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!

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.

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,
Since early affection and love is o'ercast :
Oh! blest had my fate been, and happy my lot,

Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;

If our songs have been languid, they surely are few : Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet —— which seals our eternal Adieu. 1807. [First published 1832.]

The present

TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD,1

YOUNG Oak! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine.

1 [Lord Byron, on his first arrival at Newstead, in 1798, planted an oak in the garden, and nourished the fancy, that as the tree flourished so should he. On revisiting the abbey, during Lord Grey de Ruthven's residence there, he found the oak choked up

Such, such was my hope, when in infancy's years,
On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride :
They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,
Thy decay, not the weeds that surround thee can
hide.

I left thee, my Oak, and, since that fatal hour,
A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire;
Till manhood shall crown me, not mine is the power,
But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.

Oh! hardy thou wert -even now little care

Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal:

But thou wert not fated affection to share

For who could suppose that a Stranger would feel?

Ah, droop not, my Oak! lift thy head for a while;
Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run,
The hand of thy Master will teach thee to smile,

When Infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds, That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,

And still may thy branches their beauty display.

by weeds, and almost destroyed;—hence these lines. Shortly after Colonel Wildman, the present proprietor, took possession, he one day noticed it, and said to the servant who was with him, "Here is a fine young oak; but it must be cut down, as it grows in an improper place."-"I hope not, sir," replied the man; "for it's the one that my lord was so fond of, because he set it himself." The Colonel has, of course, taken every possible care of it. It is already inquired after by strangers, as THE BYRON OAK," and promises to share, in after times, the celebrity of Shakspeare's

Oh! yet, if maturity's years may be thine,

Though I shall lie low in the cavern of death,
On thy leaves yet the day-beam of ages may shine,
Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave
O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid;
While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave,
The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot,
He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread.
Oh surely, by these I shall ne'er be forgot:

Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime,
Perhaps he has pour'd forth his young simple lay,
And here must he sleep, till the moments of time
Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

1807. [First published 1832.]

ON REVISITING HARROW.1

HERE once engaged the stranger's view
Young Friendship's record simply traced;
Few were her words, but yet, though few,
Resentment's hand the line defaced.

1 Some years ago, when at Harrow, a friend of the author engraved on a particular spot the names of both, with a few additional words, as a memorial. Afterwards, on receiving some real or imagined injury, the author destroyed the frail record before he left Harrow. On revisiting the place in 1807, he wrote under it

these stanzas.

The characters were still so plain,

That Friendship once return'd, and gazed, -
Till Memory hail'd the words again.

Repentance placed them as before;
Forgiveness join'd her gentle name;
So fair the inscription seem'd once more,
That Friendship thought it still the same.

Thus might the Record now have been;
But, ah, in spite of Hope's endeavour,
Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between,
And blotted out the line for ever.

September, 1807.

EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTH. WELL,

A CARRIER, who died OF DRUNKENNESS.

JOHN ADAMS lies here, of the parish of Southwell,
A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well;
He carried so much, and he carried so fast,
He could carry no more—so was carried at last;
For, the liquor he drank, being too much for one,
He could not carry off, - so he's now carri-on.

TO MY SON.1

THOSE flaxen locks, those eyes of blue,
Bright as thy mother's in their hue;
Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
And smile to steal the heart away,
Recall a scene of former joy,
And touch thy father's heart, my Boy!

And thou canst lisp a father's name -
Ah, William, were thine own the same,
No self-reproach but, let me cease-
My care for thee shall purchase peace;
Thy mother's shade shall smile in joy,
And pardon all the past, my Boy!

Her lowly grave the turf has prest,
And thou hast known a stranger's breast;
Derision sneers upon thy birth,

And yields thee scarce a name on earth;
Yet shall not these one hope destroy,
A Father's heart is thine, my Boy!

["Whether these verses are, in any degree, founded on fact, 1 have no accurate means of determining. Fond as Lord Byron was of recording every particular of his youth, such an event, or rather era, as is here commemorated, would have been, of all others, the least likely to pass unmentioned by him; and yet neither in conversation nor in any of his writings do I remember even an allusion to it. On the other hand, so entirely was all that he wrote, -making allowance for the embellishments of fancy, -the transcript of his actual life and feelings, that it is not easy to suppose a nem so full of natural tenderness to have been indebted for its Fein to Imagination alone."- MoORE. But see Don Juan, canto st. 61.]