Lord Byron
1788-1824
Occasional Pieces 4
LINES TO MR. HODGSON
WRITTEN ON BOARD THE LISBON PACKET
HUZZA! Hodgson, we are going,
Our embargo's off at last;
Favourable breezes blowing
Bend the canvas o'er the mast.
From aloft the signal's streaming,
Hark! the farewell gun is fired;
Women screeching, tars blaspheming,
Tell us that our time's expired.
Here's a
rascal
Come to task
all,
Prying from the custom-house,
Trunks unpacking,
Cases cracking,
Not a corner for a mouse
'Scapes unsearch'd amid the racket,
Ere we sail on board the Packet.
Now our
boatmen quit their mooring,
And all hands must ply the oar;
Baggage from the quay is lowering,
We're impatient, push from shore.
'Have a care! that case holds liquor
Stop the boat - I'm sick - oh Lord!'
`Sick, ma'am, damme, you'll be sicker
Ere you've been an hour on board.'
Thus
are screaming
Men
and women,
Gemmen, ladies, servants, Jacks;
Here
entangling,
All
are wrangling,
Stuck together close as wax, -
Such the general noise and racket,
Ere we reach the Lisbon Packet.
Now we've reach'd her, lo! the captain,
Gallant Kidd, commands the crew;
Passengers their berths are clapt in,
Some to grumble, some to spew.
'Heyday! call you that a cabin?
Why 'tis hardly three feet square:
Not enough to stow Queen Mab in
Who the deuce can harbour there?'
`Who,
sir? plenty
Nobles
twenty
Did at once my vessel fill.'
`Did
they? Jesus,
How
you squeeze us!
Would to God they did so still:
Then I'd scape the heat and racket
Of the good ship, Lisbon Packet.'
Fletcher! Murray! Bob! where are you?
Stretch'd along the deck like logs
Bear a hand, you jolly tar, you!
Here's a rope's end for the dogs.
Hobhouse muttering fearful curses,
As the hatchway down he rolls,
Now his breakfast, now his verses,
Vomits forth?and damns our souls.
'Here's a stanza
On Braganza -
Help! - 'A couplet? ' - 'No, a cup
Of warm water
-
'What's the matter:'
'Zounds! my liver's coming up:
I shall not survive the racket
Of this brutal Lisbon Packet.'
Now at length we're off for Turkey,
Lord knows when we shall come back!
Breezes foul and tempests murky
May unship us in a crack.
But, since life at most a jest is,
As philosophers allow,
Still to laugh by far the best is,
Then laugh on?as I do now.
Laugh
at all things,
Great
and small things,
Sick or well, at sea or shore;
While we're quaffing,
Let's
have laughing
Who the devil cares for more?
Some good wine! and who would lack it,
Ev'n on board the Lisbon Packet?
Falmouth Roads, June 30, 1809.
[First published, 1830.]
TO FLORENCE
OH Lady! when I left the shore,
The distant shore which gave me birth,
I hardly thought to grieve once more
To quit another spot on earth:
Yet here, amidst this barren isle,
Where panting Nature droops the head,
Where only thou art seen to smile,
I view my parting hour with dread.
Though far from Albin's craggy shore,
Divided by the dark?blue main;
A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er,
Perchance I view her cliffs again:
But wheresoe'er I now may roam,
Through scorching clime, and varied sea,
Though Time restore me to my home,
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee:
On thee, in whom at once conspire
All charms which heedless hearts can move,
Whom but to see is to admire,
And, oh! forgive the word - to love.
Forgive the word, in one who ne'er
With such a word can more offend;
And since thy heart I cannot share,
Believe me, what I am, thy friend.
And who so cold as look on thee,
Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less?
Nor be, what man should ever be,
The friend of Beauty in distress?
Ah! who would think that form had past
Through Danger's most destructive path
Had braved the death?wing'd tempest's blast,
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath?
Lady! when I shall view the walls
Where free Byzantium once arose,
And Stamboul's Oriental halls
The Turkish tyrants now enclose;
Though mightiest in the lists of fame,
That glorious city still shall be;
On me 'twill hold a dearer claim,
As spot of thy nativity:
And though I bid thee now farewell,
When I behold that wondrous scene,
Since where thou art I may not dwell,
'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been.
September 1809.
LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM, AT MALTA
As o'er the cold sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
May mine attract thy pensive eye!
And when by thee that name is read,
Perchance in some succeeding year,
Reflect on me as on the dead,
And think my heart is buried here.
September 14, 1809.
STANZAS
COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STORM
CHILL and mirk is the nightly blast,
Where Pindus' mountains rise,
And angry clouds are pouring fast
The vengeance of the skies.
Our guides are gone, our hope is lost,
And lightnings, as they play
But show where rocks our path have crost,
Or gild the torrent's spray.
Is yon a cot I saw, though low?
When lightning broke the gloom -
How welcome were its shade! - ah, no!
'Tis but a Turkish tomb.
Through sounds of foaming waterfalls,
I hear a voice exclaim -
My way-worn countryman, who calls is
On distant England's name.
A shot is fired?by foe or friend?
Another - 'tis to tell
The mountain?peasants to descend,
And lead us where they dwell.
Oh! who in such a night will dare
To tempt the wilderness?
And who mid thunder-peals can hear
Our signal of distress?
And who that heard our shouts would rise
To try the dubious road?
Nor rather deem from nightly cries
That outlaws were abroad.
Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour!
More fiercely pours the storm!
Yet here one thought has still the power
To keep my bosom warm.
While wandering through each broken path,
O'er brake and craggy brow;
While elements exhaust their wrath,
Sweet Florence, where art thou?
Not on the sea, not on the sea,
Thy bark bath long been gone:
Oh, may the storm that pours on me
Bow down my head alone!
Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc,
When last I press'd thy lip,
And long ere now, with foaming shock
Impell d thy gallant ship.
Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now
Hast trod the shore of Spain;
'Twere hard if aught so fair as thou
Should linger on the main.
And since I now remember thee
In darkness and in dread,
As in those hours of revelry
Which mirth and music sped;
Do thou, amid the fair white walls,
If Cadiz yet be free,
At times from out her latticed halls
Look o'er the dark blue sea;
Then think
upon Calypso's isles,
Endear'd by days gone by;
To others give a thousand smiles,
To me a single sigh.
And when the admiring circle mark
The paleness once,
A half-form 'd tear, a transient spark
Of melancholy grace,
Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun
Some coxcomb's raillery;
Nor own for once thou thought'st on one,
Who ever thinks on thee.
Though smile and sigh alike are vain,
When sever'd hearts repine
My spirit flies o'er mount and main,
And mourns in search of thine.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF
THROUGH cloudless skies, in silvery sheen,
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast:
And on these waves for Egypt's queen,
The ancient world was won and lost.
And now upon the scene I look,
The azure grave of many a Roman;
Where stem Ambition once forsook
His wavering crown to follow woman.
Florence! whom I will love as well
As ever yet was said or sung
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell),
Whilst thou art fair and I am young;
Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times;
When worlds were staked for ladies'
Had bards as many realms as rhymes;
Thy charms might raise new Antonies.
Though Fate forbids such things to be
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd!
I cannot lose a world for thee,
But would not lose thee for a world.
Nov. 14, 1809.
THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN!
WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810
THE spell is broke; the charm is flown!
Thus is it with life's fitful fever:
We madly smile when we should groan:
Delirium is our best deceiver.
Each lucid interval of thought
Recalls the woes of Nature's charter;
And he that acts as wise men ought,
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr.