Fugitive Pieces

by Baron George Gordon Byron Byron

TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.

1.

This faint resemblance of thy charms,

(Though strong as mortal art could give)

My constant heart of fear disarms,

Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

2.

Here I can trace the locks of gold,

Which round thy snowy forehead wave,

The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould,

The lips which made me Beauty's slave.

3.

Here I can trace—ah no! that eye,

Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

Must all the painter's art defy,

And bid him from the task retire.

4.

Here I behold, its beauteous hue,

But where's the beam of soft desire?

Which gave a lustre to its blue,

Love, only love, could e'er inspire.

5.

Sweet copy! far more dear to me,

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

Than all the living forms could be,

Save her, who plac'd thee next my heart.

6.

She plac'd it, sad with needless fear,

Lest time might shake my wavering soul,

Unconscious that her image there,

Held every sense in fast controul.

7.

Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer,

My hope in gloomy moments raise;

In life's last conflict 't'will appear,

And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

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ON THE DEATH OF Mr. FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE MORNING POST.

"Our Nation's foes, lament on Fox's death,

"But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath;

"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,

"We give the palm, where Justice points its due."

To which the Author of these Pieces, sent the subjoined Reply, for Insertion in the MORNING CHRONICLE.—

Oh! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth,

Would mangle still the dead, in spite of truth,

What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,

With generous feeling, of the good and great;

Shall therefore dastard tongues assail the name

Of him whose virtues claim eternal fame?

When PITT expired in plenitude of power,

Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour,

Pity her dewy wings before him spread,

For noble spirits "war not with the dead;"

His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,

And all his errors slumber'd in the grave.

He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight,

Of cares oppressing our unhappy state;

But lo! another Hercules appear'd,

Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd;

He too is dead! who still our England propp'd,

With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd;

Not one great people only raise his urn,

All Europe's far extended regions mourn.

"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,

"And give the palm where Justice points it due;"

But let not canker'd calumny assail,

And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,

Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep;

For whom at last, even hostile nations groan,

And friends and foes alike his talents own;

Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine,

Nor e'en to Pitt, the patriot's palm resign;

Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,

For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.

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TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.

These locks which fondly thus entwine,

In firmer chains our hearts confine;

Than all th' unmeaning protestations,

Which swell with nonsense, love orations.

Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it,

Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it;

Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine,

With groundless jealousy repine.

With silly whims, and fancies frantic,

Merely to make our love romantic.

Why should you weep like Lydia Languish,

And fret with self-created anguish.

Or doom the lover you have chosen,

On winter nights, to sigh half frozen:

In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,

Only because the scene's a garden.

For gardens seem by one consent

(Since SHAKESPEARE set the precedent;)

(Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)

To form the place of assignation.

Oh! would some modern muse inspire,

And seat her by a sea-coal fire,

Or had the bard at Christmas written,

And laid the scene of love in Britain;

He surely in commiseration,

Had chang'd the place of declaration.

In Italy I've no objection,

Warm nights are proper for reflection;

But here, our climate is so rigid,

That love itself, is rather frigid;

Think on our chilly situation,

And curb this rage for imitation.

Then let us meet, as oft we've done,

Beneath the influence of the sun;

Or, if at midnight I must meet you,

Oh! let me in your chamber greet you;

There we can love for hours together,

Much better in such snowy weather,

Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves,

That ever witness'd rural loves;

There if my passion fail to please,

Next night I'll be content to freeze;

No more I'll give a loose to laughter,

But curse my fate, forever after.

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