The Works of Lord Byron Volume I Part 70

ON FINDING A FAN. [1]

1.

In one who felt as once he felt, This might, perhaps, have fann'd the flame; But now his heart no more will melt, Because that heart is not the same.

2.

As when the ebbing flames are low, The aid which once improved their light, And bade them burn with fiercer glow, Now quenches all their blaze in night.

3.

Thus has it been with Pa.s.sion's fires-- As many a boy and girl remembers-- While every hope of love expires, Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

4.

The _first_, though not a spark survive, Some careful hand may teach to burn; The _last_, alas! can ne'er survive; No touch can bid its warmth return.

5.

Or, if it chance to wake again, Not always doom'd its heat to smother, It sheds (so wayward fates ordain) Its former warmth around another.

1807. [First published, 1832.]

[Footnote 1: Of Miss A. H. (MS. Newstead).]

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. [i.]

1.

Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days, Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part; Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays, The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

2.

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more, Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing; The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar, Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

3.

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre, Yet even these themes are departed for ever; No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire, My visions are flown, to return,--alas, never!

4.

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl, How vain is the effort delight to prolong!

When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul, [ii]

What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

5.

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone, Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign?

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown?

Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

6.

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love? [iii]

Ah, surely Affection enn.o.bles the strain!

But how can my numbers in sympathy move, When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?

7.

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done, And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!

For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!

8.

Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast-- 'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavours are o'er; And those who have heard it will pardon the past, When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.