To Edward Noel Long, Esq.
by George Gordon, Lord Byron
(From Hours of Idleness - 1807)
- Dear Long, in this sequesterd scene,
- While all around in slumber lie,
- The joyous days, which ours have been
- Come rolling fresh on Fancys eye;
- Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
- While clouds the darkend noon deform,
- Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
- I hail the skys celestial bow,
- Which spreads the sign of future peace,
- And bids the war of tempests cease.
- Ah! though the present brings but pain,
- I think those days may come again;
- Or if, in melancholy mood,
- Some lurking envious fear intrude,
- To check my bosoms fondest thought,
- And interrupt the golden dream,
- I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
- And, still, indulge my wonted theme.
- Although we neer again can trace,
- In Grantas vale, the pedants lore,
- Nor through the groves of Ida chase
- Our raptured visions, as before;
- Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
- And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
- Age will not every hope destroy,
- But yields some hours of sober joy.
- Yes, I will hope that Times broad wing
- Will shed around some dews of spring:
- But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
- Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
- Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
- And hearts with early rapture swell;
- In frowning Age, with cold control,
- Confines the current of the soul,
- Congeals the tear of Pitys eye,
- Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
- Or hears, unmovd, Misfortunes groan,
- And bids me feel for self alone;
- Oh! may my bosom never learn
- To soothe its wonted heedless flow;
- Still, still, despise the censor stern,
- But neer forget anothers woe.
- Yes, as you knew me in the days,
- Oer which Remembrance yet delays,
- Still may I rove untutord, wild,
- And even in age, at heart a child.
- Though, now, on airy visions borne,
- To you my soul is still the same.
- Oft has it been my fate to mourn,
- And all my former joys are tame:
- But, hence! ye hours of sable hue!
- Your frowns are gone, my sorrows oer:
- By every bliss my childhood knew,
- Ill think upon your shade no more.
- Thus, when the whirlwinds rage is past,
- And caves their sullen roar enclose,
- We heed no more the wintry blast,
- When lulld by zephyr to repose.
- Full often has my infant Muse
- Attund to love her languid lyre;
- But, now, without a theme to choose,
- The strains in stolen sighs expire.
- My youthful nymps, alas! are flown;
- Eis a wife, and Ca mother,
- And Carolina sighs alone,
- And Marys given to another;
- And Coras eye, which rolld on me,
- Can now no more my love recall
- In truth, dear LONG, twas time to flee
- For Coras eye will shine on all.
- And though the Sun, with genial rays,
- His beams alike to all displays,
- And every ladys eyes a sun,
- These last should be confind to one.
- The souls meridian dont become her,
- Whose Sun desplays a general summer!
- Thus faint is every former flame,
- And Passions self is now a name;
- As, when the ebbing flames are low,
- The aid, which once improvd their light,
- And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
- Now quenches all their sparks in night;
- Thus has it been with Passions fires,
- As many a boy and girl remembers,
- While all the force of love expires,
- Extinguishd with the dying embers.
- But now, dear LONG, tis midnights noon,
- And clouds obscure the watery moon,
- Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
- Describd in every striplings verse;
- For why should I the path go oer
- Which every bard has trod before?
- Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
- Has thrice performd her stated round,
- Has thrice retracd her path of light,
- And chasd away the gloom profound,
- I trust, that we, my gentle Friend,
- Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
- Above the dear-lovd peaceful seat,
- Which once containd our youths retreat;
- And, then, with those our childhood knew,
- Well mingle in the festive crew;
- While many a tale of former day
- Shall wing the laughing hours away;
- And all the flow of souls shall pour
- Tha sacred intellectual shower,
- Nor cease, till Lunas waning horn
- Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.
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