George Gordon Byron ( )


To The Duke Of Dorset


Dorset! whose early steps with mine have strayd,
Exploring every path of Idas glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
Een now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renownd in rank, not far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,
And even in simple boyhoods opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,
When these declare, that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestind to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;
Believe them not,they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few in Idas early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own hearttwill bid thee, boy, forbear!
For well I know that virtue lingers there.

Yes! I have markd thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have markd within that generous mind
A soul, if well maturd, to bless mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion haild her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot
In life just gazd at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering scutcheon, or the Heralds roll,
That well-emblazond but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonourd, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticd as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists oerspread,
In records destind never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise;
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortunes minion, but her noblest son.
  Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And calld, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view! not less renownd for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favourd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordaind to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song.
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbows hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frownd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.

To these adieu! nor let me linger oer
Scenes haild, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

  Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,
If these,but let me cease the lengthend strain,
Oh! if these wishes are not breathd in vain,
The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.



George Gordon Byron's other poems:
  1. To a Vain Lady
  2. Stanzas To Jessy
  3. To Edward Noel Long, Esq.
  4. Hebrew Melodies 18. Francisca
  5. English Bards, And Scotch Reviewers


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