by his side,
Have seen the infant, which she bore,
Wear the sweet smile the mother wore,
When she and I in youth have smiled,
As fond and faultless as her child;
Have seen her eyes in cold disdain,
Ask if I felt no secret pain;
And I have acted well my part

And made my cheek belie my heart,
Return'd the freezing glance she gave,
Yet felt the while that woman's slave;-
Have kiss'd, as if without design,
The babe which ought to have been mine,
And show'd, alas! in each caress,

Time had not made me love the less.

But let this pass - I'll whine no more,

Nor seek again an eastern shore;

The world befits a busy brain,

I'll hie me to its haunts again.
But if, in some succeeding year,

When Britain's " May is in the sere,"

Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes

Suit with the sablest of the times,

Of one,

whom love nor pity sways,

Nor hope of fame, nor good men's praise,

One, who in stern ambition's pride,
Perchance not blood shall turn aside,
One rank'd in some recording page
With the worst anarchs of the age,
Him wilt thou know.

and knowing pause,

Nor with the effect forget the cause.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

CHILDE HAROLD'S DEPARTURE.

(CHILDE HAROLD, Canto i. Stanzas 4-11.) CHILDE HAROLD bask'd him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly;

Nor deem'd before his little day was done
One blast might chill him into misery.

But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by,
Worse than adversity the Childe befell;
He felt the fulness of satiety:

Then loathed he in his native land to dwell,

Which seemed to him more lone than Eremite's sad cell.

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,
Nor made atonement when he did amiss,
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one,
And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his.
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste,
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste.

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart,
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee;
'T is said, at times the sullen tear would start,
But Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee:
Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie,

And from his native land resolved to go,

And visit scorching climes beyond the sea;

With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe,

And e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below.

The Childe departed from his father's hall:
It was a vast and venerable pile;

So old, it seemed only not to fall,

Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile ! Where Superstition once had made her den Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile; And monks might deem their time was come agen, If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow,
As if the memory of some deadly feud

Or disappointed passion lurk'd below:

But this none knew, nor haply cared to know;

For his was not that open, artless soul
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow,

Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control.

And none did love him

though to hall and bower

He gather'd revellers from far and near,

He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer.

Yea! none did love him

nor his lemans dear

But pomp and power alone are woman's care,
And where these are light Eros finds a feere;
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his ways where Seraphs might despair.

Childe Harold had a mother not forgot,
Though parting from that mother he did shun;