The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 3Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron
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The Works of Lord Byron. Vol. 3
Byron, George Gordon Byron, Baron
English poetry
ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN.[36]
1.
Ill-fated Heart! and can it be,
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain?
Have years of care for thine and thee
Alike been all employed in vain?
2.
Yet precious seems each shattered part,
And every fragment dearer grown,
Since he who wears thee feels thou art
A fitter emblem of _his own_.
March 16, 1812.
[First published, _Childe Harold_, 1812 (Second Edition).]
THE CHAIN I GAVE.
FROM THE TURKISH.
1.
The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offered both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.
2.
These gifts were charmed by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,--
Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
3.
That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet--till thou couldst think
In other hands its notes were such.
4.
Let him who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shivered in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
5.
When thou wert changed, they altered too;
The chain is broke, the music mute,
'Tis past--to them and thee adieu--
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
[MS. M. First published, _Corsair_, 1814 (Second Edition).]
LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF
_THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY_.[bm]
1.
Absent or present, still to thee,
My friend, what magic spells belong!
As all can tell, who share, like me,
In turn thy converse,[37] and thy song.
2.
But when the dreaded hour shall come
By Friendship ever deemed too nigh,
And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb[38]
Shall weep that aught of thee can die,
3.
How fondly will she then repay
Thy homage offered at her shrine,
And blend, while ages roll away,
_Her_ name immortally with _thine_!
April 19, 1812.
[First published, _Poems_, 1816.]
ADDRESS, SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF
DRURY-LANE THEATRE,
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812.[39]
In one dread night our city saw, and sighed,
Bowed to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride;
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane,
Apollo sink, and Shakespeare cease to reign.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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