Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Lady Byron's Reply to Lord Byron's "Fare Thee Well"

Lady Byron's Reply to Lord Byron's "Fare Thee Well."

"As to the author of the reply, I have for years been trying to find out, but unsuccessfully. One or two gentlemen, whose opinions on this subject are well worthy of attention, have said in a joking way that the author must be Byron himself, as the lines are so very beautiful and appropriate. I certainly do not think Lady Byron was the author. From all that I can glean from the oldest inhabitants in this neighbourhood she was always held in the highest respect, a good, kind, domestic lady; but no one seems to give her credit for much poetic taste, let alone faculty."—Correspondent Newcastle Weekly Chronicle.

 

Yes, farewell: farewell for ever; Thou thyself hast fixed our doom;Bade hope's fairest blossom wither, Never more for me to bloom!

Unforgiving thou hast called me; Didst thou ever say forgive?For the wretch whose wiles enthralled thee, Thou didst seem alone to live.

Short the space which Time had given To complete thy love's decay!By unhallowed passion driven, Soon thy wishes wildly stray.

Lived for me that feeling tender, Which thy verse so well can show?From my arms why didst thou wander— My endearments why forego?

Rapt in dreams of joy abiding, On thy breast my head hath lain,In thy love and truth confiding— Bliss I ne'er can know again!

When thy heart, by me glanced ever, First displayed the guilty stain,Would these eyes had closed for ever, Not to weep thy crimes again!

But by Heaven's recording spirit May that wish forgotten be!Life, though now a load, I'd bear it For the babe I've borne to thee—

In whose lovely features (let me All my weakness here confess),While the struggling tears permit me, All her father's I can trace;

His, whose image never leaves me, Whose remembrance yet I prize;Who this bitterest feeling gives me— Loving where I most despise.

With regret and sorrow, rather, When our child's first accents flow,I shall teach her to say "Father"— But his guilt she ne'er shall know.

Whilst to-morrow, and to-morrow, Wake me to a widowed bed;In another's arms no sorrow Wilt thou feel, no tears wilt shed,

For the world's applause I sought not When I tore myself from thee;Of its praise or blame I thought not— What is blame or praise to me?

He in whom my soul delighted, From his breast my image drove;With contempt my truth requited, And preferred a wanton love.

Thou art proud—and mark me, Byron! Proud is my soul as thine own;Soft to love—but hard as iron When despite is on me thrown.

But, 'tis past!—I'll not upbraid thee, Nor shall ever wish thee ill;Wretched though thy crimes have made me, If thou canst, be happy still!