When stretch'd on fever's sleepless bed, And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, "T is comfort still,' I faintly said,

That Thyrza cannot know my pains: ' Like freedom to the time-worn slave, A boon 't is idle then to give, Relenting Nature vainly gave

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live!

My Thyrza's pledge in better days,
When love and life alike were new!
How different now thou meet'st my gaze!
How tinged by time with sorrow's hue!
The heart that gave itself with thee
Is silent - ah, were mine as still!
Though cold as e'en the dead can be,
It feels, it sickens with the chill.

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It is enough for me to prove

That what I loved, and long must love, Like common earth can rot;

To me there needs no stone to tell, 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.

Yet did I love thee to the last As fervently as thou,

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Who didst not change through all the past
And canst not alter now.

The love where Death has set his seal,
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,

Nor falsehood disavow:

And, what were worse, thou canst not see Or wrong, or change, or fault in me.

I know not if I could have borne
To see thy beauties fade;
The night that follow'd such a morn

Had worn a deeper shade:
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,
And thou wert lovely to the last,

Extinguish'd, not decay'd;

As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high

As once I wept, if I could weep,
My tears might well be shed,
To think I was not near to keep
One vigil o'er thy bed;
To gaze, how fondly! on thy face,
To fold thee in a faint embrace,
Uphold thy drooping head;
And show that love, however vain,
Nor thou nor I can feel again.

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IF sometimes in the haunts of men
Thine image from my breast may fade,
The lonely hour presents again

The semblance of thy gentle shade:
And now that sad and silent hour

Thus much of thee can still restore, And sorrow unobserved may pour The plaint she dare not speak before.

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile

I waste one thought I owe to thee, And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, Unfaithful to thy Memory! Nor deem that memory less dear, That then I seem not to repine; I would not fools should overhear One sigh that should be wholly thine.

If not the goblet pass unquaff'd,

It is not drain'd to banish care;
The cup must hold a deadlier draught,
That brings a Lethe for despair.
And could Oblivion set my soul

From all her troubled visions free,
I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl
That drown'd a single thought of thee.

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[Drury-Lane Theatre had burned down February 24, 1809, and Byron had himself viewed the fire from ' a house-top in Covent Garden.' The managers advertised a general competition of addresses for the opening of the restored edifice, and scores of poems, all intolerably poor, were submitted. Lord Holland, in despair, finally appealed to Byron for an address, and the following verses of his were spoken by Mr. Elliston. The Rejected Addresses has made the occasion ever memorable.]

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, Bow'd to the dust the Drama's tower of pride;

Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old! Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, Still may we please - long, long may you preside!

PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS

BY DR. PLAGIARY

[Among the rejected addresses was one by Dr. Busby which his son attempted to recite on the stage by force on October 14. He was taken into custody for his pains, but on the next night Dr. Busby obtained a hearing for his son. Byron in the satire below ridicules the ineffective delivery of the young man whose voice was quite inarticulate.' He introduces the verses with these words :] Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master B. at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation - thus

'If mighty things with small we may compare'

(Translated from the grammar for the fair!),

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Dramatic spirit drives a conquering car,' And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of

'tar.'

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