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No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell d

wreath ;
Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan* slumbers;

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.

A FRAGMENT.
When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!

No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone ; | My epitaph shall be my name alone;'

If that with honor fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot ;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

1803.

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ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.?
“Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days?
Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and
the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court."
-Ossian.
Through thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds

whistle ;
Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay :
In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle
Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the

way.
Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battle

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. [rattle,

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[Of the sincerity of this youthful aspiration, the Poet with distinction in the siege of Calais, under Edward III., and has left repeated proofs. By his will, drawn up in 1811, he as among the knights who fell on the glorious field of Cressy; directed, ihat “no inscription, save his name and age, 6 The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of should be written on his tomb;" and, in 1819, he wrote thus

Charles I. were defeated. to Mr. Murray :--"Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa

? Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more

He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. splendid monuments at Bologna; for instanceMartini Luigi

8 (Sir Nicholas Byron served with distinction in the Low Implora pace.'

Countries; and, in the Great Rebellion, he was one of the

first to take up arms in the royal cause. After the battle of Can any thing be more full of pathos ? I hope whoever Edgehill, he was made colonel-general of Cheshire ang may survive me will see those two words, and no more, put Shropshire, and governor of Chester. * He was," says C3over me."]

rendon, a person of great aflability and dexteriiy, as well as ? [The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sher martial knowledge, which gave great life to the designs of wood, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II., and

the well affected ; and, with the encouragement of some gendedicated to God and the Virgin. It was in the reign of

tlemen of North Wales, he raised such a power of horse a llenry VIII., on the dissolution of the monasteries, that, by foot, as made frequent skirmishes with the enemy, sonneunes a royal grant, it was added, with the lands adjoining, to the with notable advantage, never with signal loss."- ID 1043, other possessions of the Byron family. The favorite upon Sir John Byron was created Baron Byron of Rochdale in the whom they were conferred, was the grand-nephew of the county of Lancaster; and seldom has a title been bestoket gallant soldier who fought by the side of Richmond at Bos for such high and honorable services as those by wbuca de worth, and is distinguished from the other knights of the deserved the gratitude of his royal master. Through als same Christian name, in the family, by the title of “ Sir every page of the History of the Civil Wars, we inace tis Jolin Byron the Little, with the great beard.” A portrait name in connection with the varying fortunes of the kille. of this personage was one of the few family pictures with and find him faithful, persevering, and disinteresied in it which the walls of the abbey, while in the possession of the

last. "Sir John Biron," says Mrs. Hutchinson, “afterwaris Poet, were decorated.]

Lord Biron, and all his brothers, bred up in arms, and value s (There being no record of any of Lord Byron's ancestors

men in their own pe ns, were all passionately the king's." having been engaged in the Holy Wars, Mr. Moore suggests,

We find also, in the reply of Colonel Hutchinson, nixr. that the Poet may have had no other anthority for this notion,

governor of Nottingham, to his cousin-german Sir Richar than the tradition which he found connected with certain

Byron, a noble tribute to the chivalrous fidelity of the race. s strange groups of heads, which are represented on the old

Sir Richard, having sent to prevail on his relative to sur

render the castle, received for answer, that "excep: panel-work in some of the chambers at Newstead. In one of these groups, consisting of three heads, strongly carved

found his own heart prone to such treachery, he mishi and projecting froin the panel, the centre figure evidently

sider there was, if nothing else, so much of a Byron's bem

in him, that he should very much scorn to betray or quta represents a Saracen or Moor, with a European female on one side of him, and a Christian soldier on the other. In a

trust he had undertaken." ---On the monument of Richard second group, the feinale occupies the centre, while on

the second Lord Byron, who les buried in the chances

Hucknal-Tokard church, there is the following inscription either side is the head of a Saracen, with the eyes fixed earnestly upon her. of the exact meaning of these figures

--- Beneath, in a vault, is interred the body of Richar there is nothing known; but the tradition is, thai they refer

Lord Byron, who, with the rest of his family, being serta to a love adventure of the age of the Crusades.)

brothers faithfully served king Charles the First in ibe easti

wars, who suffered inuch for their loyalty, and lost all ihn "[" In the park of Horseley," says Thoroton, “ there was present fortunes; yet it pleased God so to bless the huge a castle, some of the ruins of which are yet visible, called

endeavors of the said Richard Lord Byron, that he reHoristan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de Burun's successors."]

purchased part of their ancient inheritance, which he kit

io his posterity, with a laudable memory for his great pitty » [Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serving and charity.”]

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My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing,
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veil'd in starless night :
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON

VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

LINES WRITTEN IN " LETTERS TO AN ITALIAN NUN AND AN

ENGLISH GENTLEMAN: BY J. J. ROUSSEAU : FOUNDED OS FACTS” * AWAY, away, your flattering arts May now betray some simple hearts; And you will smile at their believing, And they shall weep at your deceiving." ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, Exist but in imagination,Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; For he who views that witching grace, That perfect form, that lovely face, With eyes admiring, oh! believe me, He never wishes to deceive thee : Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, Thou'lt there descry that elegance, Which from our sex demands such praises, But envy in the other raises : Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, Believe me, only does his duty : Ah! fly not from the candid youth ; It is not flattery,-'tis truth.

July, 1804.

He who sublime in epic numbers rollid,

And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's" unequal hand alike controll’d, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.

“Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."-Lib. 4. Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease Which racks my breast your fickle busom please ? Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, That I might live for love and you again : But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate; By death alone I can avoid your hate.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEN

DYING.
(ANIMULA! vagula, blandula,
Hospes comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca-
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,

Nec, ut soles, dabis jocos !)
An! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!

To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humor gay,

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

(Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, &c.) Ye Cupids, droop each little head, Nor let your wings with joy be spread, My Lesbia's favorite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : For he was gentle, and so true, Obedient to her call he flew, No fear, no wild alarm he knew,

But lightly o'er her bosom moved : And softly fluttering here and there, He never sought to cleave the air, But cherup'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne From whence he never can return, His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain. Oh! cursed be thou, devouring grave ! Whose jaws eternal victims crave, From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her wo,

Receptacle of life's decay.

AD LESBIAM.

Equal to Jove that youth must be-
Greater than Jove he seems to me-
Who, free from Jealousy’s alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms,
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To hiin, alike, are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
Bat, at the sight, my senses fly ;
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,
My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid faco o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.

TO ELLEN.

On! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire :

"! This and several little pieces that follow anpear to be fragments of school exercises done at Harrow.

? The hand of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibuilus at his decease.

FROM ANACREON.

Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss :
Nor then my soul should sated be ;
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Naught should my kiss from thine dissever ;
Still would we kiss, and kiss forever ;
Een though the number did exceed
The yellow harvest's countless seed.
To part would be a vain endeavor :
Could I desist ?-ah! never-never!

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.

(Justum et tenacem propositi virum, &c.] The man of firm and noble soul No factious clamors can control; No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow

Can swerve him from his just intent: Gales the warring waves which plough,

By Auster on the billows spent, To curb the Adriatic main, Would awe his fix d determined mind in vain.

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(Μεσονυκτιαις ποθ' ωραις, κ. τ. λ.)
Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sablo heaven;
Boötes, only, seen’d to roll
His arctic charge around the pole ;
While mortals, Jost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm’d I rose,-
“ What stranger breaks my bless'd repose ?"
“ Alas !" replies the wily child,
In faltering accents sweetly mild,
" A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robbor lingers here.
A wandering baby who can fear ?":
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's toe,
Bút felt for all the baby's wo.
I drew the bar, and by the light,
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung,
(Ah ! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart.)
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring ;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow :

I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, “ if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipp'd, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies ;
'Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :-

My bow can still impel the shaft: 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ?**

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unsurl'd,

He would, uninoved, unawed behold.
The flames of an expiring world,

Again in crashing chaos rollid, In vast promiscuous ruin hurld, Might light his glorious funeral pile : Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.

1

FROM ANACREON.

66

θέλω λεγείν Ατρείδας, κ. τ. .) I wish to tune my quivering lyre To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; To echo, from its rising swell, How heroes fought and nations fell, When Atreus' sons advanced to'war, Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to love alone : Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's pame; The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due : With glowing strings, the epic strain To Jovo's great son I raise again ; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! Adieu tho clang of war’s alarms ! To other decds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; My harp shall all its powers reveal,

tell the tale my heart must feel : Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of fame.

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF

ÆSCHYLUS.

[Μηδαμκαι πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.) Great Jove, to whose almighty throne

Both gods and mortals homage pay,
No'er may my soul thy power disown,

Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;

My voice shall raise no impious strain 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

TO M. S. G.

How different now thy joyless fate,

Since first Hesione thy bride, When placed aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty by thy side, Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd.'

Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804.

Whene'er I view those lips of thine,

Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine,

Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss.

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast,

How could I dwell upon its snows! Yet is the daring wish repress'd;

For that,-would banish its repose.

A glance from thy soul-searching eye

Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet I conceal my love,—and why?

I would not force a painful tear.

TO EMMA.

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou

Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now,

To make thy bosom's heaven a hell?

No! for thou never canst be mine,

United by the priest's decree: By any ties but those divine,

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be.

Then let the secret fire consume,

Let it consume, thou shalt not know : With joy I court a certain doom,

Rather than spread its guilty glow.

SINCE now the hour is come at last,

When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now our dreain of bliss is past,

One pang, my girl, and all is over. Alas! that pang will be severe,

Which bids us part to meet no more ;
Which tears me far from one so dear,

Departing for a distant shore.
Well! we have pass'd sore happy hours,

And joy will mingle with our tears;
When thinking on these ancient towers,

The shelter of our infant years ; Where from this Gothic casement's height,

We view'd the lake, the park, the dell;
And still, though tears obstruct our sight,

We lingering look a last farewell,
O'er fields through which we used to run,

And spend the hours in childish play ;
O'er shades where, when our race was done,

Reposing on my breast you lay ; Whilst I, admiring, too remiss,

Forgot to scare the hovering flies, Yet envied every fly the kiss

It dared to give your slumbering eyes : See still the little painted bark,

In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park,

The elm I clamber'd for your sake.

I will not ease my tortured heart,

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine ; Rather than such a sting impart,

Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave

More than I here shall dare to tell ; Thy innocence and mine to save,

I bid thee now a last farewell.

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair,

And hope no more thy soft embrace; Which to obtain my soul would dare,

All, all reproach--but thy disgrace.

At least from guilt shalt thou be free,

No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me,

No martyr shalt thou be to love.

These times are pastour joys are gone,

You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone :

Without thee what will they avail ?

TO CAROLINE

Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes,

Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs,

Which said far more than words can say?

Who can conceive, who has not proved,
The anguish of a last embrace ?
When, torn from all you fondly loved,

You bid a long adieu to peace.
This is the deepest of our woes,

For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close,

Oh, God! the fondest, last adieu !

Though keen the grief thy tears express’d,

When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast

Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own.

My first Harrow verses, (that is, English, as exer (our head master) but coolly. No one had, at that time, the CISES,) a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of least notion that I should subside into poesy."--Byron Eschylus, were received by Dr. Drury, my grand patron Diary.

But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd,
When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine,

TO CAROLINE.
The tears that from my eyelids flow'd
Were lost in those which fell from thine.

OH! when shall the grave hide forever my sorrows ?

Oh! when shall my soul wing her flight from this Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek,

clay? Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame;

The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow And as thy tongue essay'd to speak,

But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. In signs alone it breathed my name.

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, And yet, my girl, we woep in vain,

I blast not the fiends who have hürld me from bliss; In vain our fate in sighs deplore ;

For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses
Remembrance only can remain,-

Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this
But that will make us weep the more.

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury flakes Again, thou best beloved, adieu !

brightning, Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret ;

Would my lips breathe a fame which no stream Nor let thy mind past joys review,

could assuage,

(lightning, Our only hope is to forget!

On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its

With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage.

But now tears and curses, aliko unavailing,
TO CAROLINE.

Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight;

Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, When I hear you express an affection so warm, Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight.

Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive. Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer;

Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation ; Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, In the grave is our hope, for in life is our fear.

That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear; That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, | Oh! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear; Since, in life, love and friendship forever are tied?

If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee, That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining

Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the

1805. breeze, When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining,

Prove nature a prey to decay and disease.

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"[Lord Strangford's translations of Camoëns' Amatory service of his country, he who had taught her literary fame Poems, Verses, and Little's Poems, are mentioned by Mr. to rival the proudest efforts of Italy itself, and who seemed Moore as having been at this period the favorite study of born to revive the remembrance of ancient gentility and LuLord Byron.)

1 sian heroisin, was compelled to wander through the streets, 3 [" The latter years of Camoëns present a mournful pic-, a wretched dependant on casual contribution. One fren ture, not merely of individual calamity, but of national in alone remained to smooth his downward path, and guide bus gratitude. He whose best years had been devoted to the steps to the grave with gentleness and consolation. It was

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