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When we two parted
In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Colder thy kiss;
Sorrow to this.
The sculptor's art exhausts the
woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been : But the poor dog, in life the firmést friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : While mao, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh man! 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 might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple 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.
Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my browIt felt like the warning
Of what I feel now. 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;
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 tell.
In secret we met
Jo silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
After long years,
With silence and tears.
FAREWELL. Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft 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, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the panys that pass pot by,
The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Thouglı grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain
I only seel-Farewell ! --Farewell!
Bright be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease lo repine,
When we know that thy God is with thee. Light be the curf 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 tlowers 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 float above the wreck of
happiness, Ire driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in
vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself
comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
These Verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr Power, Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by 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 flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis
tract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their for
mer hope of rest; 'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey
Oh could I feel as I have felt,
,--or be what I have been, Or weep, as I could once have wept, o'er many a va
nish'd scene : As springs, in deserts found, secm sweet- all brackish
though they be, So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me.
STANZAS FOR MUSIC,
There be none of beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charın d ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulld winds secm 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 Though the world for this commend thee
Though it smile upon the blow,
Founded on another's woe.
Could no other arm be found
To intlict a cureless wound:
Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not
Hearts can thus be toru away: Still 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;
Wake us from a widow'd bed.
When our child's first accents flow,
Though his care she must forego? When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is prest, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of bim thy love had bless'd! Should her lineaments resemble
Those thou never more mayst see,
With a pulse yet true to me.
All my madness none can know;
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 forsakes me now. But 't is done-all words are idle
Words from me are vainer still; But the thoughts we cannot bridic
Force their way without the will.-
Torn from every nearer tie,
More than this I scarce can die.
Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well! Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall
heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
When all around grew drear and dark,
And reason lialf withheld her ray, And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way; In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart, When, dreading to be deemd too kind,
The weak despair-the cold depart;
Showering down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.
The chief has fallen, but not by you,
Who, of all the despots banded, With that youthful chief competed ? Who could boast b'er France defeated,
Till lone tyranny commanded ?
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 sweetly nigh. And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away. Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,
And teach it what to brave or brook, 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, Still 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. Then let the ties of baffled love
Be broken-thine 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.
And thou too of the snow-white plume!
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 theeOf 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 Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendancy,-And as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quickest, And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner
Of 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 line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain: There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again! .
(FROM THE FRENCH.] We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! Though Freedom'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 motion : It soars and mingles 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 asunder-
See Rev. chap. viii, verse 7, etc, « The first angel sounded, and there followed bail and fire mingled with blood, - ete.
Verse 8. And 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 tbere fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell apon 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 worm u’ood, and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter..
3 Murat's remains aru said 10 have been torn from the grave and burnt.
O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Would that I were cold with those,
Since this hour live to see; When the doubts of coward foes
Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free.
Oh! although in dungeons pept, All their chains were light to me,
Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him
Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim,
In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own,
All thou calmly dost resigo, Could he purchase with that throne
Hearts like those which still are thine?
My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!
Never did I droop before; Never to my sovereign sue,
As his foes I now implore. All I ask is to divide
Every peril he must brave, Sharing by thc hero's side llis fall, his exile, and his
But the heart and ibe mind,
ON THE STAR OF « THE LEGION OF HONOUR,
(FROM THE FRENCH )
(FROM THE FRENCH.] «All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been
exalted from the ranks by Bonaparte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter to Lord heitb, entreating permission to acompany bím, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted.
Musr thou go, my glorious chief,
Sever'd from thy faithful few? Who can tell thy warrior's grief,
Maddeuing o'er that long adieu? Woman's love, and friendship's zeal
Dear as both have been to meWhat are they to all I feel,
With a soldier's faith, for thee?
Idol of the soldier's soul!
First in fight, but mightiest now: Many could a world control:
Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared
Death, and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard
Blessing him they served so well.
Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
* «At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a connon-ball, to wrench it off with the other, and, throwing it up in the air, exclaimod to bis comrades,' Vive l'Empereur jusqu'à la mort,' There were many other instances of the like; this you may, however, depend on as true.»
A private Letter from Brussels.
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And freedom hallows with her tread
WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF THE
PLEASURES OF MEMORY., ABSENT or present, still to thee,
My friend, what magic spells belong! As all can tell, who share, like me,
In turn, thy converse and thy song. But when the dreaded hour shall come,
By friendship ever deem'd too nigh, And « MEMORY » o'er her Druid's tomb Shall
weep that aught of thee can die, How fondly will she then repay
Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, And blend, while ages roll away, Her name immortally with thine!
April 19, 1812.
(FROM THE FRENCH.] FAREWELL to the land where the gloom of my glory Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name : She abandons me now,- but the page of her story, The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. I have warr'd with a world, which vanquish'd me only When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; I have coped with the nations which dread me thus
lonely, The last single captive to millions in war!
Farewell to thee, France !--when thy diadem crown'd me,
Farewell to thee, France !-- but when liberty rallies
bound usThen turn thee, and call on the chief of thy choice!
STANZAS TO •*'. Though the day of my destiny 's over,
And the star of my fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover
The faults which so many could find : Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
It never hath found but in thee.
The last smile which answers to mine,
Because it reminds me of thine;
As the breasts I believed in with me,
It is that they bear me from thee.
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
To pain-it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me:
They may crush, but they shall not contemnThey may torture, but shall not subdue me:
'T is of thee that I think---not of them. Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slander'd thou never couldst shake, Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Nor the war of the many with one ; JE my
soul was not fitted to prize it, 'T was folly not sooner to shun. And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresce, I have found that, whatever it lost me,
It could not deprive me of thee.
Thus much I at least may recal,
Leman!' these names are worthy of thy shore,
Thy shore of names like these ; wert thou no more, Their memory thy remembrance would recal: To them thy banks were lovely as to all;
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Of mighty minds doth ballow in the core Of human hearts the ruin of a wall
Where dwelt the wise and wood'rous; but by thee How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,
Which of the heirs of immortality
Geneva, Ferocy, Coppet, Lausanne.