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George Gordon Byron - To Edward Noel Long, Esq.
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`Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.`~Horace.


Dear Long, in this sequester`d scene,
  While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days, which ours have been
  Come rolling fresh on Fancy`s eye;
Thus, if, amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken`d noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky`s 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 bosom`s fondest thought,
  And interrupt the golden dream
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
  And, still, indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne`er again can trace,
  In Granta`s vale, the pedant`s lore,
Nor through the groves of Ida chace
  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 Time`s 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 Pity`s eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears, unmov`d, Misfortune`s groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn
  To soothe its wonted heedless flow;
Still may I rove untutor`d, wild,
  But ne`er forget another`s woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
O`er which Remembrance yet delays
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 ben my fate to mourn,
  And all my former joys are tame:
But, hence! ye hours of sabl hue!
  Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o`er:
By every bliss my childhood knew,
  I`ll think upon your shade no more.
Thus, when the whirlwind`s rage is past,
  And caves their sullen roar enclose,
We heed no more the wintery blast,
  When lull`d by zephyr to repose.

Full often has my infant Muse
  Attun`d to love her languid lyre;
But, now, without a theme to choose,
  The strains in stolen sighs expire.
My youthful nymps, alas! are flown;
  E — is a wife, and C — a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,
  And Mary`s given to another;
And Cora`s eye, which roll`d on me,
  Can now no more my love recall -
In truth, dear LONG, `twas time to flee -
  For Cora`s eye will shine on all.
And though the Sun, with genial rays,
His beams aike to all displays,
And every lady`s eye`s a sun,
These last should be confin`d to one.
The souls` meridian don`t become her,
Whose sun desplays a general summer!
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion`s self is now a name;
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
  The aid which once improv`d their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
  Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with Passion`s fires,
  As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,
  Extinguish`d with the dying embers.

  But now, dear LONG, `tis midnight`s noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Describ`d in every stripling`s verse;
For why should I the path go o`er
Which every bard has trod before?
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night
  Has thrice perform`d her stated round,
Has thrice retraced her path of light,
  And chased away the gloom profound,
I trust that we, my gentle Friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend,
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat,
Which once contain`d our youth`s retreat;
And then, with those our childhood knew,
We`ll 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 Luna`s waning horn
Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.
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