My Recollections of Lord Byron Part 20

Harrow is called Ida, as his friends are denominated by fict.i.tious names. To the college itself, and to the recollections which it brought back to his memory of physical and mental suffering, he addresses himself:--

"Ida! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train!

Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, Again I mingle with thy playful quire.

My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe, Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe; Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past, I bless the former, and forgive the last."

The same kind, affectionate disposition can be traced in all his other poems, together with those well-inculcated notions of G.o.d's justice, wisdom, and mercy, of toleration and forgiveness, of hatred of falsehood and contempt of prejudices, which never abandoned him throughout his life.

I really pity those who could read "The Tear" without being touched by its simple, plaintive style, written in the tenderest strain, or "L'Amitie est l'Amour sans Ailes," or the lines to the Duke of Dorset on leaving Harrow, or the "Prayer of Nature," or his stanzas to Lord Clare, to Lord Delaware, to Edward Long, or his generous forgiveness of Miss Chaworth; or, again, his lines on believing that he was going to die, his answer to a poem called "The Common Lot," his reply to Dr. Beecher, and, finally, his address to a companion whose conduct obliged him to withdraw his friendship:--

"What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, Will deign to own a kindred care?

Who will debase his manly mind, For friendship every fool may share?

"In time forbear; amid the throng No more so base a thing be seen; No more so idly pa.s.s along; Be something, any thing but--mean."

Since our object is to show in these effusions of a youthful mind, its natural beauty, and not that genius which is shortly to be developed by contact with the troubles and pains of this life, it may not be irrelevant to our subject to give in parts, if not entirely, some of the poems which he wrote at this time:--

THE TEAR.

"O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater Felix! in imo qui scatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."--GRAY.

When Friendship or Love our sympathies move, When truth in a glance should appear, The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, But the test of affection's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile, To mask detestation or fear; Give me the soft sigh, while the soul-telling eye Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compa.s.sion will melt where this virtue is felt, And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, Through billows Atlantic to steer, As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave, The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath In glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride, Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, All his toils are repaid, when, embracing the maid, From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.

Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth,[23]

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd, But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more, My Mary to love once so dear, In the shade of her bower I remember the hour She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest, she may live ever blest!

Her name still my heart must revere: With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, This hope to my breast is most near: If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, May we meet as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, And my corse shall recline on its bier, As ye pa.s.s by the tomb where my ashes consume, Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow the splendor of woe, Which the children of vanity rear; No fiction of fame shall blazon my name, All I ask--all I wish--is a Tear.

L'AMITIe EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES.

Why should my anxious breast repine, Because my youth is fled?

Days of delight may still be mine; Affection is not dead.

In tracing back the years of youth, One firm record, one lasting truth, Celestial consolation brings; Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat, Where first my heart responsive beat, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Through few, but deeply checker'd years, What moments have been mine!

Now half-obscured by clouds of tears, Now bright in rays divine; Howe'er my future doom be cast, My soul enraptured with the past, To one idea fondly clings; Friendship! that thought is all thine own, Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone-- "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave Their branches on the gale, Unheeded heaves a simple grave, Which tells the common tale; Round this unconscious schoolboys stray, Till the dull knell of childish play From yonder studious mansion rings; But here when'er my footsteps move, My silent tears too plainly prove "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Oh, Love! before thy glowing shrine My early vows were paid; My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, But these are now decay'd; For thine are pinions like the wind, No trace of thee remains behind, Except, alas! thy jealous stings.

Away, away! delusive power, Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour; Unless, indeed, without thy wings.

Seat of my youth! thy distant spire Recalls each scene of joy; My bosom glows with former fire, In mind again a boy.

Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill Thy every path delights me still, Each flower a double fragrance flings; Again, as once, in converse gay, Each dear a.s.sociate seems to say, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

My Lycus! wherefore dost thou weep?

Thy falling tears restrain; Affection for a time may sleep, But, oh! 'twill wake again.

Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet!

From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

In one, and one alone deceived, Did I my error mourn?

No--from oppressive bonds relieved, I left the wretch to scorn.

I turn'd to those my childhood knew, With feelings warm, with bosoms true, Twined with my heart's according strings; And till those vital chords shall break, For none but these my breast shall wake Friendship, the power deprived of wings!

Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, My memory and my hope; Your worth a lasting love insures, Unfetter'd in its scope; From smooth deceit and terror sprung With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, Let Adulation wait on kings; With joy elate, by snares beset, We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

Fictions and dreams inspire the bard Who rolls the epic song; Friendship and truth be my reward-- To me no bays belong; If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, Me the enchantress ever flies, Whose heart and not whose fancy sings; Simple and young, I dare not feign; Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"

_December_, 1806.

These early poems are well characterized by the impression which they produced upon Sir Robert Dallas, a man of taste and talent, who, though a bigot and a prey to prejudices of all kinds, hastened, nevertheless, after reading them, to compliment the author in the following words:--"Your poems are not only beautiful as compositions, but they also denote an honorable and upright heart, and one p.r.o.ne to virtue."

This eulogium is well deserved, and I pity those who could read the "Hours of Idleness" without liking their youthful writer. If we had s.p.a.ce enough, we fain would follow the young man from Cambridge to the mysterious Abbey of Newstead, where he loved to invite his friends and inst.i.tute with them a monastery of which he proclaimed himself the Abbot--an amus.e.m.e.nt really most innocent in itself, and which bigotry and folly alone could consider reprehensible. With what pleasure he would show that in the monastery of Newstead its abbot lived the simplest and most austere existence,--"a life of study," as Washington Irving describes it, from what he heard Nanna Smyth say of it some years after Byron's death. How delighted we should be to follow him in his first travels in search of experience of life, and when his genius revealed itself in that light which was shortly to make him the idol of the public and the hatred of the envious. We could show him to have been always the same kind-hearted man, by whom severity and injustice were never had recourse to except against himself, and whose melancholy was too often the result of broken illusions and disappointments. His simple and n.o.ble character, having always before it an ideal perfection, perpetually by comparison, thought itself at fault; and the world, who could not comprehend the exquisite delicacy of his mind, took for granted the reputation he gave himself, and made him a martyr till heaven should give him time to become a saint.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 20: See chapter upon Generosity.]

[Footnote 21: Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated. Prince Rupert, son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. He afterward commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II.]

[Footnote 22: This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated.]

[Footnote 23: Harrow.]

CHAPTER VI.