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I've tried another's fetters too,

With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

"Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.*

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favorable breezes blowing

Bend the canvas o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,

Hark! the farewell gun is fired; Women screeching, tars blaspheming, Tell us that our time's expired. Here's a rascal

Come to task all,

Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,

Not a corner for a mouse 'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient-push from shore.
"Have a care! that case holds liquor-
Stop the boat-I'm sick-oh Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board."
Thus are screaming
Men and women,

Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;

Here entangling,

All are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax.Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Liston Packet.

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Did at once my vessel fill.". "Did they? Jesus, How you squeeze us! Would to God they did so still: Then I'd 'scape the heat and racket Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs-
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse, muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth-and damns our souls
"Here's a stanza

On Braganza

Help!"-" a couplet?"-" No, a cup
Of warm water-"

"What's the matter?"

"Zounds! my liver's coming up: I shall not survive the racket Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we're off for Turkey, Lord knows when we shall come back! Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,

As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on-as I do now.

Laugh at all things,

Great and small things, Sick or well, at sea or shore; While we're quaffing,

Let's have laughing

Who the devil cares for more ?Some good wine! and who would lack it, Even on board the Lisbon Packet?

Falmouth Roads, June 30th, 1809.

LINES IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS.

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:

"FAIR Albion, smiling, sees her son depart
To trace the birth and nursery of art:
Noble his object, glorious is his aim:
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name."

BENEATH WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING REPLY:

• Thus corrected by himself in a copy of the Miscellany-the two last lines THE modest bard, like many a bard unknown, seing, originally, as follows:

"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,

love but thee, I love but one."

Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own;
But yet whoe'er he be, to say no worse,
His name would bring more credit than his verse.

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"OH! banish care "--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 wouldst 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 any thing but love.

'Twere 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
'Twould 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,"

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Thou hear'st of one, whose deepening crimes Suit with the sablest of the times,

ON LORD THURLOW'S POEMS.

DEDICATED TO MR. ROGERS.

WHEN Thurlow this damn'd nonsense sent, (I hope I am not violent,)

Nor men nor gods knew what he meant.

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"Then thus to form Apollo's crown."
A crown! why, twist it how you will,
Thy chaplet must be foolscap still.
When next you visit Delphi's town,
Inquire among your fellow-lodgers,
They'll tell you Phoebus gave his crown,
Some years before your birth, to Rogers.

"Let every other bring his own."
When coals to Newcastle are carried,
And owls sent to Athens as wonders,
From his spouse when the Regent's unmarried
Or Liverpool weeps o'er his blunders;
When Tories and Whigs cease to quarrel,
When Castlereagh's wife has an heir,
Then Rogers shall ask us for laurel,

And thou shalt have plenty to spare

TO THOMAS MOORE.

THE DEVIL'S DRIVE.

lines, the only copy that Lord Byron, I believe, ever wrote, be prID, V Lord Holland. Though with a good deal of vigor and imagination, for the most part, rather clumsily executed, wanting the point and sale Bation of those clever verses of Mr. Coleridge which Lord Byron, adquy a notion long prevalent, has attributed to Professor Porson. The however, some of the stanzas of "The Devil's Drive" well wará p serving.]-Moore.

WRITTEN THE EVENING BEFORE HIS VISIT, IN COM-[Of this strange, wild poem, which extends to about two hundred and thy
PANY WITH LORD BYRON, TO MR. LEIGH HUNT
IN HORSEMONGER-LANE JAIL, MAY 19, 1813.
Oн you, who in all names can tickle the town,
Anacreon, Tom Little, Tom Moore, or Tom Brown,-
For hang me if I know of which you may most brag,
Your Quarto two-pounds, or your Two-penny Post
Bag;

But now to my letter-to yours 'tis an answer-
To-morrow be with me, as soon as you can, sir,
All ready and dress'd for proceeding to spunge on
(According to compact) the wit in the dungeon-
Pray Phoebus at length our political malice
May not get us lodgings within the same palace!
I suppose that to-night you're engaged with some
codgers,

And for Sotheby's Blues have deserted Sam Rogers;
And I, though with cold I have nearly my death got,
Must put on my breeches, and wait on the Heathcote,
But to-morrow, at four, we will both play the Scurra,
And you'll be Catullus, the Regent Mamurra.

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THE Devil return'd to hell by two,

And he staid at home till five;
When he dined on some homicides done in ragont,
And a rebel or so in an Irish stew,
And sausages made of a self-slain Jew,
And bethought himself what next to do,
And," quoth he, "I'll take a drive,

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I walk'd in the morning, I'll ride to-night
In darkness my children take most delight,
And I'll see how my favorites thrive.

" And what shall I ride in?" quoth Lucifer then-
"If I follow'd my taste, indeed,

I should mount in a wagon of wounded men,
And smile to see them bleed.
But these will be furnish'd again and again,
And at present my purpose is speed;
To see my manor as much as I may,
And watch that no souls shall be poach'd away.

"I have a state-coach at Carlton House,

A chariot in Seymour Place;
But they're lent to two friends, who make me amends
By driving my favorite pace:
And they handle their reins with such a grace,
I have something for both at the end of their race.

"So now for the earth to take my chance."
Then up to the earth sprung he;
And making a jump from Moscow to France,
He stepp'd across the sea,
And rested his hoof on a turnpike road,
No very great way from a bishop's abode.

But first as he flew, I forgot to say,
That he hover'd a moment upon his way

To look upon Leipsic plain;
And so sweet to his eye was its sulphury glare,
And so soft to his ear was the cry of despair,

And he gazed with delight from its growing height,
That he perch'd on a mountain of slain;
Nor often on earth had he seen such a sight,
Nor his work done half as well:

For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,

That it blushed like the waves of hell! Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh'd he; "Methinks they have here little need of me!"

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and But the softest note that soothed his ear

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Was the sound of a widow sighing:
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue clear

eye

Of a maid by her lover lying-
As round her fell her long fair hair;
And she look'd to heaven with that frenzied air,
Which seem'd to ask if a God were there!
And, stretch'd by the wall of a ruin'd hut,
With his hollow cheek, and eyes half shut,

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