The Works of Lord Byron Volume I Part 63

OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO THE SUN IN "CARTHON." [1]

Oh! thou that roll'st above thy glorious Fire, Round as the s.h.i.+eld which grac'd my G.o.dlike Sire, Whence are the beams, O Sun! thy endless blaze, Which far eclipse each minor Glory's rays?

Forth in thy Beauty here thou deign'st to s.h.i.+ne!

Night quits her car, the twinkling stars decline; Pallid and cold the Moon descends to cave Her sinking beams beneath the Western wave; But thou still mov'st alone, of light the Source-- Who can o'ertake thee in thy fiery course?

Oaks of the mountains fall, the rocks decay, Weighed down with years the hills dissolve away.

A certain s.p.a.ce to yonder Moon is given, She rises, smiles, and then is lost in Heaven.

Ocean in sullen murmurs ebbs and flows, But thy bright beam unchanged for ever glows!

When Earth is darkened with tempestuous skies, When Thunder shakes the sphere and Lightning flies, Thy face, O Sun, no rolling blasts deform, Thou look'st from clouds and laughest at the Storm.

To Ossian, Orb of Light! thou look'st in vain, Nor cans't thou glad his aged eyes again, Whether thy locks in Orient Beauty stream, Or glimmer through the West with fainter gleam-- But thou, perhaps, like me with age must bend; Thy season o'er, thy days will find their end, No more yon azure vault with rays adorn, Lull'd in the clouds, nor hear the voice of Morn.

Exult, O Sun, in all thy youthful strength!

Age, dark unlovely Age, appears at length, As gleams the moonbeam through the broken cloud While mountain vapours spread their misty shroud-- The Northern tempest howls along at last, And wayworn strangers shrink amid the blast.

Thou rolling Sun who gild'st those rising towers, Fair didst thou s.h.i.+ne upon my earlier hours!

I hail'd with smiles the cheering rays of Morn, My breast by no tumultuous Pa.s.sion torn-- Now hateful are thy beams which wake no more The sense of joy which thrill'd my breast before; Welcome thou cloudy veil of nightly skies, To thy bright canopy the mourner flies: Once bright, thy Silence lull'd my frame to rest, And Sleep my soul with gentle visions blest; Now wakeful Grief disdains her mild controul, Dark is the night, but darker is my Soul.

Ye warring Winds of Heav'n your fury urge, To me congenial sounds your wintry Dirge: Swift as your wings my happier days have past, Keen as your storms is Sorrow's chilling blast; To Tempests thus expos'd my Fate has been, Piercing like yours, like yours, alas! unseen.

1805.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed. (See 'Ossian's Poems', London, 1819, pp. xvii. 119.)]

PIGNUS AMORIS. [1]

1

As by the fix'd decrees of Heaven, 'Tis vain to hope that Joy can last; The dearest boon that Life has given, To me is--visions of the past.

2.

For these this toy of blus.h.i.+ng hue I prize with zeal before unknown, It tells me of a Friend I knew, Who loved me for myself alone.

3.

It tells me what how few can say Though all the social tie commend; Recorded in my heart 'twill lay, [2]

It tells me mine was once a Friend.

4.

Through many a weary day gone by, With time the gift is dearer grown; And still I view in Memory's eye That teardrop sparkle through my own.

5.

And heartless Age perhaps will smile, Or wonder whence those feelings sprung; Yet let not sterner souls revile, For Both were open, Both were young.

6.

And Youth is sure the only time, When Pleasure blends no base alloy; When Life is blest without a crime, And Innocence resides with Joy.

7

Let those reprove my feeble Soul, Who laugh to scorn Affection's name; While these impose a harsh controul, All will forgive who feel the same.

8

Then still I wear my simple toy, With pious care from wreck I'll save it; And this will form a dear employ For dear I was to him who gave it.

? 1806.

[Footnote 1: From an autograph MS. at Newstead, now for the first time printed.]

[Footnote 2: For the irregular use of "lay" for "lie," compare "The Adieu" (st. 10, 1. 4, p. 241), and the much-disputed line, "And dashest him to earth--there let him lay" ('Childe Harold', canto iv. st. 180).]

A WOMAN'S HAIR. [1]