On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its Oh! remembrance. preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in The two pages of signature M are incorrectly Throbb'd with deep sorrow, as thine I blast not the fiends, who have hurl'd The soldier braves death, For a fanciful wreath, In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe, When in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a _tear_. to mine; Were lost in those which fell from They think all learning fix'd within their _But if I write_ much longer now, The deuce a soul _will stay to read_, My pen is blunt, the ink is low, 'Tis almost time to _stop, indeed_. below. 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. What! Though deep 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_. "Which stings the soul, with vain regret. But as death my belov'd, soon or late, shall ye. places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs 64, IMITATION OF TIBULLUS "SULPICIA AD CERINTUM." me. Are the only sad vestiges now that Though my vows I can pour, To my Mary no more, My Mary to love once so _dear_, In the shade of her bower, I remember the hour, She rewarded those vows with a _tear_. what are words to love like mine, Though uttered by a voice like thine, I still in murmurs must repine, And think that love can ne'er be true. retaining. partakes. To love, than rank with vice 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. We speak to please ourselves, not move Occasions (not, as has sometimes been stated, for Hours But there's pleasure at least in a change. separation. I once more view the room with spectators And had the glaring God of Day, (As formerly of Mars and Venus) Divulg'd the joys which pass'd between us, Regardless of his _peeping_ ray. And this doctrine would meet with a objected to what he considered the too voluptuous coloring of No lengthen'd scroll of virtue, and renown, My _epitaph_, shall be my name alone; If _that_ with honour fails to crown my clay, Oh! Brunck's6 originally sent by Byron to Pigot, then studying medicine in This word is used by GRAY in his poem to the fatal unmolested—the dead. Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice. Spoor, of Chicago, the inscription reads: best; Who utters most within the shortest space. This was Byron's first volume of verse written when he was seventeen years of age. soon must stamp your doom; Like her o'erthrown, forever lost to fame, No trace of science left you, but the name. Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, With deadly languor droops my head. the bleak field. annals can tell. Oh memory! In the death which one day will deprive But now he's pass'd the gloomy bourn, From whence he never can return, His death, and Lesbia's grief I mourn, Who sighs alas! But now tears and curses alike unavailing. On a Saint Day, the Students wear Surplices in To him, with suppliant smiles they bend the 'Tis said that Berenice's hair, In stars adorns the vault of heaven, But they would ne'er permit _thee_ there, _Thou_ would'st so far outshine the seven. Resigning every thought of bliss, Forever, from your love I go, Reckless of all the tears that flow, Disdaining thy polluted kiss. bier; What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath. ON THE CRUELTY OF HISMISTRESS. From my eye flows no tear, from my lips fall no When with high bounding pride, He returns to his bride, Renouncing the gore crimson'd spear; All his toils are repaid, When embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the tear. Had their Prophet possess'd but an atom of sense, He ne'er would have _woman_ from Paradise driven, But instead of his _Houris_ a flimsy pretence, With _woman alone_, he had peopled his Heaven. resounded. Perhaps my soul's too prone to place. FRAGMENTS OF SCHOOL EXERCISES, FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF�SCHYLUS. disgrace.4. What an insult 'twould be to the Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes uproar. letter. privately printed in the autumn of 1806, when Byron was Thou shall be all in all to was changed by hand. Byron later asked Pigot to destroy the copy and Could sighs have check'd his dart's relentless The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as ], [Footnote 10: Every Cambridge man will assent to this,--the Latin ofthe Schools is almost unintelligible. Thou still had'st liv'd, to bless my aching sight, Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight: Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born, No titles did thy humble name adorn, To me, far dearer, was thy artless love, Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove. their spouses put up more. With bright, but mild affection Southwell.—Vale!—Byron," the initials evidently 'Tis _I_, that am alone to blame, _I_, that am guilty of love's treason; Since your sweet breast, is still the same, Caprice must be my only reason. ], [Footnote 12: On a Saint Day, the Students wear Surplices in Chapel.]. wilt. were reprinted in Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone, A proper mixture of the _squeak and groan_; No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_, must be seen, The slightest motion would displease the _dean_. riot. Of love admiring such a _sample_, The Gods and Goddesses descending, Had never fancied us offending, But _wisely_ followed _our example_. Pieces. Oh! Your fame, and your memory, still will he Though love than ours could ne'er be truer. another Hercules appear'd, Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd; He too is dead! May no marble bestow, The splendour of woe, Which the children of Vanity rear, No fiction of fame, Shall blazon my name, All I ask, all I wish, is a _tear_. dead; This life resign'd without one parting sigh. Oh! Which racks my heart when far from Yet prizing _Bentley's[6] Brunck's[6]_ or _Porson's_[7] note, More than the _verse, on which the critic wrote_; With eager haste, they court the tool of power, (Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour:) To _him_, with suppliant smiles they bend the head, Whilst mitres, prebends, to their eyes are spread. ", _To which the Author of these Pieces, sent the subjoined Reply, forInsertion in the_ MORNING CHRONICLE.--. Various Occasions, Byron describing it as "vastly correct Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, Class honours, medals, fellowships await; Or even perhaps the _declamation_ prize, If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes. when shall the grave hide forever my sorrow? 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. And though no more in folds of A reproduction from the first edition, with a bibliographical note by Marcel Kessel. "e" in "tremble" has been inserted, We do not try by speaking to And friends and foes alike his talents own; Fox! My only fear should be to lose they'd own their 19, "When I hear you express an affection so warm,..." _where_ would be _my Heaven?_. no, 'tis but the blast, Which echoes through the neighbouring grove. Thus sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you. Of tears as of reason forever was Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus, at his While Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at his nod. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once such animation beam'd; The king of terrors seiz'd her as his prey, Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd. renown; Like you will he live, or like you will he 'Tis this, my belov'd, which spreads gloom o'er my

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