Oh, could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been,
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene;
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,
So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
[First published, Poems, 1816.]
ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF DORSET.
I heard thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wast surpassing dear,
Too loved of all to die.
I know not what hath seared my eye—
Its tears refuse to start;
But every drop, it bids me dry,
Falls dreary on my heart.
Yes, dull and heavy, one by one,
- [From an autograph MS. in the possession of Mr. Murray. The MS. is headed, in pencil, "Lines written on the Death of the Duke of Dorset, a College Friend of Lord Byron's, who was killed by a fall from his horse while hunting." It is endorsed, "Bought of Markham Thorpe, August 29, 1844." (For Duke of Dorset, see Poetical Works, 1898, i. 194, n. 2; and Letters, 1899, iii. 181, n. 1.)]
- —— it bids deny.—[MS. M.]