My Lycus! [3] wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain; Affection for a time may sleep, But, oh, 'twill wake again.
Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wished interview, how sweet!
From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence my friend, can only tell, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"
7.
In one, and one alone deceiv'd, Did I my error mourn?
No--from oppressive bonds reliev'd, I left the wretch to scorn.
I turn'd to those my childhood knew, With feelings warm, with bosoms true, Twin'd with my heart's according strings; And till those vital chords shall break, For none but these my breast shall wake Friendship, the power deprived of wings!
8
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours, My memory and my hope; Your worth a lasting love insures, Unfetter'd in its scope; From smooth deceit and terror sprung, With aspect fair and honey'd tongue, Let Adulation wait on kings; With joy elate, by snares beset, We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"
9
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard, Who rolls the epic song; Friendship and truth be my reward-- To me no bays belong; If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, Me the enchantress ever flies, Whose heart and not whose fancy sings; Simple and young, I dare not feign; Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, "Friendship is Love without his wings!"
December 29, 1806. [First published, 1832.]
[Footnote 1: The MS. is preserved at Newstead.]
[Footnote 2: Harrow.]
[Footnote 3: Lord Clare had written to Byron,
"I think by your last letter that you are very much piqued with most of your friends, and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me.
In one part you say,
'There is little or no doubt a few years or months will render us as politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time together.'
Indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt, at least I hope, you are wrong yourself."
'Life', p. 25.]
THE PRAYER OF NATURE. [1]
1
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!
Hear'st thou the accents of despair?
Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
2
Father of Light, on thee I call!
Thou see'st my soul is dark within; Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall, Avert from me the death of sin.
3
No shrine I seek, to sects unknown; Oh, point to me the path of truth!
Thy dread Omnipotence I own; Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth.
4
Let bigots rear a gloomy fane, Let Superstition hail the pile, Let priests, to spread their sable reign, With tales of mystic rites beguile.
5
Shall man confine his Maker's sway To Gothic domes of mouldering stone?
Thy temple is the face of day; Earth, Ocean, Heaven thy boundless throne.
6
Shall man condemn his race to Hell, Unless they bend in pompous form?
Tell us that all, for one who fell, Must perish in the mingling storm?
7
Shall each pretend to reach the skies, Yet doom his brother to expire, Whose soul a different hope supplies, Or doctrines less severe inspire?