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Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.

And freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh goddess ! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!

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 friondship 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.

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL.

[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, I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, But thy weakness decrces I should leave as I found thee, Decay'd in thy glory and sunk in thy worth. Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted In strife with the storm, when their battles were won! Then the eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on Victory's sun!

Farewell to thee, France !— but when liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then :
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ;
Though wither'd, thy tears will unfold it again.
Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice:
There are links which must break in the chain that has

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,
And the love which my spirit bath painted

It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling

The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,

As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is shiver’d,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd

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,
Though watchful, 't was not to defame me,

Nor mute, that the world might belie.
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

Nor the war of the many with one ; If 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 foresee, I have found that, whatever it lost me,

It could not deprive me of thee.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perishd,

Thus much I at least may recal,
It hath taught me that what I most cherishid

Deserved to be dearest of all.

SONNET.
Rousseau-Voltaire-our Gibbon--and de Stael-

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 hallow in the core Of human hearts the ruin of a wall

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,

Which of the heirs of immortality
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real?

" Geneva, Ferncy, Coppet, Lausanne.

In the desert a fountain is springing,

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
In the wide waste there still is a tree,

For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And a bird in the solitude singing,

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
Which speaks to my spirit of thee,

The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame

Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
DARKNESS.

Their cyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
I had a dream, which was not all a dream.

Eaclı other's

aspects-saw, apd shriek'd and diedThe bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Famine had wrillen fiend. The world was void, Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air. The populous and the powerful was a lump, Morn came, and went-aod came, and brougbt no day; Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifelessAnd men forgot their passions in the dread

A lump of death-a chaos of hard clay. Of this their desolation; and all hearts

The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still,
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light :

And nothing stirred within their silent depths ;
And they did live by wateh-fires—and the thrones, Sbips sailorless Jay rolling on the sea,
The palaces of crowned kings-the huts,

And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp d, The habitations of all things which dwell,

They slept on ile abyss without a surge. Were burni for beacons; cities were consumed,

The waves were dead; the rides were in their grave, And ined were gatherd round their blazing homes The moon their mistress had expired before; To look once more into cach other's face :

The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, Happy were those who dwelt within the cye

And the clouds perishd; darkness had do need
Of the volcanos and their mountain-torch.

Of aid from them--she was the universe.
A fearful bope was all the world contain d.
Forests were set on fire-but hour hy hour
They fell and faded-and the crackling trunks

CHURCHILL'S GRAVE,
Extinguish'd with a craslı-and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light

A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED.
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

I stoop beside the

grave

of him who blazed. The flashes fell upou them : some lay down

The comet of a season, and I saw
And hid their cyes and wept; and some did rest The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed.
Their chins upon their elenched hands, and smiled; With not the less of sorrow and of awe
And others hurried to and fro, and fed

On that neglected turf and quiet stone,
Their funcral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With name no clearer than the names unknown, With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd The pall of a past world; and then again

The gardener of that ground, why it might be With curses cast them down upon the dust,

That for this plant strangers his memory task d And goash'd their teeth and lowlil. The wild birds | Through the thick deaths of half a century; shriek'd,

And thus be answerd-« Well, I do not know
And, terrified, did Gutter on the ground,

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Ile died before my day of sextonship,
Came lame and tremulous; and vipers crawld

And I had not the digging of this grave. »
And twined thernselves among the multitude,

And is this all? I thought, -and do we rip
Hissing, but stingless—they were slain for food : The veil of immortality? and crave
And war, which for a moment was no inore,

I know not what of honour and of light
Did glut himself again. A meal was bouglic

Through unborn ages, to endure this blighat? With blood, and each sate sullenly apart,

So soon and so successless? As I said, Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;

The architect of all on which we tread, All carth was but one thought-and that was dealli, For earth is but a tombstone, did essay Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

To extricate remembrance from the clay, Of famine fed upon all eotrails. Men

Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, Died, and their boues were tombless as their tiesla; Were it not that all life must end in one, The meagre by the meagre were devour'd.

Of which we are but dreamers ;-as he caught Even dogs assaila their masters, all save one,

As 't were the twilight of a former sun, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

Thus spoke lie, -«I believe the man of whom The birds and beasts and famnisliil men at bay,

You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead

Wins a most famous writer in his day,
Lured their lank jaws; himself songlit out no food And therefore travellers step from out their way
But with a piteous and perpetual moun

To

pay him honour,-and myself whate'er And a quick desolate cry, licking the land

Your hubour pleases .» Then most pleased I shook Which answerd not with a caress-- he died,

From out my pocket's avaricious nook The crowd was famishid by degrees; but two

Some certain coins of silver, which as I were Of an enormous city did survive,

Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare And they were enemies; they met beside

So much but inconveniently. Ye smile, The dying embers of an altar-place

I see yo, yo profane ones! all the while,

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Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
You are the fools, not I- for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye,
On that old sexton's natural homily,
In which there was obscurity and fame,
The glory and the nothing of a name.

And a firm will, and a deep sense,

Which even in torture can descry Its own concentred recompense,

Triumphant where it dares defy,
And making death a victory.

PROMETHEUS. Tiran! to whose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,

Seen in their sad reality, Were not as things that gods despise ; What was thy pity's recompense! A silent suffering, and intense; The rock, the vulture, and the chain, All that the proud can feel of pain, The agony they do not show, The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh

Until its voice is echoless.

Titan! to thee the strife was given

Between the suffering and the will,

Which torture where they cannot kill ; And the inexorable heaven, And the deaf tyranny of fate, The ruling principle of hate, Which for its pleasure doth create The things it may annihilate, Refused thee even the boon to die : The wretched gift eternity

Was thine-and thou hast borne it well. All that the Thunderer wrung from thee Was but the menace which flung back On him the torments of thy rack; The fate thou didst so well foresee,

But would not to appease him tell : And in thy silence was his sentence, And in his soul a vain repentance, Aod evil dread, so ill dissembled That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

ODE.
Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul!

Oh shame to thy children and thee!
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall,

How wretched thy portion shall be!
Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

A mockery that never shall die :
The curses of hate, and the hisses of scoru,

Shail burden the winds of thy sky;
And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurld
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!
Oh, wbere is thy spirit of yore,

The spirit that breathed in tby dead, When gallantry's star was the beacon before,

And honour the passion that led? Thy storms have awakend their sleep,

They groan from the place of their rest,
And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep,

To see the foul stain on thy breast;
For where is the glory they left thee in trust?
*T is scatter'd in darkness, 't is trampled in dust!
Go look through the kingdoms of earth,

From Indus all round to the pole,
And something of goodness, of honour, and worth,

Sball brighten the sins of the soul. But thou art alone in thy shame,

The world cannot liken thee there ; Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name

Beyond the low reach of compare:
Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through time
A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime !
While conquest illumined his sword,

While yet in his prowess he stood,
Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thy lord,

And welcomed the torrent of blood:
Though tyranny sat on his crown,

And wither'd the nations afar, Yet bright in thy view was that despot's renown,

Till fortune deserted his car; Then back from the ehieftain thou slunkest away, The foremost to insult, the first to betray!

Thy godlike crime was to be kind,

To render with thy precepts less

The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen man with his own mind.
But baffled as thou wert from high,
Still in thy patient energy,

In the endurance, and repulse
Of thine impenetrable spirit,

Which earth and heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit.

Thou art a symbol and a sign
To mortals of their fate and force;

Like thee, man is in part divine,
A troubled stream from a pure source:
And man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;
His wretchedness, and his resistance,
And his sad unallied existence :
To which his spirit may oppose
Itself-an equal to all woes,

Forgot were the feats he had done,

The toils he had borne in thy cause ; Thou turned'st to worship a new rising sun,

And waft other songs of applause. But the storm was beginning to lower,

Adversity clouded his beam; And honour and faith were the brag of an hour,

And loyalty's self but a dream :To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows were restored, And the first that had scoffd were the first that adored.

What tumult thus burthens the air ?

What throng thus encircles his throne?

'T is the shout of delight, 't is the millions that swear | Next-for some gracious service unexprest, His sceptre shall rule them alone.

And from its wages only to be guessd-
Reverses shall brighten their zeal,

Raised from the toilet to the table, where
Misfortune shall hallow lis name,

Her wondering belters wait behind her chair:
And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash d,
How quenchless the spirit and tlame

She dines from off the plate she lately washd. That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie, on fire,

The genial confidante, and general spy;
For the hero they love, and the chief they admire! Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess ?
Their hero has rush'd to tlie field;

An only infant's earliest governess!
His laurels are cover'd with shade-

She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
But where is the spirit that never should yield,

That she berself, by teaching, learn 'd to spell.
The loyalty never to fade?

An adept next in penmanship she grows,
In a moment desertion and guile

As many a nameless slander defuly slows:

What she had made the pupil of her arl,
Abandon'd him up to the foe;
The dastards that tlourislid and grew in luis smile

None know-but that high soul secured the heart,
Forsook and renounced him in woe;

And panted for the truth it could not hear, And the millions that swore they would perish to save,

With longing breast and uodeluded ear. Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave!

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, The savage all wild in huis glen

Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could not blind,

Deceit infect not, near contagion soil,
Is nobler and better than thou;

Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil,
Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to meo,
Such perfidy blackens thy brow!

Nor master d science tempe her to look down
If thou wert the place of my birth,

On humbler talents with a pitying frown,
At once from thy arms would I sever;

Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vaiu,

Nor I'd tly to the uttermost ends of the earth,

envy ruffle to retaliate pain, And quit thee for over and ever ;

Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow, And thinking of thee in my long after years,

Nor virtue teach austerity- till now. Should but kindle my blushes and waken

Serenely purest of her sex that live. my tears.

But wanting one sweet weakness-to forgive;
Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul!

Too shockd at faults her soul can never know,
Oh, shame to thy children and thee!

She deems that all could be like her below:
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall,

Foe to all vice, yet hardly virtue's friend-
How wretched thy portion shall be!

For virtue pardons those she would amend.
Derision shall strike thiec forlorn,

But to the theme-now laid aside too long,
A mockery that never shall die;

The baleful burthen of this honest song
The curses of late, and the hisses of scorn,
Shall burthen the winds of thy sky;

Though all hier former functions are no more,

She rules the circle which she served before.
And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurlid
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!

If mothers—none know wlıy-before her quake,
If daughters dread her for the mother's sake;

If early habits—those false links which bind,
WINDSOR POETICS.

At times, the loftiest to the meanest mind-
Lines composed on the occasion of H. R. F. the P---- R--being The angry essence of her deadly will ;

Have given her power too deeply to instil seen standing betwixt the coffins of llenry VIII and Charles I, in the royal vault at Windsor.

If like a snake she steal within your walls.

Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ;
Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles, see heartless llenry lies;

If like a viper to the heart she wind,
Between them stands another sceptred thing,

And leave the venom there she did not find;

What marvel that this hag of batred works
It moves, it reigns-in all but name, a king :

Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife,
In him the double tyrant starts to life.

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,

And reign the Hecate of domestic hells!
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
Each royal vampyre wakes to life again.

Skilld by a touch to deepen scandal's tints,
Ah! what can tombs avail--since these disgorge With all the kind mendacity of hints,
The blood and dust of both-to mould a G...ge. While miupling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles,

1813. A thread of candour with a web of wiles ;

A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seemine,

To hide her bloodless heart's soul-hardend scheiding:
A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE.

A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal,
Honest- honest lago!

And, without feeling, mock at all who feel;
If that tbou be'st a desil, Iannot kill thee!

With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown,
SHAKSPEARE

A check of parchment, and an eye of stone.
BOEN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,

Mark bow the channels of her yellow blood Promoted thence to deck hier mistress' head;

Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,

Wer't the last drop in the well,

And I gasping on the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'T is to thee that I would drink.

In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour Should be-Peace to thine and mine,

And a health to thee, Tom Moore !

« ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH

YEAR.

Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face).
Look on her features! and behold her mind,
As in the mirror of itself defined:
Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged-
This is no trait which might not be enlarged;
Yet true to « Nature's journeymen, » who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade, -
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-
The time shall come, nor long remote when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.
May the strong curse of crusli'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind,
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black as thy will for others would create :
Till thy hard beart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims-and despair!
Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear,
Thy name-thy human name-10 every eye
The climax of all scorn, should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers,
And festering in the infamy of years.

March 30, 1816.

January 22, 1824, Missolonghi. 'T is time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move; Yet though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief,

Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys

Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze

A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 't is not thus, and 't is not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul ; nor now Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

CARMINA BYRONIS IN C. ELGIN. Aspice, quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores,

Subter stat nomen, facta superque vide. Scote miser! quamvis nocuisti Palladis ædi,

Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus. Pygmalion statuam pro sponsa arsisse refertur;

In statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest.

The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece,- she is awake!)

Awake my, spirit!-think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread all reviving passions down,

Unworthy manhood! Unto thee, Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

LINES TO MR MOORE. (The following lines were addressed extempore by Lord Byron to his

friend Mr. Moore, on the latter's last visit to Italy.)
My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea ;
But, before I go, Tom Moone,

Here's a double health to thee.
Here's a sigh to those who love me,

And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,

Here's a heart for every fate.
Though the occan roar around me,

Yet it still shall bear me on;
Though a desert should surround me,

It hath springs that may be won.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?

The land of honourable death Is here—up to the field, and give

Away thy breath!

Seek out— less often sought than found

A soldier's grave-for thee the best ; Then look around, and chuse thy ground,

And take thy rest.

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