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What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke.
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels;
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt, rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, ''t was the spirit moved us.'
Though what they utter'd I repress,
Yet I conceive thou 'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through
day:

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Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night:
Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:

May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh, may the happy mortal, fated
To be by dearest ties related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 't is to feel the restless woe
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!'
August, 1806.

THE CORNELIAN

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[This prologue was written by Byron, between stages, on his way from Harrowgate to Southwell, in 1806, where he took part in private theatricals.]

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;

Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,

Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;

Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.

Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect: 10
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new.
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we
try;

Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,

Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more. 20 Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,` Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise;

But all our dramatis personæ wait

In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. No venal views our progress can retard, Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;

For these, each Hero all his power displays, Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.

Surely the last will some protection find; None to the softer sex can prove unkind: While Youth and Beauty form the female

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Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits war not with the dead:' His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem

gave,

As all his errors slumber'd in the grave. He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight

Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state: When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd. 20 He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;

Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 'These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,

To give the palm where Justice points its due;'

Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,

Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;

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For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,

While friends and foes alike his talents

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