The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
And storied urns record who rests below:
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been:
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnotic'd all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !

"Near this spot

Are deposited the Remains of one
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferocity,

And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices.
This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
If inscribed over human ashes,

Is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a Dog,

Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803,
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18. 1808."

Lord Byron thus announced the death of his favourite to Mr.
Hodgson:" Boatswain is dead! - he expired in a state of mad-
ness, on the 18th, after suffering much, yet retaining all the gen-
tleness of his nature to the last; never attempting to do the least
injury to any one near him. I have now lost every thing except
old Murray." By the will which he executed in 1811, he directed
that his own body should be buried in a vault in the garden r
his faithful dog.]

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on it honours none you wish to mourn :
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise;
I never knew but one, — and here he lies. 1

Newstead Abbey, November 30. 1808.

TO A LADY,

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND IN THE SPRING.

WHEN Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers,
A moment linger'd near the gate,

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours,
And bade him curse his future fate.

But, wandering on through distant climes,
He learnt to bear his load of grief;

Just gave a sigh to other times,

And found in busier scenes relief.

Thus, lady! 2 will it be with me,

And I must view thy charms no more;

1 [In Mr. Hobhouse's Miscellany, in which the Epitaph was first published, the last line runs thus :

"I knew but one unchanged - and here he lies."

The reader will not fail to observe, that this inscription was written at a time when the Poet's early feelings with respect to the lady of Annesley had been painfully revived.]

2 [In the first copy, "Thus Mary!" (Mrs. Musters). The reader will find a portrait of this lady in Finden's Illustrations of Lord Byron's Works, No. iii.]

For, while I linger near to thee,
I sigh for all I knew before.

In flight I shall be surely wise,

Escaping from temptation's snare ;

I cannot view my paradise

Without the wish of dwelling there. 1

December 2. 1808.

REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT.

REMIND me not, remind me not,

Of those belov'd, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;

Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

[In Mr. Hobhouse's volume, the line stood, "Without a wish to enter there." The following is an extract from an unpublished letter of Lord Byron, written in 1823, only three days. previous to his leaving Italy for Greece:-"Miss Chaworth was two years older than myself. She married a man of an ancient and respectable family, but her marriage was not a happier one than my own. Her conduct, however, was irreproachable; but there was not sympathy between their characters. I had not seen. her for many years, when an occasion offered. I was upon the point, with her consent, of paying her a visit, when my sister, who has always had more influence over me than any one else, persuaded me not to do it. For,' said she, if you go you will fall in love again, and then there will be a scene; one step will lead to another, et cela fera un éclat.' I was guided by those reasons, and shortly after married, with what success it is useless to say."]

Can I forget canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,

How quick thy fluttering heart did move? Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,

With eyes so languid, breast so fair,

And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach'd yet raised desire,

And still we near and nearer prest,

And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;

While their long lashes' darken'd gloss
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return'd,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,

Than if for other hearts I burn'd,

For eyes that ne'er like thine could beam
In rapture's wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,

Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,

Till thou and I shall be forgot,

And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.

THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME.

THERE was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
As still my soul hath been to thee.

And from that hour when first thy tongue
Confess'd a love which equall'd mine,
Though many a grief my heart hath wrung,
Unknown, and thus unfelt, by thine —

None, none hath sunk so deep as this —
To think how all that love hath flown;
Transient as every faithless kiss,

But transient in thy breast alone.

And yet my heart some solace knew,
When late I heard thy lips declare,
In accents once imagined true,

Remembrance of the days that were.

Yes! my adored, yet most unkind!
Though thou wilt never love again,
To me 't is doubly sweet to find
Remembrance of that love remain.

Yes! 't is a glorious thought to me,
Nor longer shall my soul repine,
Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be,
Thou hast been dearly, solely mine.