Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion (1), smiled on youth.

ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." (2)

MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;

Yet some shall never be forgot -
Some shall exist beyond the grave.

"Unknown the region of his birth,"

The hero (3) rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,

Which glares a meteor from afar.

(1) "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb. [See a subsequent poem, under this title. -E]

(2) Written by James Montgomery, author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," &c.

(3) No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c. are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.

His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame ;
Yet nations now unborn will know
The record of his deathless name.

The patriot's and the poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
That will arise, though empires fall.

The lustre of a beauty's eye,

Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath.

Once more the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives :
She died, but ne'er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,

And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;

The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.

What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd

By those whose virtues claim reward.

Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;

Some few who ne'er will be forgot

Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

1806.

TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR
WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND
HER TRESSES.

THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,

Like relics left of saints above.

Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
"Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee;

From me again 'twill ne'er depart,

But mingle in the grave with me.

The dew I gather from thy lip

Is not so dear to me as this;

That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss:

This will recall each youthful scene,

E'en when our lives are on the wane; The leaves of Love will still be green When Memory bids them bud again.

Oh! little lock of golden hue,

In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world.

Not though a thousand more adorn
The polish'd brow where once you shone,
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,

Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.

1806. [Now first published.

REMEMBRANCE.

"Tis done! - I saw it in my dreams:
No more with Hope the future beams;
My days of happiness are few:
Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast,
My dawn of life is overcast;

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! —
Would I could add Remembrance too!

1806. [Now first published.]

LINES ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY.

DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;

I cannot deny such a precept is wise;

But retirement accords with the tone of my mind: I will not descend to a world I despise.

Did the senate or camp my exertions require, Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; When infancy's years of probation expire, Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth.

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd,
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;
At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd,

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress.(1)

Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame
Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise.
Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame,
With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.

(1) The true reason of the haughty distance at which Byron, both at this period and afterwards, stood apart from his more opulent neighbours, is to be found (says Moore) "in his mortifying consciousness of the inadequacy of his own means to his rank, and the proud dread of being made to feel his own inferiority by persons to whom, in every other respect, he knew himself superior." Mr. Becher frequently expostulated with him on this unsociableness; and one of his friendly remonstrances drew forth these lines, so remarkably prefiguring the splendid burst with which Lord Byron's volcanic genius was ere long to open upon the world.-E.