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Byron on Dorset
Byron wrote two poems on the Duke of Dorset.
The first was in 1805 after the Duke had left Harrow where he had been Byron's fag. Byron admired him and felt he could have a worthy future provided he kept his feet on the ground. This poem was not published until after the Duke's death.
The second poem relates specifically to the death of the Duke.
The text of both poems is reproduced below.
Lord Byron - Hours of Idleness
Edited by Peter Cochran
APPENDIX 1: The five poems added in Poems Original and Translated.161
To the Duke of Dorset.
162
BYRON'S NOTE: In looking over my papers, to select a few additional Poems for this second edition, I found
the following lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed in the Summer of 1805, a short
time previous to my departure from Harrow. They were addressed to a young school-fellow of
high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles, through the neighbouring
country; however he never saw the lines, and most probably never will. As, on a re-perusal, I
found them not worse than some other pieces in the collection, I have now published them for
the first time, after a slight revision.
DORSET! whose early steps with mine have strayed,
Exploring every path of Ida’s glade,
Whom still affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend;
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band,
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;163
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
Even now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renowned in rank, nor far beneath the throne.
Yet, DORSET, let not this seduce thy soul,
To shun fair science, or evade control;
Though passive tutors,164 fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee!
And, even in simple boyhood’s opening dawn,
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn;
When these declare, “that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestined to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules”;
Believe them not – they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few, in IDA’s early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or, if amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart! ’twill bid thee, boy, forbear,
For well I know, that virtue lingers there.
Yes! I have marked thee many a passing day,
But, now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have marked, within that generous mind,
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom indiscretion hailed her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though thy proud heart no precept now can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.
’Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour,165
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names, that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot,
In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,
Except the dull cold stone, that hides thy head,
The mouldering ’scutcheon, or the Herald’s roll,
That well-emblazoned, but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonoured, in the tomb may find
One spot to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults,
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults;
A race, with old armorial lists o’erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise;
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too;
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun,
Not Fortune’s minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day:
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a Courtier, lived a man of worth,
And called, proud boast! the British Drama forth.166
Another view! not less renowned for Wit,
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favoured by the Nine,
In every splendid part ordained to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song.167
Such were thy Fathers, thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades, where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all were mine;
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow’s hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frowned away,
By dreams of ill, to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell –
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these, adieu! nor let me linger o’er
Scenes hailed, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding, slowly, thro’ the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes, that mourn, yet cannot weep.
DORSET! farewell ! I will not ask part
Of remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind,
Will weep 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,
Ma y o n e 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;
Wi t h 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 lengthened strain,
Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain,
The Guardian Seraph, who directs thy fate,
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
Notes:
161: For the genesis of POAT, see BLJ I 137, 138 and 139.
162: POAT pp.62-8.
163 BYRON’S NOTE: At every public School, the junior boys are completely subservient to the upper
forms, till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, no rank is
exempt; but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed.
164 BYRON’S NOTE: Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant; I merely mention
generally, what is too often the weakness of preceptors.
165: Compare Churchill’s Grave, 2: The comet of a season …
166 BYRON’S NOTE: “Thomas S—k—lle, Lord B—k—st, created Earl of D—— by James the First, was
one of the earliest and brightest ornaments to the poetry of his country, and the first who produced a
regular drama.” – ANDERSON’S BRITISH POETS. Sackville’s doubtful reputation rests on the play
Gorboduc (1561/2): the fact that it is unactably turgid would probably have endeared it to B., though there’s no
evidence that he read it.
167 BYRON’S NOTE: Charles S—k—lle, Earl of D——, esteemed the most accomplished man of his day,
was alike distinguished in the voluptuous court of Charles II, and the gloomy one of William III. He
behaved with great gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch, in 1665, on the day previous to which he
composed his celebrated song. His character has been drawn in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, and
Congreve. VIDE ANDERSON’S BRITISH POETS.
Stanzas on the Death of the Duke of Dorset
Byron’s two early poems to his younger Harrow friend the Duke of Dorset were added to
Hours of Idleness in its section version, Poems Original and Translated. Dorset was killed in
a riding accident in February 1815, shortly after Byron’s marriage.
1.
I heard thy fate without a tear,
Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear –
Too loved of all to die.
I know not what hath seared mine eye,
The tears refuse to start;
But every drop its lids deny
Falls dreary on my heart.
2.
Yet – deep and heavy, one by one,
They sink and turn to care;
As caverned waters wear the stone,
Yet dropping harden there –
They cannot petrify more fast
Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fixed, regard the past,
But never melt again.
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