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• 
 
 REFLECTION 
 
 ON 
 
 SHIPBOARD, 
 
 BY 
 
 LORD BYRON. 
 
 —I'll bear it all with patience ; 
 
 I'll weary out thy most nnfriendly cruelty ; 
 J Till wounded by my suffering, thou relent 
 And raise me to thy arms with de&rforgiveness. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 Printed for the Author, by PLUMMER and BREWIS, 
 Lore. Lane, Eastcheap. 
 
 PUBLISHED by 
 
 R. S. KIRBY, 3?, PATERNOSTER ROW, AND W. ALLASON, 31, NEW BOND 
 STREET, AND SOLD BY ALL BOOKSELLERS. 
 
 1816. 
 Entered at Stationers Hall, 
 
s? 
 
 EEPLECTIONS 
 
 HIPBOARD. 
 
 17 
 
 3 93 
 
 SEv'n he, whose -soul now melts in mournful lays, 
 Will shortly want that tender tear he pays. 
 
 Pope, 
 
 ONCE more the swelling sails are all unfurl'd, 
 That waft me, England, from thy parent shore, 
 
 Would that they bore me to some distant world, 
 Where memory's shaft could wound this breast 
 no more ! 
 
 The ship's broad wake whitens with angry foam 
 
 And follows her with its indignant wave, 
 
 Emblem of that lov'd form I leave at home, 
 
 Whose anger still pursues me to — the grave. 
 a 3 
 
 
6 REFLECTIONS ON SHIPBOARD. 
 
 Perchance when that retreat my frailties hide, 
 "When foreign clay lies heavy on my breast — 
 
 Her unrelenting feelings may subside, 
 
 And Pity's sigh may soothe my shade to rest. 
 
 Reckless of life, which teems to me with woe, 
 A joyless, hopeless, fugitive I'll roam. 
 
 Yet, like the needle, wheresoe'er I go, 
 
 My slighted heart shall constant turn to home. 
 
 Imagination shall with wondrous power, 
 Still bring to view that oncebelov'd retreat, 
 
 Where love gave zest to ev'ry fleeting hour, 
 And strew'd fresh roses underneath my feet. 
 
REFLECTIONS ON SHIPBOARD. 
 
 Indulging dreams of unsubstantial bliss ! 
 
 Oft shall I view her with ray mental eye, 
 Press on her lips the pure and hallow'd kiss, 
 
 And breathe upon them true contritions sigh. 
 
 ISo rigid virtue tlien shall hearts divide, 
 No foul traducer poison her pure mind* 
 
 Before my love will melt her woman s pride, 
 And her soft hand my wounded soul will bind 
 
 —But when, alas ! this magic scene is fled, 
 When Fancy sweeps away this vision fair* 
 
 When I awake,— <xs will the guilty dead, 
 
 With scorpion thoughts of anguish and despair. 
 
 
8 feWLECTiONS ON SHIPBOARD. 
 
 Then like the felon banish'd from that clime, 
 Which all must love who live — my native land, 
 
 With all his horrors— tho' not all his crime, 
 1*11 beat my head with my distracted hand. 
 
 Like the poor idiot, who in stream surveys 
 Reflected landscape on its surface bright, 
 
 Where glows thesun — where cattle seem to graze, 
 And verdant groves and forests mock his sight 
 
 If he poor wretch believe the fair deceit, 
 And madly rush into the treacherous wave, 
 
 The landscape flies — and only will he meet, 
 What most / wish— a. deep and early grave. 
 
REFLECTIONS ON SHIPBOARD. 9 
 
 Thrown like a blighted blossom from that tree, 
 That native tree I still with ardour love. 
 
 My bosom fraught with load of misery, 
 A wretched outcast in this world I'll rove. 
 
 Sever'd those ties that bound my heart to life, 
 Feebly it beats — and soon, I trust, will cease, 
 
 Then, oh! severe — but much beloved wife, 
 Thy anger will subside to pitying peace, 
 
10 
 
 •poet nfu$tg &*itfrt&tfoft+ 
 
 Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke, 
 When the prime function of the soul is broke.' 
 
 Akensibe. 
 
 TELL me not of Grecian maids, 
 
 Of Sion's daughters fair, 
 Who weave with gems the amorous braids 
 Of their luxuriant hair; 
 Blunted will fall young Cupid's dart 
 From such a sear'd and wither'd heart. 
 
THE POET REFUSES CONSOLATION. 11 
 
 Tell me not of snowy arms, 
 
 Of eyes of melting light, 
 Of bosoms whose transcendant charms 
 Swell to the gazers sight, 
 For lost is beauty's wondrous art 
 On a sear'd and wither'd heart 
 
 Tell me not of classic lore, 
 Of fields by heroes prest, 
 Of paintings or of sculptures store, 
 That charms the wand'ring guest; 
 What pleasure can such sights impart. 
 To a sear'd and wither'd heart ? 
 
 Tell me not of music's strain, 
 
 Which oft does balm dispense, 
 Soothiug the ear of woe or pain, 
 And calming every sense; 
 For lost is harmony's soft art 
 On a sear'd and wither'd heart. 
 
12 THE POET REFUSES CONSOLATION. 
 
 Tell me not to dry the tear 
 i see on sorrow's cheek, 
 The hut of poverty to cheer, 
 And hope to anguish speak ; 
 Alas! what hope can I impart 
 From such a sear'd and wither'd heart? 
 
 There is a hand has power to heal 
 
 The sorrows of this breast, 
 To make it hope and comfort feel> 
 And soothe my griefs to rest; 
 She only can the balm impart, 
 And warm to life this wither'd heart. 
 
13 
 
 ®fte aSirtfi xrf ©Mf ♦ 
 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast. 
 
 Pope, 
 
 THE butterfly, with bright and burnish'd wing ? 
 Does from the chrysalis unsightly spring, 
 So does this cold and almost blighted breast 
 Give birth to hope — and prove its living nest. 
 
 A ray from the Eternal's brilliant throne, 
 Can kindle hope in human breast alone, 
 From Heav'n it comes,-*- and thither must it lead, 
 Prompting Contrition's sigh — and Virtue's deed, 
 
14 THE BIRTH OF HOPE. 
 
 If then th' Almighty pow'r does not disdain 
 To soothe with Hope the breast of grief and pain* 
 Surely that form who does his image bear 
 Will bid the sorrowing bosom — not despair. 
 
 Still then I'll hope — and as I devious stray, 
 Will feel like pilgrim sent some vow to pay* 
 My beauteous saint perchance— my penance 
 
 o'er, 
 May softly say — Return and sin no more! 
 
 
 7\ 
 
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 eije 3poet ffiiomittg on m%utio& 
 
 Eternal power what ruin from afar, 
 Mark the fell track of desolating war. 
 
 Falconer, 
 
 Yes I will visit climes afar, 
 
 And view that crimson field, 
 Where pitiless destructive war, 
 Did late his sceptre wield- 
 Still wet with gore the horrid field remains,. 
 Which dyes the herbage with empurpled stains. 
 
 Within one little rising ground 
 
 A thousand Heroes lay ; 
 Horses and men compose the mounds 
 Together they decay ; 
 Nor can the chemist's boasted art, 
 Know by its earth, the horse from Hero's heart. 
 
16* THE POET MORALIZES ON WATERLOO, 
 
 Rich harvest must that field afford, 
 
 Manur'd by heaps of slain, 
 Nourish'd by England's richest blood, 
 By Prussia's gallant train. 
 Perchance in juice of grape again will rise, 
 That purple stream which all the country dyes. 
 
 What marvel if in future day, 
 
 Wine should true courage give, 
 And from this rich and fertile clay,. 
 Heroes again should live. 
 Plant then on Waterloo, the fruitful vine 
 And round your brows,their sacred tendrils twine. 
 
 The laurel too shall flourish there, 
 
 And spread its branches on their grave, 
 Would that they liv'd its wreaths to wear, 
 As meeds of honor to the brave. 
 Oh ! may the shades of the illustrious dead, 
 Behold the grateful tears over their ashes shed. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 Mu»mei and Ere wis, Printers, Love Lane, Eastekeap., 
 
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