HOURS OF IDLENESS.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY,

COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY DEAR TO HIM.*

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 seized 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 decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Not here the muse her virtues would relate.

* The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at the age of fourteen), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration.

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 virtue's 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.

1802.*

*["My first dash into poetry was as early as 1800. It was the ebullition of a passion for my first cousin, Margaret Parker, (daughter and grand-daughter of the two Admirals Parker,) one of the most beautiful of evanescent beings. I have long forgotten the verse; but it would be difficult for me to forget her her dark eyes - her long eye-lashes her completely Greek cast of face and figure! I was then about twelve-she rather older, perhaps a year. She died about a year or two afterwards, in consequence of a fall, which injured her spine, and induced consumption. Her sister Augusta (by some thought still more beautiful) died of the same malady; and it was, indeed, in attending her, that Margaret met with the accident which occasioned her death. My sister told me, that when she went to see her, shortly before her death, upon accidentally mentioning my name, Margaret colored, throughout the paleness of mortality, to the eyes, to the great astonishment of my sister, who knew nothing of our attachment, nor could conceive why my name should affect her at such a time. I knew nothing of her illness-being

TO E

LET Folly smile, to view the names
Of thee and me in friendship twined;
Yet Virtue will have greater claims

To love, than rank with vice combined.

And though unequal is thy fate,
Since title decked 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.

November, 1802.

TO D

In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp

A friend, whom death alone could sever;

at Harrow and in the country-till she was gone. Some years after, I made an attempt at an elegy -a very dull one. I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to the transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her temper, during the short period of our intimacy. She looked as if she had been made out of a rainbow- all beauty and peace." ― Byron's Diary, 1821.] * [This little poem, and some others in the collection, refer

Till envy, with malignant grasp,
Detached thee from my breast for ever.

True, she has forced 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?

February, 1803.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

“Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῖσιν έῷος.” — LAERTIUS.

Он, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honored bier!
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force ;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;

to a boy of Byron's own age, son of one of his tenants at New. stead, for whom he had formed a romantic attachment, previous to any of his school intimacies.]

Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honor and thy friend's delight.*
If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh

The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.

*[From this point the lines in the private edition were entirely different:

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:

For thee alone I lived, or wished to live;

Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive!
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where, this frail form composed in endless rest,
I'll make my last cold pillow on thy breast;
That breast where oft in life I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead;
This life resigned, without one parting sigh,
Together in one bed of earth we 'll lie!
Together share the fate to mortals given;

Together mix our dust, and hope for heaven."

The epitaph is supposed to commemorate the youth who is the subject of the verses "To E-." The latter piece was omitted in the published volume, which, coupled with the obliteration of every allusion to his humble origin in the epitaph, led Moore to infer that growing pride of rank made Byron ashamed of the plebeian friendship.]