Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays;
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

Ott does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy's foud suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields:
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu!
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams;
Some who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember but to weep;
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation fill the senior place.
These with a thousand visions now unite,
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight.
IDA! bless'd spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train!
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire,
Again I mingle with thy playful choir;
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game,
Cachanged by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths along the glade, I trace
The social smile of every welcome face;
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and wo,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our fends dissolved, but not my friendship pass'd:-
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth when, nurtured in my breast,
To love a stranger, friendship made me bless'd;-
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless bosom throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein;
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose-
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit.
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,

Matured by age,
the garb of prudence wears.

The next fifty-six lines, to

"Here first remember'd be the joyous band," were added in the first edition of Hours of Idleness.]

[Dr. Batler, then head-master of Harrow school. Had L Byron published another edition of these poems, it appears, from a loose sheet in his handwriting, to have been Es intention, mustead of the passage beginning-" Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew," to insert"If once my muse a harsher portrait drew,

Warm with her wrongs, and deem'd the likeness true, By cooler judgment taught, her fauits she owns,With noble minds a fault confess'd, atones."]

When Dr. Drury retired, in 1805, three candidates presented themselves for the vacant chair, Messrs. Drury, Evans, and Butler. "On the first movement to which this Cutest gave rise in the school, young Wildman," says Moore, was at the head of the party for Mark Drury, while Byron held himself aloof from any. Anxious, however, to ave him as an ally, one of the Drury faction said to Wild

This

Byron, I know, will not join, because he does not Close to act second to any one; but, by giving up the leadership to him, you may at once secure him." Wadman accordingly did, and Byron took the command.] [Instead of this couplet, the private volume has the following four lines:

Away with themes like this! not mine the task
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting;
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing:
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow,
To hurl defiance on a secret foe;

But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save,
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave;
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew,
POмPOSUS virtues are but known to few;

I never fear'd the young usurper's nod,

And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod.
If since on Granta's failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
"Tis past, and thus she will not sin again,
Soon must her early song forever cease,
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace.

Here first remember'd be the joyous band,
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command;
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport-
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown,
Or all the sable glories of his gown ;
Who, thus transplanted from his father's school-
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule-

Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise,
The dear preceptor of my early days;
PROBUS, the pride of science, and the boast,
To IDA now, alas! forever lost.

With him, for years, we search'd the classic page,
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage:

"Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown,
Scarcely respecting his majestic gown;

By which, in vain, he gain'd a borrow'd grace,
Adding new terror to lus sneering face."]

Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired from his situation in March, 1805, after having resided thirtyfive years at Harrow; the last twenty as head master: an office he held with equal honor to himself and advantage to the very extensive school over which he presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous: it would be useless to enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable contest took place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair: of this I can only say,

Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi! Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hæres. [Such was Byron's parting eulogy on Dr. Drury. It may be interesting to see by the side of it the Doctor's own account of his pupil, when first committed to his care:-"I took,' says the Doctor, "my young disciple into my study, and endeavored to bring him forward by inquiries as 'o his former amusements, employments, and associates but with little or no effect; and I soon found that a wild mountain colt had been submitted to my management. But there was mind in his eye. His manner and temper soon convinced me, that he might be led by a silken string to a point, rather than by a cable;-and on that principle I acted"]

Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat, From learning's labor is the bless'd retreat. POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair; POMPOSUS governs,-but, my muse, forbear:1 Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot;

His name and precepts be alike forgot!

No more his mention shall my verse degrade,—

To him my tribute is already paid.

crown'd,

Fair IDA's bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favor'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups each favor'd haunt pursue;
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run,
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray;
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbors shade them from the summer heat:
Others again, a pert and lively crew,

Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
""Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought,
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought;
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight."
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons from her temple's door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall;
There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;

Here mingling view the names of sire and son--
The one long graved, the other just begun :
These shall survive alike when son and sire
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire 2
Perhaps their last memorial these alone,
Denied in death a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave.

[To this passage, had Lord Byron published another edition of Hours of Idleness, it was his intention to give the following turn:

"Another fills his magisterial chair;

Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care;
Oh may like honors crown his future name:
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame."]

2 [During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet prevented the schoolroom from being burnt down, by pointing out to the boys the names of their fathers and grandfathers on the walls.]

[Lord Byron elsewhere thus describes his usual course of life while at Harrow-"always cricketing, rebelling, rowing, and in all manner of mischiefs." One day, in a fit of defiance, he tore down all the gratings from the window of the hall; and when called upon by Dr. Butler to say why he had committed this violence, answered, with stern coolness, "because they darkened the room."]

4 [This description of what the young poet felt in 1806, on encountering in the world any of his former schoolfellows,

"And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide,
And thus they dealt the combat side by side;
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd;
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And here one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold POMPOSUS bravely stay'd at home;"
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

Dear honest race! though now we meet no more, One last long look on what we were beforeOur first kind greetings, and our last adienDrew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd, I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, And all I sought or hoped was to forget. Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face, Some old companion of my early race, Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy; The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, Were quite forgotten when my friend was found: The smiles of beauty-(for, alas! I've known What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near: My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, The woods of IDA danced before my eyes; I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, I saw and join'd again the joyous throng; Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, And friendship's feelings triumphed over love.*

Yet, why should I alone with such delight, Retrace the circuit of my former flight? Is there no cause beyond the common claim Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?

falls far short of the page in which he records an accidental | meeting with Lord Clare, on the road between Imola on! Bologna in 1821. "This meeting," he says, “annulated for a moment all the years between the present time and the days of Harrow. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, st rising from the grave, to me. Clare too was much agitate -more in appearance than was myself; for I could teel t heart beat to his fingers' ends, unless, indeed, it was the pt se of my own which made me think so. We were but five nu utes together, and on the public road; but I hardly recellest an hour of my existence which could be weighed against them."-We inay also quote the following interesting se tences of Madame Guiccioli :-" In 1822, (says she,) a few days before leaving Pisa, we were one evening seated in** garden of the Palazzo Lanfranchi. At this moment a servolat announced Mr. Hobhouse. The slight shade of melancho y diffused over Lord Byron's face gave instant place to the liveliest joy; but it was so great, that it almost deprived Esta of strength. A fearful paleness came over his cheeks, and his eyes were filled with tears as he embraced his frienal. his emotion was so great that he was forced to sit down"]

Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear,
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee-
A home, a world, a paradise to me.

Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father's care.
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?
For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own?1
What brother springs a brother's love to seek?
What sister's gentle kiss has press'd 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 press'd,
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.
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than IDA's social band.

ALONZO best and dearest of my friends,
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends:
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.

[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 trast to soothe, afflictions of no ordinary description; afflicbens originating probably in that singular combination of feling, which has been called the poetical temperament, and which has so often saddened the days of those on whom 1 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 wo!" SIR WALTER SCOTT.] The Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream Guards, rother 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, be added the following stanzas to the first canto of Childe Harold

And thou, my friend-since unavailing wo
Barsts 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 unlaurell'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 naught was left so dear!
Though to my hopeless days forever lost,
In dreams deny me not to see thee here!" &c.]

Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely bless'd,
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,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one:
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, the harbinger of childish joy;
Forever 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:*
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 th' 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?
Or all the labors of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great: Thy milder virtues could my muse relate,

[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 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."]

[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.] 6 [In the private volume:

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

[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. 416, note. His Lordship is now (1832) Governor of Bombay. "I never," says Lord Byron, in 1821,"hear the word Clare,' without a beating of the heart even now; and I write it with 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 favorites had ever addressed to him were found preserved carefully 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

To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.1
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!
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 honor's soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair EURYALUS 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." 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 givenThy 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;

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."]

1 [In the private volume, the following lines conclude this character:

"Forever to possess a friend in thee,

Was bliss unhoped, 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 favorite tomb,
I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow
With kind compassion for thy comrade's wo;
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."]

2 [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."]

$ [It is impossible to peruse the following extract of a letter addressed to Lord Clare, in February, 1807, without acknowledging the noble candor 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,

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* stand; 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" each supports an equal name, And crowds allow to both a partial fame : To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide, Yet candor's self compels me now to own, Justice awards it to my friend alone.

Oh! friends regretted, scenes forever 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, And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell! Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, As infant laurels round my head were twined, When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song," Or placed me higher in the studious throng; Or when my first harangue received applause, His sage instruction the primeval cause, What gratitude to him my soul possess'd While hope of dawning honors fill'd my breast! For all my humble fame, to him alone

The praise is due, who made that fame my own.

without involving some old friends of mine in the business, the cause of my behavior 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, anxi 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 eased 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."]

4 [Edward Noel Long, Esq.-to whom a subsequent poem is addressed. See p. 424.]

[This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated.] Thus in the private volume

"Yet in the retrospection finds relief,
And revels in the luxury of grief.")

7 ["I remember that my first declamation astonished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of suchi and sudden compliments before the declaimers at our first rehearsal."-Byron Diary.]

8 ["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 an 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 hurried on to expressions and colorings more striking than what his pen had expressed."-DR. DRURY j

9 [In the private volume the poem concludes thus :

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 honor'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA bless'd,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.1

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 !
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,
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 forever from this busy world;

"When, vet 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 endeavor 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,
Cursed 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.
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 ;*
Of hope, of peace, of almost all berest,
Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left.
Slander's impoison'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.

*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."]

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 wo?
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 checker'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.

ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot

Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;

Yet some shall never be forgot-
Some shall exist beyond the grave.

My bosom feeds no worm which ne'er can die :'t

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."

1["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 honorably the names of the poet and the mas- | ter." 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 imperfect 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 honor upon his instructor." We extract the following from some unpublished letters of Lord Byron :

"Harrow, Nov. 2, 1804. There is so much of the gentle- ! man, 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'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb. | [See a subsequent poem, under this title ]

3 Written by James Montgomery, author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," &c.

["We know enough even of Lord Byron's private history 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 W. SCOTT.]