Textarchiv - George Gordon Lord Byron

To Caroline

mrbot — Sun, 12 Aug 2018 21:10:06 +0000

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 cannot 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 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,

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.

'Tis 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.

10.

Ah! would these joyous moments last;
Vain Hope! the gay delusion's past,
That voice!—ah! no, 'tis but the blast,
⁠Which echoes through the neighbouring grove.

11.

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

12.

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.

George Gordon Lord Byron

1802

To Caroline

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jul 2018 21:10:02 +0000

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!

George Gordon Lord Byron

1803

On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin to the Author, and very dear to Him

mrbot — Tue, 03 Jul 2018 21:10:05 +0000

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
⁠Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,
⁠And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

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.

Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
⁠Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
⁠Not here the Muse her virtues would relate.

But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
⁠Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers,
⁠Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign!
⁠And, madly, Godlike Providence accuse!
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;—
⁠I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse.

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
⁠Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,
⁠Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

George Gordon Lord Byron

1802

To E——

mrbot — Wed, 20 Jun 2018 21:10:07 +0000

Let Folly smile, to view the names
⁠Of thee and me, in Friendship twin'd;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims
⁠To love, than rank with vice combin'd.

And though unequal is thy fate,
⁠Since title deck'd my higher birth;
Yet envy not this gaudy state,
⁠Thine is the pride of modest worth.

Our souls at least congenial meet,
⁠Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace;
Our intercourse is not less sweet,
⁠Since worth of rank supplies the place.

George Gordon Lord Byron

1802

To D——

mrbot — Tue, 19 Jun 2018 21:10:02 +0000

In thee, I fondly hop'd to clasp
⁠A friend, whom death alone could sever;
Till envy, with malignant grasp,
⁠Detach'd thee from my breast for ever.

True, she has forc'd thee from my breast,
⁠Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat;
There, there, thine image still must rest,
⁠Until that heart shall cease to beat.

And, when the grave restores her dead,
⁠When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head—
⁠Without thee! where would be my Heaven?

George Gordon Lord Byron

1803

To Emma

mrbot — Fri, 15 Jun 2018 21:10:05 +0000

Since now the hour is come at last,
⁠When 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 us'd 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 envied every fly the kiss,
⁠It dar'd to give your slumbering eyes:

See still the little painted bark,
⁠In which I row'd you o'er the lake;
See there, high waving 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 prov'd,
⁠The anguish of a last embrace?
When, torn from all you fondly lov'd,
⁠You bid a long adieu to peace.

10.

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

George Gordon Lord Byron

1805

On Leaving Newstead Abbey

mrbot — Mon, 16 Jan 2017 21:38:01 +0000

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle:
Thou, the hall of my Fathers, art gone to decay;
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choak'd up the rose, which late bloom'd in the way.

Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who, proudly, to battle,
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,
The escutcheon and shield, which with ev'ry blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame, in the breast, for the war-laurell'd wreath;
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers,
Unnerv'd is the hand of his minstrel, by death.

Paul and Hubert too sleep in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell:
My Fathers! the tears of your country redress ye:
How you fought! how you died! still her annals can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending,
Four brothers enrich'd, with their blood, the bleak field;
For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd.

Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his Fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish;
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown:
Like you will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own!

George Gordon Lord Byron

1803