On The Death of a Young Lady by Byron

I am feeling perhaps more indolent than convention necessitates today, and so I'm going to take the route of least resistance and do some copy and pasting. This is a Byron poem that is notable for its context - it was written by Byron at 14(!). I'm fond of it but Byron really wasn't, writing in its first publication that:

'The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece than, perhaps, any other in the collection; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (being composed at age 14), and his first essay, he preferred submitting it to the indulgence of his friends in its present state, to making either addition or alteration.' He would later go on to write in his notebooks that this poem is 'an Elegy. A very dull one.' I think he was overly harsh on his 14-year-old self, after all he has already grasped iambic pentameter, rhyme schemes, and much else besides. Though it was characteristic of Byron to scourge himself. I think in this case it was probably exacerbated by comparison against his idol, Alexander Pope, and Pope's achievements by his early teens. Pope famously wrote his Ode on Solitude at the age of 12, nearly unheard of in poetry. In classical music it is almost accepted as a truism that the early prodigies will become the leading figures in the future, but poets tend to begin a lot later.

This poem was written following the death of his cousin Margaret Parker*, whom Byron describes in his notebooks as 'one of the most beautiful of evanescent beings'. He again emphasises the deficiencies of the poem, further highlighted through contrast against his cousin, writing 'I do not recollect scarcely any thing equal to the transparent beauty of my cousin, or to the sweetness of her during the short period of our intimacy. She looked as if she had been made out of a rainbow – all beauty and peace.'

Byron recounts his reaction to the death of his cousin, writing 'My passion had its usual effects upon me: I could not sleep, could not eat; I could not rest; and although I had reason to know that she loved me, it was the torture of my life to think of the time which must elapse before we could meet again – being usually about twelve hours of separation! But I was a fool then, and am not much wiser now.'

Here is the poem, as you asked:

[1]

     Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,

       Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,

     Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb,

       And scatter flowers on the dust I love.

[2]

     Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,

       That clay where once such animation beam'd;

     The King of Terrors seized her as his prey,

       Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd.

[3]

     Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,

       Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate!

     Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,

       Not here the muse her virtues would relate.

[4]

     But wherefore weep? her matchless spirit soars

       Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;

     And weeping angels lead her to those bowers

       Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay.

[5]

     And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign,

       And, madly, godlike Providence accuse?

     Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain,

       I'll ne'er submission to my god refuse.

[6]

     Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,

       Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;

     Still they call forth my warm affection's tear,

       Still in my heart retain their wonted place.

*interestingly, Byron also wrote a poem on her brother's death, which I think I will write a blog post about in the future (as certainly I cannot do so in the past).