The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall sweep? -
Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy shore,
I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep.

But that which keepeth us apart is not
Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of earth,
But the distraction of a various lot,

As various as the climates of our birth.

A stranger loves the lady of the land,

Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

By the black wind that chills the polar flood

My blood is all meridian; were it not,
I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures, ne'er to be forgot,

A slave again of love,

'Tis vain to struggle

- at least of thee.

let me perish young

Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;

To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

April, 1819.

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH,

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FOR

FEITURE.

To be the father of the fatherless,

To stretch the hand from the throne's height, and raise

His offspring, who expired in other days To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,— This is to be a monarch, and repress

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits,
For who would lift a hand, except to bless?
Were it not easy, sir, and is 't not sweet
To make thyself beloved? and to be
Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus

Thy sovereignty would grow but more complete; A despot thou, and yet thy people free,

And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.

Bologna, August 12. 1819. '

1["So, the prince has been repealing Lord Fitzgerald's forfeiture? Ecco un' sonetto! There, you dogs! there's a sonnet for you: you won't have such as that in a hurry from Fitzgerald. You may publish it with my name, an' ye wool. He deserves all praise, bad and good; it was a very noble piece of principality." Lord Byron to Mr. Murray.]

EPIGRAM.

FROM THE FRENCH OF RULHIÈRES. 1

If, for silver or for gold,

You could melt ten thousand pimples
Into half a dozen dimples,

Then your face we might behold,

Looking, doubtless, much more snugly;
Yet even then 't would be d-d ugly.

August 12. 1819.

STANZAS.

COULD Love for ever

Run like a river,

And Time's endeavour

Be tried in vain.

No other pleasure

With this could measure;

And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain.

["Would you like an epigram- a translation? It was written on some Frenchwoman, by Rulhières, I believe."— Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, Aug. 12. 1819.]

2 [A friend of Lord Byron's, who was with him at Ravenna when he wrote these Stanzas. says, "They were composed, like many others, with no view of publication, but merely to relieve himself in a moment of suffering. He had been painfully excited by some circumstances which appeared to make it necessary that he should immediately quit Italy; and in the day and the hour that he wrote the song was labouring under an access of

But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, form'd for flying,
Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason

Let's love a season;

But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die;
A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
When link'd together,
In every weather,

They pluck Love's feather
From out his wing –

He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver

Still, still advancing,
With banners glancing,
His power enhancing,

He must move on -
Repose but cloys him,
Retreat destroys him,

Love brooks not a degraded throne.

Wait not, fond lover!

Till years are over,
And then recover,

As from a dream.
While each bewailing
The other's failing,
With wrath and railing,
All hideous seem
While first decreasing,
Yet not quite ceasing,
Wait not till teasing,

All passion blight:

If once diminish'd

Love's reign is finish'd

Then part in friendship, and bid good-night.'

So shall Affection

To recollection

The dear connection

Bring back with joy:

You had not waited

Till, tired or hated,

Your passions sated
Began to cloy.