THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME.

THERE was a time, I need not name,

Since it will ne'er forgotten be, When all our feelings were the same soul hath been to thee.

As still my

And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine,

None, none hath sunk so deep as this
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,

But transient in thy breast alone.

And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,
Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes! 'tis a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.

AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN 1 AM LOW?

AND wilt thou weep when I am low?
Sweet lady! speak those words again :
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so—
I would not give that bosom pain.

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone,

My blood runs coldly through my breast; And when I perish, thou alone

Wilt sigh above my place of rest.

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine;
And for awhile my sorrows cease,
To know thy heart hath felt for mine.

Oh lady! blessed be that tear

It falls for one who cannot weep:
Such precious drops are doubly dear
To those whose eyes no tear may steep.

Sweet lady! once my heart was warm
With every feeling soft as thine;
But beauty's self hath ceased to charm
A wretch created to repine.

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low?

Sweet lady! speak those words again;

Yet if they grieve thee, say not so—

I would not give that bosom pain. (1)

(1) The melancholy which was now gaining fast upon the young poet's mind was a source of much uneasiness to his friends. It was at this period that the following pleasant verses were addressed to him by Mr. Hobhouse:

EPISTLE

TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN IN LOVE.

HAIL! generous youth, whom glory's sacred flame
Inspires, and animates to deeds of fame;
Who feel the noble wish before you die
To raise the finger of each passer-by:
Hail! may a future age admiring view
A Falkland, or a Clarendon in you.

But as your blood with dangerous passion boils,
Beware! and fly from Venus' silken toils:
Ah! let the head protect the weaker heart,
And Wisdom's Ægis turn on Beauty's dart.

And you and Newstead must not want an heir,
Lose not your pains, and scour the country round,

To find a treasure that can ne'er be found!

No! take the first the town or court affords,
'Trick'd out to stock a market for the lords;
By chance perhaps your luckier choice may fall
On one, though wicked, not the worst of all:

Not farther much from comfort than from strife;
And when she dies, and disappoints your fears,
Shall leave some joys for your declining years.

But, as, your early youth some time allows,
Nor custom yet demands you for a spouse,
Some hours of freedom may remain as yet
For one who laughs alike at love and debt:
Then, why in haste? put off the evil day,
And snatch at youthful comforts whilst you may!

FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN

A SONG.

FILL the goblet again! for I never before
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core ;
Let us drink!-who would not?-since, through
life's varied round,

In the goblet alone no deception is found.

Pause! nor so soon the various bliss forego
That single souls, and such alone, can know :
Ah! why too early careless life resign,
Your morning slumber, and your evening wine;
Your loved companion, and his easy talk;
Your Muse, invoked in every peaceful walk.
What! can no more your scenes paternal please,
Scenes sacred long to wise, unmated ease?
The prospect lengthen'd o'er the distant down,
Lakes, meadows, rising woods, and all your own?

What! shall your Newstead, shall your cloister'd bowers,
The high o'er-hanging arch and trembling towers!

Shall these, profaned with folly or with strife,

And ever fond, or ever angry wife!

Shall these no more confess a manly sway,

But changeful woman's changing whims obey?
Who may, perhaps, as varying humour calls,
Contract your cloisters and o'erthrow your walls:
Let Repton loose o'er all the ancient ground,

Change round to square, and square convert to round;
Root up the elms' and yews' too solemn gloom,
And fill with shrubberies gay and green their room;
Roll down the terrace to a gay parterre,

Where gravel'd walks and flowers alternate glare;
And quite transform, in ev'ry point complete,

Your gothic abbey to a country seat.

Forget the fair one, and your fate delay;

If not avert, at least defer the day

When you beneath the female yoke shall bend,
And lose your wit, your temper, and your friend.*

Trin. Coll. Camb. 1808.

* In his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's volume, now before us, Lord Byron has here written with a pencil,-“I have lost them all, and shall WED accordingly. 1811. B."-E

I have tried in its turn all that life can supply;
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye;
I have loved!-who has not?- but what heart can
declare

That pleasure existed while passion was there?

In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its spring,

And dreams that affection can never take wing,
I had friends! — who has not? - but what tongue

will avow,

That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou?

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam thou never canst change:

Thou grow'st old - who does not?- but on earth what appears,

Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years?

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow,
Should a rival bow down to our idol below,

We are jealous! who's not?-thou hast no such

alloy;

For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy,

Then the season of youth and its vanities past,
For refuge we fly to the goblet at last;

There we find- do we not? in the flow of the

soul,

That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl.