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Lord Byron and his Times: http://lordbyron.org
The last month has been distinguished by the publication of the
first volume of
you lame
brat!
”The poet resented this treatment, and in their fits of violence they were wont
to throw at each other tea-pots, pokers, and every other available missile. When he entered
school, the violence of her ungovernable temper mortified and annoyed him; and though he wept
at her death, the moment the corpse was borne from the door he put on the boxing-gloves, and
had a set-to with one of his friends, then on a visit at Newstead Abbey.
At school he was more remarkable for his proud and generous spirit, than for his
application; but although he neglected the classics, he read other books with avidity. In love
he was somewhat precocious, having entertained, at eight years of age, a platonic regard for a
country girl. At sixteen he fell in love in earnest, as an Irishman would say, with a young
lady, I was present when he first heard of
the marriage. His mother said, ‘
”
’ ‘Well, what is it?
’ ‘Take out
your handkerchief first, for you will want it.
’
‘Nonsense!
’ ‘Take out your handkerchief, I say.
’ He
did so to humour her. ‘
’
An expression very peculiar, impossible to describe, passed over his pale face, and he
hurried his handkerchief into his pocket, saying, with an affected air of coldness and
nonchalance, ‘Is that all?
’ ‘Why, I expected you would have
been plunged into grief!
’ He made no reply, and soon began to talk about
something else.
About this period he wrote the following poem:—
“TO MY SON. “Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue, Bright as thy mother’s in their hue; Those rosy lips, whose dimples play And smile to steal the heart away, Recall a scene of former joy, And touch thy father’s heart, my boy! And thou canst lisp a father’s name— Ah, William , were thine own the same,No self-reproach—but let me cease— My care for thee shall purchase peace; Thy mother’s shade shall smile in joy, And pardon all the past, my boy! Her lowly grave the turf has prest, And thou hast known a stranger’s breast. Derision sneers upon thy birth, And yields thee scarce a name on earth: Yet shall not these one hope destroy,— A father’s heart is thine, my boy! Why, let the world unfeeling frown, Must I fond Nature’s claim disown? Ah, no! though moralists reprove, I hail thee, dearest child of love. Fair cherub, pledge of youth and joy— A father guards thy birth, my boy! Oh, ’twill be sweet in thee to trace— Ere age has wrinkled o’er my face— Ere half my glass of life is run— At once a brother and a son; And all my wane of years employ Injustice done to thee, my boy! Although so young thy heedless sire, Youth will not damp parental fire; And, wert thou still less dear to me, While Helen’s form revives in thee,The breast which beat to former joy, Will ne’er desert its pledge, my boy!”
We have inserted this poem, although it may ere this have found its way into the
newspapers.
His union with
“Yesterday, a very pretty letter from
”
The present volume terminates where they separate, and the succeeding volume must, we should think, be even more curious than the first.