Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid! 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee; Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 7. Yet all this giddy waste of years, This tiresome round of palling pleasures; These varied loves, these matrons' fears, These thoughtless strains to Passion's measures-- 8. If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd:-- This cheek, now pale from early riot, With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 9. Yes, once the rural Scene was sweet, For Nature seem'd to smile before thee; And once my Breast abhorr'd deceit,-- For then it beat but to adore thee. 10. But, now, I seek for other joys-- To think, would drive my soul to madness; In thoughtless throngs, and empty noise, I conquer half my Bosom's sadness. 11. Yet, even in these, a thought will steal, In spite of every vain endeavour; And fiends might pity what I feel-- To know that thou art lost for ever. [Footnote 1: These verses were addressed to Mrs. Chaworth Musters. Byron wrote in 1822, "Our meetings were stolen ones. ... A gate leading from Mr. Chaworth's grounds to those of my mother was the place of our interviews. The ardour was all on my side. I was serious; she was volatile: she liked me as a younger brother, and treated and laughed at me as a boy; she, however, gave me her picture, and that was something to make verses upon. Had I married her, perhaps, the whole tenour of my life would have been different." Medwin's 'Conversations', 1824, p. 81.] [Footnote i: _To------._ ['Hours of Idleness. Poems O. and T.']] * * * * * * * * * POEMS ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. [i] 1. When I rov'd a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow! [1] To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below; [2] Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, And rude as the rocks, where my infancy grew, No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear; Need I say, my sweet Mary, [3] 'twas centred in you? 2. Yet it could not be Love, for I knew not the name,-- What passion can dwell in the heart of a child? But, still, I perceive an emotion the same As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild: One image, alone, on my bosom impress'd, I lov'd my bleak regions, nor panted for new; And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd, And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 3.