power,

Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.

Oh! hardy thou wert- -even now little care

Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal:

But thou wert not fated affection to share

For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel?

Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while; Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall

run,

The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,
When Infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay,

For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,

And still may thy branches their beauty display.

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,

Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,

The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread.
Oh! surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

1807. [Now first published.]

ON REVISITING HARROW. (1)

HERE once engaged the stranger's view
Young Friendship's record simply traced;
Few were her words,—but yet, though few,
Resentment's hand the line defaced.

Deeply she cut- but not erased,

The characters were still so plain,

That Friendship once return'd, and gazed,—
Till Memory hail'd the words again.

Repentance placed them as before;
Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;
So fair the inscription seem'd once more,

That Friendship thought it still the same.

(1) Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place 1807, he wrote under it these stanzas.

Thus might the Record now have been;
But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour,
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between,
And blotted out the line for ever!

September, 1807.

EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL,

A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENness.

JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell, A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well; He carried so much, and he carried so fast,

He could carry no more

so was carried at last; For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one, He could not carry off, so he's now carri-on.

September, 1807.

TO MY SON. (1)

THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,

Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,

And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!

(1) Neither the recorded conversations of Lord Byron, nor his letters or diaries, furnish any trace of evidence that such a son ever existed. — E

And thou canst lisp a father's name
Ah, William, were thine own the same,-
No self-reproach— but, let me cease
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast.
Derision sneers upon thy birth,
And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,-
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!

Why, let the world unfeeling frown,
Must I fond Nature's claim disown?
Ah, no-though moralists reprove,
I hail thee, dearest child of love,
Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy-
A Father guards thy birth, my Boy!

Oh, 'twill be sweet in thee to trace,
Ere
age has wrinkled o'er my face,
Ere half my glass of life is run,
At once a brother and a son;
And all my wane of years employ
In justice done to thee, my Boy!

Although so young thy heedless sire,
Youth will not damp parental fire;
And, wert thou still less dear to me,
While Helen's form revives in thee,

The breast, which beat to former joy,
Will ne'er desert its pledge, my Boy!

1807.

FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER.

FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky. "Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word - Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel:
I only know we loved in vain

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!

1808.

BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL.

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul !
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.