Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LADY BYRON'S REPLY TO LORD BYRON'S FARE THEE WELL, by ANNE ISABELLA MILBANKE


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LADY BYRON'S REPLY TO LORD BYRON'S FARE THEE WELL, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Yes, farewell, farewell forever
Last Line: If thou canst -- be happy still.
Alternate Author Name(s): Byron, Lady; Milbanke, Annabella
Subject(s): Grief; Sorrow; Sadness


YES, FAREWELL, farewell forever,
Thou thyself hast fix'd our doom,
Bade hope's sweetest blossoms wither,
Never more for me to bloom.

"Unforgiving," thou hast call'd me,
Didst thou ever say "Forgive?"
For the wretch whose wiles enthrall'd thee,
Thou didst seem alone to live.

Short the span which time has given
To complete thy love's decay;
By unhallowed passions driven,
Soon thy heart was taught to stray.

Love for me that feeling tender
Which so well thy verse can show,
From my arms why didst thou wander,
My endearment why forgo?

Wrapt in dreams of joy abiding
On thy breast my head hath lain,
In thy love and truth confiding,
Bliss I cannot know again.

When thy heart by me "glanc'd over"
First displayed the guilty stain,
Would these eyes have closed forever,
Ne'er 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,
Still to love where I despise.

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

Whilst tomorrow and tomorrow,
Take me to a widowed bed,
In another's arms no sorrow
Wilt thou feel! -- no tear 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 praise or blame to me!

He in whom my soul delighted
From his heart my image drove.
With contempt my truth requited
And preferred a wanton's love.

Thou art proud, and mark me, Byron,
I've a soul proud as thine own,
Soft to love, but hard as iron,
When despite on me is thrown.

But farewell! I'll not upbraid thee
Never, never wish thee ill;
Wretched tho' thy crimes have made me,
If thou canst -- be happy still.





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