Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/239

Rh To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er

Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,

Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,

Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part

Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;

The coming morrow from thy youthful mind

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.

And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,

Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,

May one day claim our suffrage for the state,

We hence may meet, and pass each other by

With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,

A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe—

With thee no more again I hope to trace

The recollection of our early race;

No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,

Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught

To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,

If these,—but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,—

Oh! if these wishes are not breath'd in vain,

The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate

Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 1805.