Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

To think of every early scene,

Of what we are, and what we've been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe-

But mine, alas! has stood the blow;

Yet still beats on as it begun,

And never truly loves but one.

And who that dear loved one may be
Is not for vulgar eyes to see,
And why that early love was crost,
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

I've tried another's fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

"Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. (1)

1809.

(1) Thus corrected by himself, in his mother's copy of Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany; the two last lines being originally.

LINES TO MR. HODGSON.

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET.

HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing

Bend the canvass o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a rascal

Come to task all,

Prying from the custom-house;
Trunks unpacking,

Cases cracking,

Not a corner for a mouse

'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket, Ere we sail on board the Packet.

Now our boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient-push from shore:
"Have a care! that case holds liquor-
Stop the boat-I'm sick-oh Lord!"
"Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board."

VOL. VII.

"Though wheresoe'er my bark may run,
I love but thee, I love but one."— E.

X

Thus are screaming

Men and women,

Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here entangling,

All are wrangling,

Stuck together close as wax.— Such the general noise and racket, Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.

Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
Passengers their births are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
Hey day! call you that a cabin ?

Why 'tis hardly three feet square;

Not enough to stow Queen Mab in
Who the deuce can harbour there?"
"Who, sir? plenty-
Nobles twenty

Did at once my vessel fill.".

"Did they? Jesus,

How you squeeze us!

Would to God they did so still: Then I'd scape the heat and racket

Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet."

Fletcher! Murray! Bob! (1) where are you? Stretch'd along the deck like logs

Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!

Here's a rope's end for the dogs.

Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,

Vomits forth - and damns our souls.

"Here's a stanza

On Braganza

Help!"-"A couplet ?"-" No, a cup

"What's the matter?"

"Zounds! my liver's coming up;

I shall not survive the racket

Of this brutal Lisbon Packet."

Now at length we're off for Turkey,

Lord knows when we shall come back!

Breezes foul and tempests murky

May unship us in a crack.

But, since life at most a jest is,
As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on-as I do now.
Laugh at all things,

Great and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,

Let's have laughing —

Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet? (1)

Falmouth Roads, June 30. 1809.

(1) In the letter in which these lively verses were enclosed, Lord Byron "I leave England without regret-I shall return to it without

says:

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA.

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by;

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
May mine attract thy pensive eye!

And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance in some succeeding year,

Reflect on me as on the dead,

And think my

heart is buried here.

September 14. 1809.

TO FLORENCE. (1)

OH Lady! when I left the shore,

The distant shore which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more,
To quit another spot on earth:

pleasure. I am like Adam, the first convict sentenced to transportation; but I have no Eve, and have eaten no apple but what was sour as a crab; and thus ends my first chapter."- E.

(1) These lines were written at Malta. The lady to whom they were addressed, and whom he afterwards apostrophises in the stanzas on the thunderstorm of Zitza and in Childe Harold, is thus mentioned in a letter to his mother:-"This letter is committed to the charge of a very extraordinary lady, whom you have doubtless heard of, Mrs. Spencer Smith, of whose escape the Marquis de Salvo published a narrative a few years ago. She has since been shipwrecked; and her life has been from its commencement so fertile in remarkable incidents, that in a romance they would