Page 3 - Quaker News & Views Nov 25 - Jan 26

A Beautiful Quaker – Lord Byron

Sweet girl! though only once we met, Alas! again no more we meet,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget; No more former looks repeat;
And though we ne'er may meet again, Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
Remembrance will thy form retain. The dictate of my bosom's care:
I would not say, "I love," but still "May heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
My senses struggle with my will: That anguish never can o'ertake her;
In vain, to drive thee from my breast, That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
My thoughts are more and more represt; But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
In vain I check the rising sighs, Oh, may the happy mortal, fated
Another to the last replies: To be by dearest ties related,
Perhaps this is not love, but yet For her each hour new joys discover,
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What though we never silence broke, What 't is to feel the restless woe
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke. Which stings the soul with vain regret,
The toungue in flattering falsehood deals, Of him who never can forget!"
And tells a tale in never feels;

Deceit the guilty lips impart,
George Gordon Byron [1788-1824] quote 'I can
And hush the mandates of the heart;
never get people to understand that poetry is the
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
expression of excited passion, and that there is no
Spurn such restraint and scorn disguise.
such thing as a life of passion any more than a
As thus our glances oft conversed,
continuous earthquake, or an eternal fever.'
And all our bosoms felt, rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, "'twas 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:
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.

Courtesy of, and in remembrance of, our Friend Michael Hargreave, New Milton

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