For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own?
What brother springs a brother's love to seek?
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties!
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest:
I hear I wake-and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again, but, ah! no brother's voice.
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. (1)
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than IDA's social band.
ALONZO!(2) best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends:

It

several errors into which the author has been led by the accounts of others. I allude to facts, and not criticisms. But the same author has cruelly calumniated my father and my grand-uncle, but more especially the former. So far from being brutal,' he was, according to the testimony of all who knew him, of an extremely amiable and joyous character, but careless and dissipated. He had consequently the reputation of a good officer, and showed himself such in America. The facts themselves refute the assertion. is not by brutality' that a young officer of the guards se. duces and carries off a Marchioness, and marries two heiresses. It is true that he was a very handsome man, which goes a good way. His first wife (Lady Conyers and Marchioness of Carmarthen) did not die of grief, but of a malady which she caught by having imprudently insisted upon accompanying my father to a hunt, before she was completely recovered from the accouchement which gave birth to my sister Augusta. His second wife, my respectable mother, bad, I assure you, too proud a spirit to bear with the ill asage of any man, no matter who he might be; and this she would have soon proved. I should add, that he lived a long time at Paris, and was in habits of intimacy with the eld Marshal Biron, commandant of the French guards, who, from the similarity of names, and Norman origin of our fa mily, supposed that there was some distant relationship be tween us. He died some years before the age of forty; and whatever may have been his faults, they were certainly not those of harshness and grossness. If the notice should reach England, I am certain that the passage relative to my father will give much more pain to my sister even than to me. Augusta and I have always loved the memory of our father as much as we loved each other; and this at least forms a presumption, that the stain of harshness was not applicable to it. If he dissipated his fortune, that concerns ns alone, for we are his heirs; and till we reproach him with it, I know no one else who has a right to do so.

"As to the Lord Byron who killed Mr. Chaworth in a duel, so far from retiring from the world, he made the tour of Europe, and was appointed Master of the Stag-hounds, after that event; and did not give up society until his son had offended him by marrying in a manner contrary to his duty. So far from feeling any remorse for having killed Mr. Chaworth, who was a spadassin, and celebrated for his quarrelsome disposition, he always kept the sword which he used upon that occasion in his bedchamber, and there it still was when he died. It is singular enough, that when very young, I formed a strong attachment for the grandniece and heiress of Mr. Chaworth, who stood in the same degree of relationship as myself to Lord Byron; and at one time it was thought that a union would have taken place. This is a long letter, and principally about my family; but it is the fault of my benevolent biographer. He may say of me whatever of good or evil pleases him; but I desire that he should speak of my relations only as they deserve.

If you

could find an occasion of making him rectify the facts relative to my father, and publish them, you would do me a

From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise;
The praise is his who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If hope anticipate the words of truth,
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.
Friend of my heart! and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest,
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore;
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more.
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done, (3)
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were oue:
Together we impell'd the flying ball;
Together waited in our tutor's hall;
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil;
Or, plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore;
In every element, unchanged, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.
Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy!
DAVUS, (4) the harbinger of childish joy;

great service; for I cannot bear to have him unjustly spoken of.

"P.S.-The 11th or 12th of this month I shall embark for Greece. Should I return, I shall pass through Paris, and shall be much flattered in meeting you and your friends. Should I not return, give me as affectionate a place in your remembrance as possible."-L. E.

(1) "It has been reserved for our own time to produce one distinguished example of the Muse having descended upon a bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell, and we trust to soothe, afflictions of no ordinary description; afflictions originating probably in that singular combination of feeling, which has been called the poetical temperament, and which has so often saddened the days of those on whom it has been conferred. If ever a man could lay claim to that character in all its strength and all its weakness, with its unbounded range of enjoyment, and its exquisite sensibility of pleasure and of pain, it must certainly be granted to Lord Byron. His own tale is partly told in two lines of Lara:

'Left by his sire, too young such loss to know,

Lord of himself-that heritage of woe!" Sir Walter Scott.-L. E. (2) The Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream Guards, brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powerscourt. He died of a fever, in his twentieth year, at Coimbra, May 14th, 1811. "Of all human beings," says Lord Byron, "I was, perhaps, at one time the most attached to poor Wingfield. I had known him the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine."

On hearing of the death of his beloved schoolfellow, he added the following stanzas to the first canto of Childe Harold :

"And thou, my friend!-since unavailing woe

Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain-
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,
Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain :
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain,
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest!
What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest?
"Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most!
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,

In dreams deny me not to see thee here!" etc.-L. E. (3) "There needs no better record," says Moore," of his mode of life as a schoolboy, than what these fondly circumstantial effusions supply. Thus the sports he delighted and excelled in are here enumerated."-P. E.

(4) The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B. A., of Christ Church, Oxford; who died Dec. 8, 1812, at Hall's Place, Kent, aged twenty-four. "His mind," says a writer in the Gent. Mag., "was comprehensive and perspicuous; his affections warm and sincere. Through extreme aversion to hypocrisy, he was so far from assuming the false appearances of virtue, that much of his real excellence was unseen, whilst he was eager to acknowledge every fault into which

For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun;
Yet with a breast of such materials made-
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel.
Still I remember, in the factious strife,
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: (1)
High poised in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of horror burst from every tongue;
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of the impending blow;
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career--
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand:
An act like this, can simple thanks repay? (2)
Or all the labours of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

LYCUS! (3) on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate,
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.(4)
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit,
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit:
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine,
LYCUS! thy father's fame will soon be thine.
Where learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope from genius thus refined!

he was led. He was an ardent friend, a stranger to feelings of enmity; he lived in good faith towards men, and died with hope in God."-L. E.

(I) The "factious strife" here recorded, was accidentally brought on by the breaking up of school, and the dismissal of some volunteers from drill, both happening at the same hour. On this occasion, it appears, the butt-end of a musket was aimed at Byron's head, and would have felled him to the ground, but for the interposition of Tattersall.-L. E. (2) In the private volume :

"Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize-
A life unworthy such a sacrifice."-L. E.

(3) John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare, born June 2, 1792. His father, whom he succeeded Jan. 28, 1802, was for nearly twelve years Lord Chancellor of Ireland. See ante, p. 32, c. I, note 3. His Lordship is now (1834) Governor of Bombay. "I never," Lord Byron says, in 1821, "hear the word 'Clare,' without a beating of the heart even now; and I write it with the feelings of 1803-4-5, ad infinitum. " Of the tenaciousness with which he clung to all the kindly impressions of his youth, there can be no stronger proof than the interesting fact, that after his death almost all the notes and letters which his principal school favour. ites had ever addressed to him were found carefully preserved among his papers. The following is the endorsement upon one of them]:-"This and another letter were written at Harrow, by my then and, I hope, ever beloved friend, Lord Clare, when we were both schoolboys; and sent to my study in consequence of some childish misunderstanding, -the only one which ever arose between us. It was of short duration, and I retain this note solely for the purpose of submitting it to his perusal, that we may smile over the recollection of the insignificance of our first and last quarrel."-L. E.

(4) In the private volume, the following lines conclude this character:

"For ever to possess a friend in thee,

Was bliss unhaped, though not unsought, by me.
Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone,
To ruder passions and to hate unknown;
Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form,
Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm;
That face, an index of celestial worth,
Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth.
Oft, when depress'd with sad foreboding gloom
I sat reclined upon our favourite tomb,

When time at length matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With honour's soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair EURYALUS (5) pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung:
What though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart;
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound.
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,-I'll think we are so still.(6)
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we in thee behold:
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield,
Nor seek for glory in the tented field;
To minds of ruder texture these be given-
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit:
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast with indignation burn,
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn.
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;-
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more.

Now last, but nearest, of the social band, See honest, open, generous CLEON (7) stand;

I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow
With kind compassion for thy comrade's woe;
Or when less mournful subjects form'd our themes,
We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes,

Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone,
Whatever wish was mine must be thine own."-LE.

(5) George-John, fifth Earl Delawarr, born Oct. 26, 1791; succeeded his father, John-Richard, July 28, 1795. This ancient family have been barons by the male line from 1342; their ancestor, Sir Thomas West, having been summoned to parliament as Lord West, the 16th Edw. II. We find the following notices in some hitherto unpublished letters of Lord Byron:

"Harrow, Oct. 25, 1804.-I am happy enough and comfortable here. My friends are not numerous, but select. Among the principal, I rank Lord Delawarr, who is very amiable, and my particular friend." "Nov. 2, 1804. Lord Delawarr is considerably younger than me, but the most good-tempered, amiable, clever fellow in the universe. To all which he adds the quality (a good one in the eyes of women) of being remarkably handsome. Delawarr and myself are, in a manner, connected, for one of my forefathers, in Charles the First's time, married into their family."-L. E.

(6) It is impossible to peruse the following extract of a letter, addressed to Lord Clare in February, 1807, without acknowledging the noble candour and conscientiousness of the writer."You will be astonished to hear I have lately written to Delawarr, for the purpose of explaining (as far as possible, without involving some old friends of mine in the business.) the cause of my behaviour to him during my last residence at Harrow, which you will recollect was rather en cavalier. Since that period I have discovered he was treated with injustice, both by those who misrepresented his conduct, and by me in consequence of their suggestions. I have, therefore, made all the reparation in my power, by apologizing for my mistake, though with very faint hopes of success. However, I have cased my own conscience by the atonement, which is humiliating enough to one of my disposition; yet I could not have slept satisfied with the reflection of having, even unintentionally, injured any individual. I have done all that could be done to repair the injury." -L. E.

(7) Edward Noel Long, Esq.-to whom a subsequent poem is addressed. See p. 40.-L. E.

With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day our studious race begun,
On the same day our studious race was run;
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career,
Thus side by side we strove for many a year;
At last concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As speakers (1) each supports an equal name,
And crowds allow to both a partial fame :
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride,
Though CLEON's candour would the palm divide,
Yet candour's self compels me now to own
Justice awards it to my friend alone.

Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn,
To trace the hours which never can return;
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,(2)
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twined,

(I) This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated.

(2) Thus in the private volume:

"Yet in the retrospection finds relief,

And revels in the luxury of grief.”—L. E.

(3) "I remember," says Byron, " that my first declamation astonished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden compliments, before the declaimers at our first rehearsal." Diary.-L. E.

(4) "I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's attitude, gesture, and delivery, as well as with his composition. All who spoke on that day adhered, as usual, to the letter of their composition, as in the earlier part of his delivery did Lord Byron. But, to my surprise, he suddenly diverged from the written composition, with a boldness and rapidity sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory as to the conclusion. There was no failure;-he came round to the close of his composition without discovering any impediment and irregularity on the whole. I questioned him, why he had altered his declamation? He declared he had made no alteration, and did not know, in speaking, that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed him, and from a knowledge of his temperament am convinced, that, fully impressed with the sense and substance of the subject, he was burried on to expressions and colourings more striking than what his pen had expressed." Dr. Drury.-L. E.

(5) In the private volume the poem concludes thus:

"When, yet a novice in the mimic art,

I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart-
When as the Royal Slave I trod the stage,
To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage-
The praise of Probus made me feel more proud
Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd.
"Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain!
What can avail this fruitless loss of time,
To measure sorrow in a jingling rhyme!
No social solace from a friend is near,
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear.
I seek not joy in woman's sparkling eye:
The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh.
Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream
Thy virtue but a visionary theme;
Thy years of vice on years of folly roll,
Till grinning death assigns the destined goal,
Where all are hastening to the dread abode,
To meet the judgment of a righteous God;
Mix'd in the concourse of the thoughtless throng,
A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along;
A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing,
Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting;
But not that mental sting which stabs within,
The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin;
The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch:

Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies-
His mind the rack from which he ne'er can rise.

When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song,(3)
Or placed me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue received applause,(4)
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude to him my soul possest
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone

35

The praise is due, who made that fame my own.(5)
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful Ina blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.(8)

IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain!

For me, whate'er my folly, or my fear,'
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here:
No dread internal haunts my hours of rest,
No dreams of injured innocence infest; (6)
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft,
Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left.
Slander's empoison'd breath may blast my name,
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame;
Deceit may chill the current of my blood,
And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood;
Presaging horror darken every sense;

Even here will conscience be my best defence.
My bosom feeds no worm which ne'er can die :'(7)
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by.
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile,
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile:
No more with former bliss my heart is glad;
Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad:
From fond regret no future joy can save;
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave."-L. E..

(6) "I am not a Joseph," said Lord Byron, in 1821, "nor a Scipio; but I can safely affirm, that I never in my life seduced any woman."-L. E.

(7) "We know enough even of Lord Byron's private his. tory to give our warrant that, though his youth may have shared somewhat too largely in the indiscretions of those left too early masters of their own actions and fortunes, falsehood and malice alone can impute to him any real cause for hopeless remorse, or gloomy melancholy." Sir Walter Scott.-L. E.

(8) "To Dr. Drury," observes Moore, "Lord Byron has left on record a tribute of affection and respect, which, like the reverential regard of Dryden for Dr. Busby, will long associate together honourably the names of the poet and the master." The above is not, however, the only one. In a note to the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, he says, "My preceptor was the best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late-when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this im. perfect record of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and veneration-of one who would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his instructor." We extract the following from some un. published letters of Lord Byron :

"Harrow, Nov. 2, 1804. There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness and nothing of pedantry, in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live. He is the best master we ever had, and at the same time respected and feared."-"Nov. 11, 1804. I revere Dr. Drury. He is never violent, never outrageous. I dread offending him;-not, however, through fear; but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure."-L. E.

Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,(1)
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

IDA! still o'er thy hills in' joy preside, And proudly steer through time's eventful tide; Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow O'er their last scene of happiness below. Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along, The feeble veterans of some former throng, Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, Are swept for ever from this busy world; Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth; Say if remembrance days like these endears Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe? Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys (For glittering baubles are not left to boys) Recall one scene so much beloved to view, As those where Youth her garland twined for you? Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age You turn with faltering hand life's varied page; Peruse the record of your days on earth, Unsullied only where it marks your birth; Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf, And blot with tears the sable lines of grief; Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu; But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, Traced by the rosy finger of the morn; When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, And Love, without his pinion, (2) smiled on youth.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON HIS AD-
VISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY.

DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;-
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.

(1) In a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, Lord Byron says: No one could, or can be, more attached to Harrow than I have always been, and with reason;-a part of the time passed there was the happiest of my life.”— L. E.

(2) "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb. [See a subsequent poem, under this title, p. 39.-L. E.]

(3) The true reason of the haughty distance at which Byron, both at this period and afterwards, stood apart from his more opulent neighbours, is to be found (says Moore) in his mortifying consciousness of the inadequacy of his own means to his rank, and the proud dread of being made to feel his own inferiority by persons to whom, in every other respect, he knew himself superior." Mr. Becher frequently expostulated with him on this unsociableness; and one of his friendly remonstrances drew forth these lines,

Did the senate or camp my exertions require, Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; When infancy's years of probation expire, Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd,

Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd,

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. (3)

Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise; Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze. For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!

Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath; Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules!
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools?

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love;
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove;

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.

To me what is wealth? it may pass in an hour,
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown.
To me what is title?-the phantom of power;

To me what is fashion?--I seek but renown.

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul;

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth: Then why should I live in a hateful control? Why waste upon folly the days of my youth?

1806.

ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,

ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." (4)
MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot-
Some shall exist beyond the grave.

"Unknown the region of his birth,"

The bero (5) rolls the tide of war; Yet not unknown his martial worth, Which glares a meteor from afar.

so remarkably prefiguring the splendid burst with which Lord Byron's volcanic genius was ere long to open upon the world.-L. E.

Such, according to Moore, was Byron's horror of new faces, that, whilst on a visit to one of the few families at Southwell, with whom he was intimate, he frequently jumped out of the window when he saw strangers approaching the house.-P. E.

(4) Written by James Montgomery author of The Wan

derer in Switzerland, etc.

(5) No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, etc. are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.

His joy or grief, his weal or woe,

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;

Yet nations now unborn will know

The record of his deathless name.

The patriot's and the poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
That will arise, though empires fall.
The lustre of a beauty's eye

Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives :

She died, but ne'er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,

And Time, untiring, waves his wing; Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,

But bloom in fresh unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,

Collected in the silent tomb;

The old and young, with friends and foes, Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,

Yet falls at length, a useless fane; To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, From dark oblivion meant to guard?

A bright renown shall be enjoy'd
By those whose virtues claim reward.

Then do not say the common lot

Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; Some few, who ne'er will be forgot, Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

The dew I gather from thy lip

Is not so dear to me as this; That I but for a moment sip,

And banquet on a transient bliss: This will recall each youthful scene,

E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
Oh! little lock of golden hue,

In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world:

Not though a thousand more adorn
The polish'd brow where once you shone,
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.

1806. [Now first published.]

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. (1) DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in, the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,-to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:-gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona..

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean. Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies: but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who

(I) It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given.