LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON.

BY BARRY CORNWALL.

OH! Men of Sparta and of Salamis!

Of billy Athens,-of 'bleak Thermopyla'!
Of Corinth, whom the double waters kiss,
And Marathon, that awoke, like freedom,-free,
And drove the gaudy Persian's hounds,
Shaking with foreign fear and gory wounds,
Across the Hellespontus wild and deep,-
Mourn! Mourn! Mourn!

The PATRIOT of all countries lies for aye asleep!
Mourn, mourn, O mourn! Glory and Strength have died;
Bright Genius faded hath, and dazzling wit;
And the proud spirit of the mind (a pride
Pillared on large endowments) down is smit.
Mourn, therefore, to the winds and weeping air;
Mourn to the chafed sands, whose echoes suit
The perfect music of your deep despair,
As triumphs answered once the Spartan flute!
Perhaps some hovering sense may still abide
Like Conquest by your side;

Perhaps what was his voice is scarcely mute;
Or,-as when BION died,

The Dorian waters wide

Spoke in reply, so may the barren main
Grow fruitful with a sound

Of Sorrow, caught from the sepulchring ground
Mourn, therefore, men of Athens! still complain!
And ye who are left behind

Far from the sunny shore, where Freedom pined,
Till be, and others like him, cherished

The dawning courage till it broke in Day,-
Know ye the Poet of your land hath perished,

A stranger, among troubles, far away?

O foes! O friends! All, all who have loved the light
Wherein he soothed his spirit stern and high,
Unite! Unite!

And for a Prince of Poesy,

Who garlanded his brows with deathless song,
Offer now gentle tears and earnest prayers!
Offer up virgin sighs and silver hairs

Torn from the childless brow, and, above all,
That dark and bitter gall

Which wrought on men else kind, alas! to do him wrong!

He was a Poet, and was long possessed
By holy fury and a fine disdain,
Such as should touch the breast

Of Phoebus' follower, never known in vain :
He was a Poet whom the mountains owned,
The bleak rocks, and the tempest-lifted wave,
And the mad battle, and the ghastly grave!-
Nothing in man's wide world ever disowned
His sway, but waited on his various skill,
And answered, as he touched the quill,

In deep harmonious measures which might drown despair!
Sometimes he sang of pain,

And sometimes in a blyther vein,

And heroes wrought in song, and patriots rare,

Green earth and heavenly blue,

The tender and the true,

[fair!

The fierce, the false, the great, the good, and (most) the

And is he gone?-Yet shall his great example

Survive, as doth a glory, on that land

Where Greeks have met to perish, or else trample

The bloody Crescent down, all hand in hand
Like banded brothers armed for their fame.—
There lives he in the shadow of his name:
And the great Spirit which he woke by song
Shall breathe in battle till the Turk be slain,
And frowning Truth appeased, and lightnings strong
Have molten every despot-forged chain!

O Greece! O Freedom! If your cause be crowned,
Much shall ye owe to him who fondly clung

Beside ye, like your child, and sung

Your famous heroes to his latest sound;

And then, upon your laurell'd ground,
Sank, like the eagle in its flight,

And perished in his utmost might,

Before his toil was o'er, beloved and renowned!

Men of a future age and happier time

Shall turn back to his ashes pale and cold,

And read the wonders of his starry rhyme,

And sigh o'er all he wrote and all he said of old:

And youthful poets to his carved urn

Shall come and often mourn,

Shall come as to a far and holy shrine,
And weave Imaginations fine,

And airy thoughts, and dreams that will not die,
In many a sweet and gentle Elegy!

OH! when shall my misery cease?
Oh! when shall my feet find a home?
A stranger to comfort and peace,
How long on this earth shall I roam?
My father and mother are dead;
No friends or relations have 1;
Kind Hope from my bosom hath fled,-
And left me bewilder'd to sigh.

O life, how oppressive thy load!
How blest-would thy fluttering cease!
For weary and long seems the road,
That shall lead me to heaven and peace.

I could fain do a desperate deed!
1 could fain lay me down and despair!
But-now Hope from her dungeon is freed,
She whispers be wise and forbear."

Then I'll still bear the scoff of the proud,
And at misery never repine;

This life-O, this life's but a cloud,
Beyond it fair virtue shall shine.

CARDINAL WOLSEY

WAS born at Ipswich, in Suffolk, in the year 1471, and died 1531, at the age of sixty. This extraordinary man was reported to be the son of a butcher; but however low his origin might be, his wonderful abilities and insinuating manners soon raised him to the highest dignities in the kingdom, both temporal and spiritual. He possessed an unbounded influence over his master, Henry the Eighth, a fortune that could outvie the revenues of princes and an ecclesiastical establishment that is said to have exceeded even that of the sovereign himself. His memo

rable fall was more rapid, if possible, than his rise. Its origin was from attempting to retain the favour of the Pope, contrary to the wishes of Henry, who was then suing for a divorce from his queen; and it was accelerated by the inclination of Anne Bullen towards Protestanism. No sooner was it discovered that Wolsey had lost the royal favour, than the jealous nobility stripped him of his full-blown honours, aud left him bitterly to regret putting his trust in princes.

While condemning the boundless pride which occasioned all the errors of Wolsey, we ought to balance his faults with the good his love of learning and regard for learned men reflected on his country; and his esteem and succour of Erasmus must never be forgotten. At the early age of fifteen he was made Batchelor of Arts; and the College of Christ's Church, Oxford, owes its foundation to him. Shakspeare, undoubtedly was the truest delineator of his character, and his most generous encomiast.

IT may not be generally known that the male spider is supplied with a little bladder, somewhat similar to a drum, and that ticking noise which has been termed the Death Watch, is nothing more than the sound he makes upon this little apparatus, in order to serenade and to allure his mistress.

LMOST every Castle or Palace in Great Britain has been in times of old, the scene of cruel massacre and party warfare. Not even the above Palace of religion has escaped, which numerous parts still existing, point out to the minute observer.

The Palace of Lambeth, the residence of the right reverend Archbishop of Canterbury, Lord Primate of all England, is a prodigious building, seated on the bank of the Thames, a little above Westminster Bridge. It is composed of brick, and has a magnificent entrance; said to be built by Archbishop Morton. The dwelling, including the garden, covers a plot of ground of about thirteen acres. The chapel adjoining the cloisters forms the northern side; to the west it is bounded by the Lollards' Tower, on the south by the gardens, and on the east by the gallery. It has three windows on one side, and a large one at the east and west ends. The chapel has a handsome pencilled ceiling. This edifice, which was totally destroyed at the time the Palace was in the possession of Colonel Scott, was afterwards rebuilt and beautified by Juxon.

On the top of the Lollards' tower, is a small room,

NO. XVIII,

T