The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 3

Name: The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 3
Author: George Gordon Byron

by George Gordon Byron

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English poetry

In: Poetry·Poetry·Classics of Literature

Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #21811.

About this book

The third volume of Lord Byron’s collected works gathers a miscellany of poems, speeches, and occasional pieces that first appeared in periodicals and theatrical programmes between 1812 and 1814. It opens with a series of lyrical fragments, “The chain I gave was fair to view, the lute I added sweet in sound”, that explore themes of broken promises and muted music, followed by a dramatic address delivered at the opening of Drury‑Lane Theatre in October 1812. The book then moves through a range of material, from a satirical monologue on theatrical excess to solemn verses on memory, time, and love, each bearing the dates of their original publication. The assortment is presented as a single continuous text, preserving the original headings and marginal notes that identify each piece’s first appearance.

Byron’s voice in this volume is unmistakably his: a blend of Romantic fervor, sharp wit, and a penchant for classical allusion, all rendered in the polished, elevated diction of early‑19th‑century English poetry. The poems oscillate between passionate lyricism and incisive commentary, making the collection appealing to readers who enjoy the intensity of Byron’s personal reflections as well as the broader cultural critiques of his era. Those with an interest in Romantic literature, theatrical history, or the evolution of Byron’s poetic style will find this volume a rewarding, if eclectic, glimpse into the poet’s prolific middle period.

The opening · free to read

When thou wert changed, they altered too; The chain is broke, the music mute, 'Tis past--to them and thee adieu-- False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

[MS. M. First published, Corsair, 1814 (Second Edition).]

LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.[bm]

Absent or present, still to thee, My friend, what magic spells belong! As all can tell, who share, like me, In turn thy converse,[37] and thy song.

But when the dreaded hour shall come By Friendship ever deemed too nigh, And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb[38] Shall weep that aught of thee can die,

How fondly will she then repay Thy homage offered at her shrine, And blend, while ages roll away, Her name immortally with thine!

April 19, 1812. [First published, Poems, 1816.]

ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.[39]

In one dread night our city saw, and sighed, Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign.

Ye who beheld, (oh! sight admired and mourned, Whose radiance mocked the ruin it adorned!) Through clouds of fire the massy fragments riven, Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven; Saw the long column of revolving flames Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames,[40] 10 While thousands, thronged around the burning dome, Shrank back appalled, and trembled for their home, As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone[bn] The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall[bo] Usurped the Muse's realm, and marked her fall; Say--shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, Reared where once rose the mightiest in our isle, Know the same favour which the former knew, A shrine for Shakespeare--worthy him and you? 20

Yes--it shall be--the magic of that name Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame;[bp] On the same spot still consecrates the scene, And bids the Drama be where she hath been: This fabric's birth attests the potent spell---- Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well!

As soars this fane to emulate the last, Oh! might we draw our omens from the past, Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 30 On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art O'erwhelmed the gentlest, stormed the sternest heart. On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew; Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, Sighed his last thanks, and wept his last adieu: But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. Such Drury claimed and claims--nor you refuse One tribute to revive his slumbering muse; With garlands deck your own Menander's head, 40 Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead![bq] Dear are the days which made our annals bright, Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley[41] ceased to write[br] Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs; While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's glass To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine Immortal names, emblazoned on our line, Pause--ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 50 Reflect how hard the task to rival them!

Friends of the stage! to whom both Players and Plays Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, Whose judging voice and eye alone direct The boundless power to cherish or reject; If e'er frivolity has led to fame, And made us blush that you forbore to blame-- If e'er the sinking stage could condescend To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend-- All past reproach may present scenes refute, 60 And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute![42] Oh! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause; So Pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, And Reason's voice be echoed back by ours!

This greeting o'er--the ancient rule obeyed,[43] The Drama's homage by her herald paid-- Receive our welcome too--whose every tone Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own. The curtain rises--may our stage unfold 70 Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please--long, long may you preside.

[First published, Morning Chronicle, Oct. 12, 1812.]

Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master ---- at the opening of the next new theatre. [Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation--thus "----".]

"When energising objects men pursue," Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. A modest Monologue you here survey, Hissed from the theatre the "other day," As if Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse, And gave his son "the rubbish" to rehearse. "Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," Knew you the rumpus which the Author raised; "Nor even here your smiles would be represt," Knew you these lines--the badness of the best, 10 "Flame! fire! and flame!" (words borrowed from Lucretius.[45]) "Dread metaphors" which open wounds like issues! "And sleeping pangs awake--and----But away"-- (Confound me if I know what next to say). Lo "Hope reviving re-expands her wings," And Master G---- recites what Dr. Busby sings!-- "If mighty things with small we may compare," (Translated from the Grammar for the fair!) Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car," And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of "tar." 20 "This spirit" "Wellington has shown in Spain," To furnish Melodrames for Drury Lane. "Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story," And George and I will dramatise it for ye.

"In Arts and Sciences our Isle hath shone" (This deep discovery is mine alone). Oh "British poesy, whose powers inspire" My verse--or I'm a fool--and Fame's a liar, "Thee we invoke, your Sister Arts implore" With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," and much more. 30 These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain Disgraces, too! "inseparable train!" "Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid" (You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid): "Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto Now to produce in a "divine sestetto"!! "While Poesy," with these delightful doxies, "Sustains her part" in all the "upper" boxes! "Thus lifted gloriously, you'll sweep along," Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 40 "Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play" (For this last line George had a holiday). "Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," So says the Manager, and so say I. "But hold," you say, "this self-complacent boast;" Is this the Poem which the public lost? "True--true--that lowers at once our mounting pride;" But lo;--the Papers print what you deride. "'Tis ours to look on _you_--_you_ hold the prize," 'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise! 50 "A double blessing your rewards impart"-- I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. "Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause," Why son and I both beg for your applause. "When in your fostering beams you bid us live," My next subscription list shall say how much you give!

[First published, Morning Chronicle, October 23, 1812.]

VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT HALES-OWEN.[46]

When Dryden's fool, "unknowing what he sought," His hours in whistling spent, "for want of thought,"[47] This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense Supplied, and amply too, by innocence: Did modern swains, possessed of Cymon's powers, In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, Th' offended guests would not, with blushing, see These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. Severe the fate of modern fools, alas! When vice and folly mark them as they pass. Like noxious reptiles o'er the whitened wall, The filth they leave still points out where they crawl.

[First published, 1832, vol. xvii.]

Remember thee! remember thee! Till Lethe quench life's burning stream Remorse and Shame shall cling to thee, And haunt thee like a feverish dream!

Remember thee! Aye, doubt it not. Thy husband too shall think of thee: By neither shalt thou be forgot, Thou false to him, thou fiend to me![49]

[First published, Conversations of Lord Byron, 1824.]

TO TIME.

Time! on whose arbitrary wing The varying hours must flag or fly, Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, But drag or drive us on to die-- Hail thou! who on my birth bestowed Those boons to all that know thee known; Yet better I sustain thy load, For now I bear the weight alone. I would not one fond heart should share The bitter moments thou hast given; And pardon thee--since thou couldst spare All that I loved, to peace or Heaven. To them be joy or rest--on me Thy future ills shall press in vain; I nothing owe but years to thee, A debt already paid in pain. Yet even that pain was some relief; It felt, but still forgot thy power:[bs] The active agony of grief Retards, but never counts the hour.[bt] In joy I've sighed to think thy flight Would soon subside from swift to slow; Thy cloud could overcast the light, But could not add a night to Woe; For then, however drear and dark, My soul was suited to thy sky; One star alone shot forth a spark To prove thee--not Eternity. That beam hath sunk--and now thou art A blank--a thing to count and curse Through each dull tedious trifling part, Which all regret, yet all rehearse. One scene even thou canst not deform-- The limit of thy sloth or speed When future wanderers bear the storm Which we shall sleep too sound to heed. And I can smile to think how weak Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, When all the vengeance thou canst wreak Must fall upon--a nameless stone.

[MS. M. First published, Childe Harold, 1814 (Seventh Edition).]

TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG.

Ah! Love was never yet without The pang, the agony, the doubt, Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, While day and night roll darkling by.

Without one friend to hear my woe, I faint, I die beneath the blow. That Love had arrows, well I knew, Alas! I find them poisoned too.

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net Which Love around your haunts hath set; Or, circled by his fatal fire, Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire.

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