The poetical works of lord Byron. Repr. with life, notes &c. 'Albion' ed

From the luxuriant and voluptuous flood
Of sweet sensations, battling with the blood.
But these are better than the gloomy errors,
The weeds of nations in their last decay,
When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd
terrors,

Heavy and sore, in which long yoked they plough'd

The sand,-or if there sprung the yellow grain,
'Twas not for them, their necks were too much
bow'd,

And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain:
Yes! the few spirits,-who, despite of deeds
Which they abhor, confcund not with the cause
Those momentary starts from Nature's laws,
Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite
But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth
With a few summers, and again put forth
Cities and generations-fair, when free-
For, Tyranny, there blooms no bud for thee!

And Mirth is madness, and but smiles to slay;
And Hope is nothing but a false delay,
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,
When Faintness, the last mortal birth of Pain,
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning [ning,
Of the cold staggering race which Death is win-With all her seasons to repair the blight
Steals vein by vein and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'er-tortured clay,
To him appears renewal of his breath,
And freedom the mere numbness of his chain;
And then he talks of life, and how again
He feels his spirit soaring-albeit weak,
And of the fresher air, which he would seek:
And as he whispers knows not that he gasps,
That his thin finger feels not what it clasps,
And so the film comes o'er him, and the dizzy
Chamber swims round and round, and shadows
busy,

At which he vainly catches, flit and gleam,
Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,
And all is ice and blackness,-and the earth
That which it was the moment ere our birth.

II.

There is no hope for nations!-Search the page
Of many thousand years-the daily scene,
The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

The everlasting to be which hath been,
Hath taught us nought, or little still we lean
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear
Our strength away in wrestling with the air:
For 'tis our nature strikes us down: the beasts
Slaughter'd in hourly hecatombs for feasts
Are of as high an order-they must go

Ev'n where their driver goads them, though to
slaughter.

Ye men, who pour your blood for kings as water,
What have they given your children in return?
A heritage of servitude and woes,

A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows.
What! do not yet the red-hot plough-shares
O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal, [burn,
And deem this proof of loyalty the real;
Kissing the hand that guides you to your scars,
And glorying as you tread the glowing bars?
All that your sires have left you, all that Time
Bequeaths of free, and History of sublime,
Spring from a different theme! Ye see and read,
Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!
Save the few spirits who, despite of all, [der'd
And worse than all, the sudden crimes engen-
By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,
And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd,
Gushing from Freedom's fountains, when the
crowd,

Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,
And trample on each other to obtain
The cup which brings oblivion of a chain

III.

Glory and Empire! once upon these towers
With Freedom-godlike Triad! how ye sate!
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours
When Venice was an envy, might abate,
But did not quench her spirit; in her fate
All were enwrapp'd: the feasted monarchs knew
And loved their hostess, nor could learn to
hate,

The many felt, for from all days and climes
Although they humbled-with the kingly few
She was the voyager's worship; even her crimes
Were of the softer order-born of Love,
She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead,
But gladden'd where her harmless conquests
spread;

For these restored the Cross, that from above
Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant
Flew between earth and the unholy Crescent,
Which, if it waned and dwindled, Earth may

thank

The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
Now, creaking in the ears of those who owe
The name of Freedom to her glorious struggles;

Yet she but shares with them a common woe,
And call'd the kingdom' of a conquering foe,
with what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!
But knows what all--and, most of all, we know-

IV.

The name of Commonwealth is past and gone
O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe;
Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own
A sceptre, and endures the purple robe;
If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone
His chainless mountains, 'tis but for a time,
For tyranny of late is cunning grown,
And in its own good season tramples down
The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime,
Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean
Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion
Of Freedom, which their fathers fought for, and
Bequeath'd-a heritage of heart and hand,
And proud distinction from each other land,
Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's
motion,

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand
Full of the magic of exploded science-
Still one great clime in full and free defiance,

Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime,
Above the far Atlantic !-she has taught
Her Esau-brethren that the haughty flag,
The floating fence of Albion's feebler crag,
May strike to those whose red right hands have
bought

for ever,
Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still
Better, though each man's life-blood were a river,
That it should flow, and overflow, than creep
Through thousand lazy channels in our veins,
Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains,
And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,
Three paces, and then faltering :-better be
Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free,
In their proud charnel of Thermopylæ,
Than stagnate in our marsh,—or o'er the deep
Fy, and one current to the ocean add,
One spirit to the souls our fathers had,
One freeman more, America, to thee!

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

ON A NUN.

Sonnet composed in the name of a father, whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil. OF two fair virgins, modest, though admired, Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguish'd, soon-too soon-ex-
pires:

But thine, within the closing grate retired,
Eternal captive, to her God aspires.
But thou at least from out the jealous door,
Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once

I to the marble, where my daughter lies, Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour, And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

STANZAS TO THE PO. RIVER, that rollest by the ancient walls,

Where dwells the lady of my love, when she Walks by thy brink, and there perchance recalls A faint and fleeting memory of me; What if thy deep and ample stream should be A mirror of my heart, where she may read The thousand thoughts I now betray to thee, Wild as thy wave, and headlong as thy speed!! What do I say-a mirror of my heart? [strong? Are not thy waters sweeping, dark, and Such as my feelings were and are, thou art;

And such as thou art were my passions long. Time may have somewhat tamed them,-not for ever;

Thou overflow'st thy banks, and not for aye Thy bosom overboils, congenial river! [away: Thy floods subside, and mine have sunk

Thy waters could I dream of, name, or see,
Without the inseparable sigh for her!
Her bright eyes will be imaged in thy stream,
Yes! they will meet the wave I gaze on now:
Mine cannot witness, even in a dream,

That happy wave repass me in its flow !
The wave that bears my tears returns no more:
Will she return by whom that wave shall
sweep?

[shore, Both tread thy banks, both wander on thy I by thy source, she by the dark-blue deep. But that which keepeth us apart is not Distance, nor depth of wave, nor space of But the distraction of a various lot, [earth,

As various as the climates of our birth. A stranger loves the lady of the land, Born far beyond the mountains, but his blood Is all meridian, as if never fann'd

By the black wind that chills the polar flood.

My blood is all meridian; were it not,

I had not left my clime, nor should I be,
In spite of tortures ne'er to be forgot,

A slave again of love,—at least of thee.
'Tis vain to struggle-let me perish young-
Live as I lived, and love as I have loved;
To dust if I return, from dust I sprung,

And then, at least, my heart can ne'er be moved.

SONNET TO GEORGE THE FOURTH,

ON THE REPEAL OF LORD EDWARD FITZGERALD'S FORFEITURE. To be the father of the fatherless, [and raise To stretch the hand from the throne's height, His offspring, who expired in other days To make thy sire's sway by a kingdom less,—— This is to be a monarch, and repress

Envy into unutterable praise.

Dismiss thy guard, and trust thee to such traits,
For who would lift a hand, except to bless?
Were it not easy, sir, and is't not sweet,
To make thyself beloved? and to be
Omnipotent by mercy's means? for thus
Thy sovereignty would grow but more com-
plete:

A despot thou, and yet thy people free,
And by the heart, not hand, enslaving us.

As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little versed in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken.
What, though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord piled the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands ad-

vance,

Or Henry trampled on the crest of France,
Though marvelling at the name of Magna
Charta,

Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta ;
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name.

Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even perhaps the declamation prize,
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope.
Not that our heads much eloquence require,
Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire.
A manner clear or warm is useless, since
We do not try by speaking to convince.
Be other orators of pleasing proud,- [crowd:
We speak to please ourselves, not move the
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone;
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan :
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen;
The slightest motion would displease the Dean;
Whilst every staring graduate would prate
Against what he could never imitate.

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised

cup

Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up;
Nor stop, but rattle over every word--
No matter what, so it can not be heard.
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space
May safely hope to win the wordy race,

Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour;
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the
head,

While distant mitres to their eyes are spread.
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,
They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place.
Such are the men who learning's treasures
guard!

Such is their practice, such is their reward!
This much, at least, we may presume to say-
The premium can't exceed the price they pay.

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.
SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, 'I love,' but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt ;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.
What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke:
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft conversed,

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;

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade;
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie
Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept-for die :
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix'd within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise ; [note,
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's
More than the verse on which the critic wrote:Thine image I can ne'er forget.

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,

⚫ Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty [now Marquis of Lansdowne] has lost his place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:
May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker
Oh! may the happy mortal fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,

For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul with vain regret
Of him who never can forget!'

THE CORNELIAN.

No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have for my weakness oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure the giver loved me. He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,
My only fear should be to lose it.
This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And ever since I've loved a tear.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he who seeks the flowers of truth
Must quit the garden for the field.
"Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,
Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

Had Fortune aided Nature's care,

For once forgetting to be blind, His would have been an ample share, If well proportion'd to his mind. But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form had fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remain'd to give the rest.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE' AT A PRI

VATE THEATRE.

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;

Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;

No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new :
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly :
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your
But all our dramatis persone wait [praise;
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate."
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward.
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER.

OUR nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath:

These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue, We give the palm where Justice points its due.'

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY.

O FACTIOUS viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What though our 'nation's foes' lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits war not with the dead.'
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state;
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd;
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;

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THE TEAR.

Olachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.'-GRAY.

WHEN Friendship or Love our sympathies

move,

When Truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile
To mask detestation or fear;

By another possest, may she live ever blest!
Her name still my heart must revere :
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was
And forgive her deceit with a Tear. [mine,

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of
night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear;

No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

REPLY TO SOME VERSES

OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY
OF HIS MISTRESS.

WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret ?

For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh
Will never obtain a coquette.

Would you teach her to love? For a time seem
At the first she may frown in a pet; [to rove

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the
Through billows Atlantic to steer, (gale,
As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be
his grave,

The green sparkles bright with a Tear.

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath
In Glory's romantic career;

But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride he return to his
bride,

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,
All his toils are repaid, when, embracing the
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. [maid,
Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship
and Truth,*

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no
My Mary to love once so dear, [more,

In the shade of her bower I remember the hour
She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

Harrow

And then you may kiss your coquette.
For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt :
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.
Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret ;

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny
That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride,
This whimsical virgin forget;

Some other admire, who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.

[all,

For me, I adore some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly; but yet,
Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them
Did they act like your blooming coquette.
No longer repine, adopt this design,

And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear
To fly from the captious coquette.

Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend,
Ere quite with her snares you're beset :
your deep-wounded heart, when incensed
Should lead you to curse the coquette."

Lest

by the smart,

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did Your pardon, a thousand times o'er. [offend,

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