I promise nothing: friends will part;
All things may end, for all began;
And truth and singleness of heart
Are mortal even as is man.

But this unlucky love should last
When answered passions thin to air;
Eternal fate so deep has cast
Its sure foundation of despair.

A PICTURE BY BARRY

THE shade for me, but over thee
The lingering sunshine still;
As, smiling, to the silent stream
Comes down the singing rill.

So come to me, my little one, —
My years with thee I share,
And mingle with a sister's love
A mother's tender care.

But keep the smile upon thy lip,
The trust upon thy brow;
Since for the dear one God hath called

[A friend of Lord Byron's, who was with him at Ravenna when he wrote these Stanzas, says: " They were composed, like many others, with no view of publication, but merely to relieve himself in a moment of suffering. He had been painfully excited by some circumstances which appeared to make it necessary that he should immediately quit Italy, and in the day and the hour that he wrote the song was labouring under an access of fever." — So reads the note in the Edition of 1831. It is to be remarked, however, that Byron was not at Ravenna but at Venice on the date of the poem.]

[First published in the Edition of 1900 from a manuscript in the possession of Mr. Murray.]

I cannot talk of Love to thee,
Though thou art young and free and fair
There is a spell thou dost not see,
That bids a genuine love despair.

And yet that spell invites each youth,
For thee to sigh, or seem to sigh;
Makes falsehood wear the garb of truth,
And Truth itself appear a lie.

If ever Doubt a place possest
In woman's heart, 't were wise in thine:
Admit not Love into thy breast,
Doqbp kthers' love, nor trust in mine.

The " Origin of Love!" — Ah! why
That cruel question ask of me,
When thou mayst read in many an eye
He starts to life on seeing thee?'
And shouldst thou seek his end to know:
My heart forebodes, my fears foresee,
He'll linger long in silent woe;
But live — until I cease to be.
[First published, 1814.]

[This poem stood in the original manuscript of Childe Harold in the place of the stanzas of Canto I. inscribed To Inez .]

O H never talk again to me
Of northern climes and British ladies;
It has not been your lot to see,
Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz.
Although her eye be not of blue,
Nor fair her locks, like English lasses,
How far its own expressive hue
The languid azure eye surpasses!

Prometheus-like, from heaven she stole

[First printed in Edition of 1898 from a manuscript at Newstead.]

The Moralists tell us that Loving is Sinning,
And always are prating about and about it,
But as Love of Existence itself's the beginning,
Say, what would Existence itself be without it?

They argue the point with much furious Invective,
Though perhaps 't were no difficult task to confute it;
But if Venus and Hymen should once prove defective,
Pray who would there be to defend or dispute it?

Oh yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you.

But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion,
The attachment of years in a moment expires;
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.

Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together,
And bless'd were the scenes of our youth, I allow:

WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN

[This poem is addressed to the " Mary" of the lines beginning, " This faint resemblance of thy charms."]

These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine
Than all th'unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we 've proved it,
Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine,

You say you love, and yet your eye
No symptom of that love conveys;
You say you love, yet know not why,
Your cheek no sign of love betrays.

Ah! did that breast with ardour glow,
With me alone it joy could know,
Or feel with me the listless woe,
Which racks my heart when far from thee.

Whene'er we meet my blushes rise,
And mantle through my purpled cheek;
But yet no blush to mine replies,