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That yielding breast, that melting eye,

Too much invited to be blest:
That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

The wilder wish reproved, represt.
Oh! let me feel that all I losi,

But saved thee all that conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost

To spare the vain remorse of years.

I lived, I loved, I quaff’d, like thee;

I died; let earth my bones resign: Fill up—thou canst not injure me;

The worm hath fouler lips than thine. Better to hold the sparkling grape,

Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy broovi. And circle in the goblet's shape

The drink of gods, than reptiles' food. Where once my wit, perchance, hath shuns

In aid of others' let me shine;
And when, alas! our brains are gone,

What nobler substirute than wine i

Yet think of this when many a tongue,

Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

And brand a nearly blighted name.

TO GENEVRA.

Quaff while thou cansi-another race,

FROM THE TURKISH.
When thou and thine like me are sped,

The chain I gave was fair to view,
May rescue thee froin earth's embrace,

The lute I added sweet in sound,
And rhyme and revel with the dead.

The heart that offer'd both was true,
Why not? since through life's little day

And ill deserved the faie it found.
Our heads such sad effects produce;

These gifts were charm’d by secret spell
Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay,

Thy truth in absence to divine ;
This chance is theirs, to be of use.

And they have done their duty well,
Newstead Abbey, 1808.

Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
That chain was firm in every link,

But not to bear a stranger's touch;
ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER,

That lute was sweet-till thou couldst think
BART.

In other hands its notes were such.
THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humbiest grave;

Let him, who from thy neck unbound
But nations swell the funeral cry,

The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
And triumph weeps above the brave.

Who saw that lute refuse to sound,

Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
For them is sorrow's purest sigh
O’er ocean's heaving bosom sent:

When thou wert changed, they alter'd 100; In vain their bones unburied lie,

The chain is broke, the music mute:
All earth becomes their monument !

'Tis past—to them and thee adieu

False heart, frail chain, and silent lute. A comb is theirs on every page,

An epitaph on every tongue.
The present hours, the future age,

SONNET.
For them bewail, to them belong.
For them the voice of festal mirth

TAINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; And the wan lustre of thy features—caught While deep remembrance pours to worth

From contemplation—where serenely wrought, The goblet's tributary round.

Seems sorrow's softness charm’d from its despair

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, A theme to crowds that knew them not,

That-but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
Lamented by admiring foes,

With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thoughtWho would not share their glorious lot?

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. Who would not die the death they chose ?

With such an aspect, by his colours blent, And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;

(Except that thou hast nothing to repent) And early valour, glowing, find

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn-
A model in thy memory.

Such seem'st thou—but how much more excellent! But there are breasts that bleed with thee

With nought remorse can claim-nor virtue scorn
In woe, that glory cannot quell;
And shuddering hear of victory,

SONNET.
Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.

TO GENEVRA.
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name?

And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, While grief's fuli heart is fed by fame. My heart would wish away that ruder glow:Alas! for them, though not for thee,

And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but oh! They cannot choose but weep the more; While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, Deep for the dead the grief must be

And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.

For, through thy long dark lashes low depending

The soul of melancholy gentleness
TO A LADY WEEPING.

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
WEEP, daughter of a royal line,

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
A sire's disgrace, a realm's decay;

At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
Ah, happy! if each tear of thine

I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
Could wash a father's fault away!
Weep-for thy tears are virtue's tears-
Auspicious to these suffering isles;

INSCRIPTION
And be each drop, in future years,

ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG Repaid thee bv thy people's smiles !

When some proud son of man returns to earth, March, 1812.

Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,

The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp

of

woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, bull woat he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, lights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And clairns himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh inan! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute migh: bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this sunple urn, Pass on--it honours none you wish to mourn: To mark a friend's remains these stones ariseI never knew but one, and here he lies.

Newslead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.

WHEN we two parted

In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted

To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder ihy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning

Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning

of what I feel nuw. Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me-

Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well :Long, long shall I rue thee,

Too deeply to teli.
In secret we met-

In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.
If I should mect thee

Ater long years,
How should I greet thec?

With silence and tears.

1808.

FAREWELL. FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer

For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air,

But wafi thy name beyond the sky. 'T were vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,

Are in that word-Farewell !-Farewell ! These lips are mute, there eyes are dry;

But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that

pass not by, The thought thai ne'er shall sleep again. My soul cor deigns nor dares complain,

Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell !

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Bright be the place of thy soul!

No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine,

When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the tuif of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom

In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree

May spring from the spot of thy rest : But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest ?

Then the few whose spirits Loat above the wreck of

happiness, Are driven o'er the shoals or gui't or occan of excess : The magnet of their courso is gone, or only points in

vain The shore to which their shivo.'d sail shall nover stretch

again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself

comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dere not dream its own;

I 'These Verscs were given by Lord Byron to Mr Power Strand, who has published them, with very beartiíul music bu Sir John Stevenson

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our

tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the

ice appears. Though wit may fash from Auent lips, and mirth dis

tract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their for

mer hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray

beneath Oh could I feer as 1 nare felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a van

ish'd scene : As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet-all brackish

though they be, DO, 'midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to m.

1815.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. THERE be none of beauty's daughters

With a magic like inec ;
And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charm'd ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming.

While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover

'T was not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend ineen

Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe-
Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound ?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not,

Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away: Stiil thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth

Is—that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead,
Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say “Father !"

Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thce,

When her lip to thine is prest, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had bless'd! Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to mc.
All my faults perchance thou knowcst,

All my madress none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither-yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken;

Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakcs me now; But 't is done-all words are idle

Words from me are vainer s:ill; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.-
Fare thee well !-thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted-

More than this I scarce can die.

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving,

As an infant's asleep: So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of summer's occan.

FARE THEE WELL.

Alas! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above :

And life is thorny; and youth is vaia: And to be wroth with one wo love,

Doth work like madness in the brain.

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloos, the scars remaining,

Like ciiffs, which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,

But neither heat, nor frcst, nor thunder
Shall wholly do away, I ween,
The marks of that which once hath bocn.

COLERIDGE'S Christabel.

Fare thee well! and if for ever,

Still for ever, fare thee well! Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thce shall my heart rebel. Would that orcast were bared before thee

Where thy head so o.. hath lain,

TO *** When all around grew drear and dark,

And reason half withheld her rayAnd hope but shed a dying spark

Which more misled my lonely way; In that deep midnight of the mind,

And that internal strife of heari, When, dreading to be deem'd tou kind,

The weak despair--the cold depart:

When fortune changed—and love fled far,

And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose and set not to the last. Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night,

For ever shining sweety nigh. And when the cloud upon us came,

Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread ils gentle flame,

And dash'd the darkness all away. Sull may thy spirit dwell on mine,

And leach it what 10 brave or broo's There's more in one soft word of thine,

Than in the world's defied rebuke. Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,

That still unbroke, though gently bent, Sull waves with fond fidelity

Its boughs above a monument. The winds might rend, the skies might pour,

But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. But thou and thine shall know no blight,

Whatever fate on me may fall; For heaven in sunshine will requite

The kind-and thee the most of all.

Showering down a fiery food,
Turning rivers into blood.'
The chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterlou !
When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men-
Save in deeds that led them on
Where glory smiled on freedoni's son-
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed ?

Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone tyranny commanded ?
Till, goaded by anıbition's sting,
The hero sunk into the king?
Then he fell;—so perish all,
Who would men by inan enthral!
And thou 100 of the snow-white plume!
Whose realu refused thee even a toinb;'
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts o hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name ;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks,

Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shiver'd fast around thccOr the fate at last which found thee: Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow? Once as the moon sways o'er the tide, It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide; Through the smoke-created night or the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendency, And as it onward rolling rose So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quickest, And the batile's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

or the eagle's burning crest(There with thunder-clouds to fan her

Who could then her wing arrest

Victory beaming from her breast ?)
While the broken linc enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain :
There be sure was Murat charging!

There he ne'er shall charge again!

Then let the ties of bamed love

Be broken-ihine will never break; Thy heart can feel-but will not move ;

Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. And these, when all was lost beside,

Were found, and still are fixed, in theeAnd bearing still a breast so tried,

Earth is no desert-even to me.

ODE.

(FROM THE FRENCH.) We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! Though freedoni's blood thy plain bedew; There't was shed, but is not sunkRising from each gory trunk, Like the water-spout from ocean, With a strong and growing motionIt soars and nungles in the air, With that of lost LABEDOYEREWith that of him whose honour'd grave Contains the bravest of the brave." A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose; When 't is full, 't will burst asunderNever yet was heard such thunder As then shall shake the world with wonder Never yet was seen such lightning, As o'er heaven shall then be brightning! Like the Wormwood star, foretold By the sainted soer of old,

1 See Rep. chap. viii. verse 7, etc. “The first angel sounded and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," etc.

Verse 8. "Ard the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," etc.

Verse 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon a third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters."

Verse 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood, and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter."

2 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.

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