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Go where I will, to me thou art the same
A loved regret which I would not resign.
There yet are two things in my destiny,
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

The first were nothing—had I still the last,
It were the haven of my happiness ;
Bat other claims and other ties thou hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;

Reversed for him our grandsire's' fate of yore,: He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks
Oi perils, overlook'd or imforeseen,
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,
The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
My errors with defensive paradox;
I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
The careful pilot of my proper wo.

Mime were my faults, and mine be their reward,
My whole life was a contest, since the day

gave me being, gave me that which marr'd
The gitt,-a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
And I at times have found the struggle hard,
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay:

But now I fain would for a time survive, lí but to see what next can well arrive.

Kingdoms and empires in my little day I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; And when I look on this, the petty spray Of my own years of trouble, which have rollid Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away: Something—I know not what-does still uphold A spirit of slight patience ;-not in vain, Eren for its owu sake, do we purchase pain.

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir Within me, or perhaps a cold despair, Brought on when ills habit recur,Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, (For even to this may change of soul refer, And with light armor we may learn to bear,) Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not The chief companion of a calmer lot. I feel almost at times as I have felt In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and brooks Which do remember me of where I dwelt Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, Come as of yore upon me, and can melt My heart with recognition of their looks;

And even at moments I could think I see Some living thing to love—but none like thee.

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create
A fund for conteinplation ;-to admire
Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ;
But something worthier do such scenes inspire :
Here to be lonely is not desolate,
For much I view which I could most desire,

And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

Oh that thou wert but with me!-but I grow
The fool of my own wishes, and forget
The solitude which I have vaunted so
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ;
There may be others which I less may show ;-
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet

I feel an ebb in my philosophy,
And the tide rising in my alter'd eye.

I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,"
By the old Hall which may be mine no more.
Leman’s is fair; but think not I forsake
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore :
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make,
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ;

Though, like all things which I have loved, they are Resigu'd forever, or divided far.

The world is all before me; I but ask
Of Nature that with which she will comply-
It is but in her summer's sun to bask,
To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
To see her gentle face without a mask,
And never gaze on it with apathy.

She was my early friend, and now shall be
My sister-till I look again on thee.

I can reduce all feelings but this one ;
And that I would not ;-for at length I see
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun.
The earliest—even the only paths for me-
Had I but sooner learn'd the crowd to shun,
I had been better than I now can be ;

The passions which have torn me would have slept ; I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept.

With false Ambition what had I to do?
Little with Love, and least of all with Fame;
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew,
And made me all which they can make-a name.
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ;
Surely I onco beheld a nobler aim.

But all is over-I am one the more
To baffled millions which have gone before.

And for the futuro, this world's future may
From me demand but little of my care ;
I have outlived myself by many a day;
Having survived so many things that were ;

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xat bone at the time for publication, in case Mrs. Leigh & innlı sanction it. " There is,” he says, "amongst the manripts an Epistle to my Sister, on which I should wish her operea to be consulted before publication ; if she objects, of caurse omit it.” On the 5th of October he writes.-"My Hister has decided on the omission of the lines. Upon this ponit her option will be followed. As I have no copy of them, request that you will preserve one for me in MS. ; for I Carer can remember a line of that nor any other composition of mine. Go help me! if I proceed in this scribbling, I shall bare frittered away my mind before I am thirty ; but poetry at times a real relief to me. To-morrow I am for Italy.” The Epistle was first given to the world in 1830.)

(Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a bosage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors by ine faceuous name of " Foul-weather Jack."

“But, though it were tempest-toss'd,

Still his bark could not be lost." He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) and circumnavigated the world, many years after, as commander of a similar expedition.)

? The Lake of Newstead Abbey. [Thus described in Don Juan:“ Before the mansion lay a lucid lake,

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed
By a river, which its soften'd way did take

In currents through the calmer water spread
Around: the wild fowl nestled in the brake

And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed ;
The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood
With their green faces fix'd upon the flood.")

My years have been no slumber, but the prey of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share

Of life which might have fill'd a century,
Before its fourth in time had pass’d me by.

And for the remnant which may be to como
I am content; and for the past I feel
Not thankless,- for within the crowded sum
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,
And for the present, I would not benumb
My feelings farther.—Nor shall I conceal

That with all this I still can look around,
And worship Nature with a thought profound.

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart
I know myself secure, as thou in mine;
We were and are-I am, even as thou art-
Beings who ne'er each other can resign ;
It is the same, together or apart,
From life's commencement to its slow decline

We are entwined-let death come slow or fast,
The tie which bound the first endures the last !

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Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep!

Yes! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel

A hollow agony which will not heal,
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep;
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap

The bitter harvest in a wo as real !
I have had many foes, but none like thee ;

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend,

Avd be avenged, or turn them into friend;
But thou in safe implacability
Hadst naught to dread — in thy own weakness

And in my love, which hath but too much yielded,

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare-
And thus upon the world—trust in thy truth-
And the wild fame of my ungoveru'd youth-

On things that were not, and on things that are
Even upon such a basis hast thou built
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt!
The moral Clytemuestra of thy lord,
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword,
Fame, peace, and hope—and all the better life

Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart,
Might still have risen from out the grave of strife,
And found a nobler duty than to part.
But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice,

Trafficking with them in a purpose cold,

For present anger, and for future gold
And buying other's grief at any price.
And thus once enter'd into crooked ways,
The early truth, which was thy proper praise,
Did not still walk beside thee-but at times,
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes,
Deceit, averments incompatible,
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell

In Janus-spirits—the significant eye
Which learns to lie with silence-the pretext
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd-
The acquiescence in all things which tend,
No matter how, to the desired end-

All found a place in thy philosophy.
The means were worthy, and the end is won-
I would not do by thee as thou hast done !

September, 1816.

And thou wert sad—yet I was not with thee!

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near;
Methought that joy and health alone could be

Where I was not-and pain and sorrow here. And is it thus ?-it is as I foretold,

And shall be more so; for the mind recoils Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold,

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. It is not in the storm nor in the strife

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more,

But in the after-silence on the shore,
When all is lost, except a little life.
I am too well avenged !—but 'twas my right;

Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not sent
To be the Nemesis who should requite-

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument.
Mercy is for the merciful !if thou
Hast been of such, 'twill be accorded now.

1 (These verses were written immediately after the failure ing altogether from expressing in his works any thing of has of the negotiation for a reconciliation before Lord Byron left own feelings in regard to any thing that immediately con; Switzerland for Italy, but were not intended for the public cerns hus own history. We tell him in every possible for and I eye: as, however, they have recently found their way into shape, that the great and distinguishing merit of his poetry circulation, we include them in this collection.)

is the intense truth with which that poetry expresses his own 2 ["* Lord Byron had at least this much to say for himself, personal feelings. We encourage him in every possib e way that he was not the first to make his doinestic differences a io dissect his own heart for our entertainmeni--we tempo topic of public discussion. On the contrary, he saw himself, him by every bribe most likely to act powerfully on a young ere any fact but the one undisguised and langible one was, and imaginauve man, lo plunge into ihe darkest depinisch or couid be known, held up everywhere, and by every art self-knowledge; to madden his brain with eternal sell-vertof malice, as the most infainous of men,-because he had nies, to find hus pride and his pleasure in what others shrink partedtrom his wife. He was exquisitively sensitive: he was from as torture-we tempt him to indulge in these dangerous wounded at once by a thousand arrows; and all this with the exercises, until they obviously acquire the power of learning most perfect and indignant knowledge, that of all who were him to the very brink of phrensy--we tempt him to find, and assaring lum nct one knew any thing of the real merits of to see in this perilous vocation, the staple of his existence, the case. Did he right, then, in publishing those squibs and the food of his ambition, the very essence of bis glory:-04 tirades? No, certainly: It would have been nobler, beller, the moment that, by habits of our own creating at leas of wiser far, lo have utterly scored the assaults of such ene our own encouraging and confirming, he is carried One single mies, and taken no notice, of any kind, of them. But, be step beyond what we happen to approve of, we turn round cause this young, hot-blooded, proud, patrician poet did not, with ali ihe bitterness of spleen, and reproach him with the amidst the exacerbation of ieelings which he could not con unmanliness of entertaining the public with his feeliigs in trol, act in precisely the most digmfied and wisest of all pos regard to his separation from his wife. This was truly be sible manners of action, are we entitled, is the world at conduct of a fair and liberal public! To our view oi tbe large enuiled, to issue a broad sentence of vituperative con matter, Lord Byron, treated as he had been, temed as be deinnation! Do we know all that he had suffered !--have we had been, and tortured and insulted as he was at ibe too imagination enough to comprehend what he suffered, under ment, did no more forfeit his character by writur.g what be circumstances such as these?-hare we been tried in similar did write upon that unhappy occasion, than another than, circumstances, whether we could feel the wound unflinch under circuinstances of the same nature, would have dose, ingly, and keep the weapon quescent in the hand that trem by telling something of his mind about it to an minste bled with all the exciteinents of insulted privacy, honor, and friend across the fire. The public had forced him into the faith? Let people consider for a moment what it is that they habits of familiarity, and they received his confidence with demand when they insist upon a poet oí Byron's class abstain nothing but anger and scorn."-LOCKHART.]

Of condemn the governor of India :"ovince to absolve


When the last sunshine of expiring day

But small that portion of the wondrous whole, In summer's twilight weeps itself away,

These sparkling segments of that circling soul, Who hath not felt the softness of the hour

Which all embraced—and lighten'd over all, Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ?

To cheer--to pierce-to please—or to appal. With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes

From the charm'd council to the festive board, While Nature makes that melancholy pause,

Of human feelings the unbounded lord; Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, (pride. Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, The praised--the proud—who made his praise their Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, When the loud cry of trampled Hindostano The voiceless thought which would not speak but weep, Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, A holy concord-and a bright regret,

His was the thunder--his tho avenging rod, A glorions sympathy with suns that set ?

The wrath--the delegated voice of God! Tis not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer wo,

Which shook the nations through his lips—and blazed Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below,

Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised." Felt without bitterness—but full and clear,

And here, Oh! here, where yet all young and warm, A sweet dejection-a transparent tear,

The guy creations of his spirit charm, Uomix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain,

The matchless dialogue--the deathless wit, Shed without shame—and secret without pain.

Which knew not what it was to intermit;

The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Even as the tenderness that hour instils

Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring; When Sumıner's day declines along the hills, These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought So feels the folness of our heart and eyes,

To fulness by the fiat of his thought, When all of Genius which can perish dies.

Here in their first abode you still may meet, A mighty Spirit is eclipsed-a Power

Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; Hath pase'd from day to darkness-to whose hour

A halo of the light of other days,
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd---no name,

Which still the splendor of its orb betrays.
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame !
The flash of Wit-the bright Intelligence,

But should there be to whom the fatal blight
The beam of Song—the blaze of Eloquence,

Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, ! Set with their Sun--but still have left behind

Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone The enduring produce of immortal Mind;

Jar in the music which was born their own, Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,

Still let them pause--ah! little do they know A deathless part of him who died too soon.

That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo.' Mr. Sheridan died the 7th of July, 1816, and this mono to compliment Gibbon with the epithet “luminous," SheriAT was written at Diodati on the 17th, at the request of Mr. dan answered, in a half whisper, "1 said 'voluminous.'"] Duglas Kinnaird. "I did as well as I could," says Lord Byron, but where I have not my choice, I pretend to

4 ["I heard Sheridan only once, anıt that briefly; but I answer for nothing." A proof-sheet of the poem, with the

liked his voice, his manner, and his wit. He is the only Words by request of a friend” in the titlepage, having

one of them I ever wished to hear at greater length."-Itached him.-" I request you," he says, “ to expunge that

Byron Diary, 1821.) sane, unless you please to add, -by a person of quality,' or 6("Once I saw Sheridan cry, after a splendid dinner. I of wit and humor.' It is sad trash, and must have been due to make it ridiculous."']

had the honor of sitting next him. The occasion of his

tears was some observation or other upon the subject of the Sheridan's own mono ly on Garrick was spoken from sturdiness of the Whigs in resisting office and keeping to the same boards, by Mrs. Yates, in March, 1779. * One

easy day," says Lord Byron, I saw him take it up. He lighted for my Lord G, or Earl G. or Marquis B. or Lord H., pon the dedication to the Dowager Lady Spencer. On thousands upon thousands a year, some of it either presently steng it, he flew into a rage and exclaimed, that it must derived or inherited in sinecure or acquisitions from the be a forgery, as he had never dedicated any thing of his to public money, to boast of their patriotism and keep aloof sebau-i canting,'&c. &c.--and so he went on for half an from temptation : but they do not know from what teinptabor abusing his own delication, or at least the object of it. If all writers were equally sincere, it would be ludicrous.” equal talents, and not unequal passions, and nevertheless

tion those have kept aloof who had equal pride, at least --Byron Drary, 1921.)

knew not in the course of their lives what it was to have a [See Fox, Burke, and Pitt's eulogy on Mr. Sheridan's shilling of their own.' And in saying this he wept. I have speech on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the more than once heard hiin say, ' that he never had a shilling Huure of Cominons.

Mr. Pitt entreated the House to ad of his own.' To be sure, he contrived to extract a good Journ, to give time for a calmer consideration of the question many of other people's. In 1815, I found him at my lawyer's. than could then occur after the immediate effect of that After mutual greetings, he retired. Before recurring to my orat 01.--* Before my departure from England,” says Gib own business, I could not help inquiring that of Sheridan. bon, " I was present at the augusi spectacle of Mr. Hastings's • Oh,' replied the attorney, 'the usual thing! to stave off trial in Westminster Hall. It is not my

an action.'-'Well,' said I, and what do you mean to do?'

Mr. Sheridan's Nothing at all for the present,' said he would you have Coqnence demanded my applause ; nor could I hear with us proceed against old Sherry? what would be the use of ou eantion the personal coinpliment which he paid me in it ? and here he began laughing, and going over Sheridan's the presence of the Britisb nation. This display of genius good gifts of conversation. Such was Sheridan: he could blazel four successive days," &c.

On being asked by a soften an attorney! There has been nothing like it since brother Whig, at the conclusion of the speech, how he came the days of Orpheus."Byron Diary, 1821.)

Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze

Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nursed Is fix'd forever to detract or praise ;

Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder-scorchRepose denies her requiem to his name,

and burst.? And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame.

But far from us and from our mimic scene
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye
Stands sentinel-accuser-judge—and spy,

Such things should be-if such have ever been;

Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, The foe--the fool—the jealous and the vain,

To give the tribute Glory need not ask, The envious who but breathe in others' pain,

To mourn the vanish'd beam-and add our mite Behold the host! delighting to deprave, Who track the steps of Glory to the grave,

Of praise in payment of a long delight.

Yo Orators! whom yet our councils yield, Watch every fault that daring Genius owes

Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field! Half to the ardor which its birth bestows,

The worthy rival of the wondrous Three ! Distort the truth, accumulate the lie,

Whose words were sparks of Immortality! And pile the pyramid of Calumny!

Ye Bards! to whoin the Drama's Muse is dear, These are his portion-but if join’d to these

He was your Master-emulate him here! Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease,

Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! If the high Spirit must forget to soar,

He was your brother-bear his ashes hence! And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,

While Powers of mind almost of boundless range, To soothe Indignity-and face to face

Complete in kind-as various in their change,
Meet sordid Rage-and wrestle with Disgrace,
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress,

While Eloquence-Wit-Poesy--and Mirth,

That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth,
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness :--

Survive within our souls--while lives our sense
If such may be the ills which men assail,
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ?

Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence,
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given

Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain, Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from Heaven, Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,

And turn to all of him which may remain, Black with the rude collision, inly torn,

And broke the die-in moulding Sheridan. By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne,

Diodati, July 17, 1816.


Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ;
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,

They do divide our being ; they become
A portion of ourselves as of our time,
And look like heralds of eternity;
They pass like spirits of the past,--they speak
Like sibyls of the future; they have power
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;
They make us what we were not—what they will,
And shake us with the vision that's gone by,
The dread of vanish'd shadows-Are they so?

1[This was not fiction. Only a few days before his death, places and parties--at Whitehall with the Melbournes, at Sheridan wrote thus to Mr. Rogers:--"I am absolutely un The Marquis of Tavistock's, at Robins's the auctioneers at done and broken-hearted. They are going to put the carpets Sir Humphry Davy's, at Sam Rogers's-in short, in most out of window, and break into Mrs. S.'s room and take me : kinds of company, and always found him convivial and de1507, will remove all difficulty. For God's sake let me see lightful.”—Byron Diary, 1821.1 you !" Mr. Moore was the immediate bearer of the required sum. This was written on the 15th of May. On the 14th of

5 [“ Lord Holland told me a curious piece of sentimentality

in Sheridan. The other night we were all delivering our July, Sheridan's remains were deposited in Westminster Abbey,-his pall-bearers being the Duke of Bedford, the

respective and various opinions upon him and other komora Earl of Lauderdale, Earl Mulgrave, the Lord Bishop of

marquans, and mine was this :- Whatever Sheridan has London, Lord Holland, and Earl Spencer.)

done or chosen to do has been par ercellence always the best

of its kind. He has written the best Comedy, (school for 3 ["Abandon'd by the skies, whose beams have nursed Scandal,) the best drama (in my mind, far beyond that St. Their very thunders, lighten-scorch--and burst." Giles's lampoon, the Beggars Opera,) the best faree, the

MS.) Critic-it is only too good for a farce,) and the best address. 3 Fox--Pitt-Burke. [" When Fox was asked, which he (Monologue on Garrick,) and, to crown all, delivered the thought the best speech he had ever heard, he replied, very best oration (the famous Beguim speech) ever con* Sheridan's on the impeachment of Hastings in the House ceived or heard in this country.' Somebody told Sheridan of Commons. When he made it, Fox advised him to speak this the next day, and, on hearing it, he burst into ters; it over again in Westininster Hall on the trial, as nothing Poor Brinsley! if they were tears of pleasure, I woch better could be made of the subject : but Sheridan made his rather have said these few, but most sincere, words, than new speech as different as possible, and, according to the nave written the Iliad, or made his own celebrated philip best judges, very inferior, notwithstanding the panegyric of pic. Nay, his own comedy never gratified me more than to Burke, who exclaimed during the delivery of some passages hear that he had derived a moment's gratification from any of it - There, that is the true style--something between praise of mine."-- Byron Diary, Dec. 17, 1813.) poetry and prose, and better than either.'"--Byron Diary,

8 [In the first draught of this poem, Lord Byron had en(from Lord Holland,) 1821.]

titled it " The Destiny." Mr. Moore says, " it cost him many 4 [" In society I have met Sheridan frequently. He was a tear in writing," and justly characterizes it as "the most superb! ave seen him cut up Whitbread, quiz lame mournful, as well as picturesque story of a wandering hfe" de Staël, annihilate Colman, and do liule less by some that ever came from the pen and heart of man." It was others of good fame and ability. I have met him at all composed at Diodati, in July, 1816.)

Looking afar if yet her lover's steed
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

Is not the past all shadow? What are they?
Creations of the mind ?-The mind can make
Substance, and people planets of its own
With beings brighter than have been, and give
A breath to forns which can outlive all flesh.
I would recall a vision which I dream'd
Perchance in sleep—for in itself a thought,
A slumbering thought, is capable of years,
And curdles a long life into one hour.

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
Green and of inild declivity, the last
As twere the cape of a long ridge of such,
Save that there was no sea to lave its base,
But a most living landscape, and the wave
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men
Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Arising from such rustic roofs ;-the hill
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
Not by the sport of nature, but of man:
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there
Gazing—the one on all that was beneath
Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her;
And both were young, and one was beautiful:
And both were young-yet not alike in youth.
As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,
The maid was on the eve of womanhood;
The boy bad fewer summers, but his heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him; he had look'd
l'pon it till it could not pass away;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers:
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her,
But trembled on her words: she was his sight,"
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers,
Which color'd all his objects :-he had ceased
To live within himself; she was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all: upon a tone,
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,
And his cheek change tempestuously-his heart
Unknowing of its cause of agony.
But she in these fond feelings had no share:
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother-but no more ; 'twas much,
For brotherless she was, save in the name
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ;
Herself the solitary scion left
Oí a time-honor'd race.—It was a name

Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-and
Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved
Another; even now she loved another,
And on the summit of that hill she stood

III. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. There was an ancient mansion, and before Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: Within an antique Oratory stood The Boy of whom I spake ;-he was alone, And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Words which I could not guess of; then he lean'd His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 'twere With a convulsion—then arose again, And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear What he had written, but he shed no tears.. And he did calm himself, and fix his brow Into a kind of quiet: as he paused, The Lady of his love re-enter'd there; She was sereno and smiling then, and yet She knew she was by him beloved,--she knew, For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw That he was wretched, but she saw not all.* He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp He took her hand; a moment o'er his face A tablet of unutterable thoughts Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow steps Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd From out the massy gate of that old Hall, And mounting on his steed he went his way; And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more.

IV. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds Of fiery climes he made himself a home, And his Soul drank their sunbeams: he was girt With strange and dusky aspects; he was not Himself like what he had been; on the sea And on the shore he was a wanderer; There was a mass of many images Crowded like waves upon me, but he was A part of all; and in the last he lay Reposing from the noontide sultriness, Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names Of those who rear'd them; by his sleeping side Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, While many of his tribe slumber'd around: And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, That God alone was to be seen in Heaven."


"she was his sight,

image of the “lover's steed,” though suggested by the unroFor never did he turn his glance until

mantic race-ground of Nottingham, will not the less conduce Her own had led by gazing on an object."-MS.) to the general charın of the scene, and share a portion of that See autèp. 391.-" Our union,” said Lord Byron in light which only Genius could shed over it. Moore.] 1921, "would have liealed feuds in which blood had been + ["* I had long been in love with M. A. C., and never told shed by our fathers-it would have joined lands, broad and it, though she had discovered it without. I recollect my ries-i would have joined at least one heart and two per. sensations, but cannot describe them, and it is as well." -suns not ill-matched in years, (she is two years my elder) Byron Diary, 1822.] ald-and-and-what has been the result !")

*[This is true keeping--an Eastern picture perfect in its "{The picture which Lord Byron has here drawn of his foreground, and distance, and sky, and no part of which is Foutatul fose shows how genius and feeling can elevate the so dwelt upon or labored as to obscure the principal figure. fealities of this life, and give to the commonest events and ob It is often in the slight and almost imperceptible touches jects an undying lustre. The old hall at Annesley, under the that the hand of the master is shown, and that a single Laine of the “ antique oratory," will long call up to fancy the spark, struck from his fancy, lightens with a long train of ** Inaden and the youth” who once stood in it; while the

illumination that of the reader.-Sir WALTER SCOTT.)

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