STANZAS FOR 'MUSIC.*

["THERE'S NOT A JOY THE WORLD CAN GIVE," &c.]

"O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."

GRAY'S Poemata.

THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes

away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull

decay;

'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which

fades so fast,

[past.

But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be

[ness

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happi-
Are 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

again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes

down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,
And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice ap-
pears.

[breast,

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope

of rest;

'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath,

All

green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath.

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 vanish'd

scene:

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though

they be,

So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow

to me.

March, 1815.

*These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr Power, of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

["THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS."]

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 charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming.

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 ocean.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,
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 would'st at last discover
'T was not well to spurn it so.

Though the world for this commend thee
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 :

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;
Both shall live, but every morrow
Wake us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou would 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 thee,

When her lip to thine is press'd,

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 me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness 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 forsakes me now:

SHAKSPEARE.

BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next for some gracious service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd
Raised from the toilet to the table, - where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie -
The genial confidante, and general spy-
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess –
An only infant's earliest governess!

(1) Mrs, Charlmont.