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(This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twenty and ought to have felt now, but could nol-set me ponder ninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a party belonging ing, and finally into the train of thought which you have in to his ship, the Menelaus, and animating them, in storming your hands. I wrote them with a view to your setting the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's them, and as a present to Power, if be would accept the first cousin; but they had never met since boyhood.) words, and you did not think yourself degraded, for obat a

? [These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, a way, by marrying them to music. I don't care what of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful Power says to secure the property of the song, so that it is music by Sir John Stevenson.-“I eel merry enough to not complimentary to me, nor any thing abo conde send you a sad song. An event, the death of poor Dorset, scending' or 'noblé author-both 'vile phrases,' as Polous (see antè, p. 394,) and the recollection of what I once felt, says."-Lord Byron to Mr. Moore.)

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STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 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 lullid 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.


We do not curse thee, Waterloo !
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;
There 'twas shed, but is not sunk-
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion-
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost Labedoyère-
With that of him whose honor'd grave
Contains the “bravest of the brave."
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder-
Never yet was heard such thunder,
As then shall shake the world with wonder-
Never yet was seen such lightning
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,
Show'ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.”

The chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo !
When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men-
Save in deeds that led them on
Where Glory siniled on Freedom's son-
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed?

Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded ?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King ?
Then he fell :-50 perish all,
Who would men by man enthrall !

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume !
Whoso realm refused thee ev’n a tomb;'
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name ;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks

Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,

Once fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his foes.”

March 27, 1815.

("Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year? thousand things. But he is certainly fortune's favorite."I don't wish (like Mr. Fitzgerald) to claim the character of Byron Letters, March, 1815.) * Vates,' in all its translations,-but were they not a little

3 See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, &c. " The first angel sounded, prophetic? I mean those beginning, “There's not a joy the

and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood," &c. world can give,' &c., on which I pique myself as being the v. 8. And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great truext, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote.”- Byron Letters, March, 1816.)

mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the

third part of the sea became blood," &c. v. 10. " And the ?(I can forgive the sogue for utterly falsifying every line third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, of mine Ode-which I take to be the last and utiermost burning as it were a lamp: and it fell upon the third part of stretch of human magnanimity. Do you remember the story the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." v. 11. * And of a certain abbe, who wrote a treatise on the Swedish con the name of the star is called Wormwood : and the third part stitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal? Just as he of the waters became vormwood; and many men died of the ad corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus the waters, because they were inade bitter." Third hari destroyed this immortal government 'Sir,' quoth the abbé, the King of Sweden mayoverthrowthe constitution,

4 [" Poor dear Murat, what an end! His white plume used but not my book!" I think of the abbė, but not with him.

to be a rallying point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He Making every allowance for talent and most consummate

refused a confessor and a bandage ; so would neither suffer daring, there is, after all, a good deal in luck or destiny. He

his soul nor body to be bandaged."-Byron Letters.] might have been stopped by our frigates, or wrecked in the 6 Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the Gull of Lyons, which is particularly tempestuous-or-a grave and burnt.


Must thou go, my glorious Chief,

Sever'd from thy faithful few ? Who can tell thy warrior's grief,

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? Woman's love, and friendship's zeal,

Dear as both have been to meWhat are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith for thee?

Shone and shiver'd fast around thee
Of the fate at last which found theo:
Was that haughty pluie laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?
Onco-as the Moon sways o'er the tide,
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendency-
And as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest-
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest-

Victory beaming from her breast ?)
While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain ;
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell’d arch-
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored ;
France hath twice too well been taught
The “moral lesson" dearly bought-
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon!
But in equal rights and laws,
Hearts and hands in one great cause-
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,
With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion-
And who shall resist that proud union ?
The time is past when swords subdued—
Man may die—the soul's renew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her forever bounding spirit-
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble,
Smile they at this idle threat ?
Crimson tears will follow yet.'

Idol of the soldier's soul !

First in fight, but mightiest now: Many could a world control;

Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard,

Blessing him they served so well. Would that I were cold with those,

Since this hour I live to see ; When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free!

Oh! although in dungeous pent, All their chains were light to me,

Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share ?
Were that world this hour his own,

All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine ?

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu !

Never did I droop before ; Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore : All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave.



Star of the brave !-whose beam bath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead-
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,-
Wild meteor of immortal birth !
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays; Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;

1 ["Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, pray look at the conclusion of my • Ode on Waterloo,' written in the year 1815, and, comparing it with the Duke de Berri's catastrophe in 1820, tell ine if I have not as good a right to the character of Vates,' in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and Coleridge ?-

• Crimson tears will follow yet ;' and have they not ?"— Byron Letters, 1820.]

3 “All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer

who had been exalted from the ranks by Bonaparte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letier to Lord Kessa entreating permission to accompany him, even in the mic menial capacity, which could not be admitted."

3" At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, • Vive l'Empereur, jusqu'à la mort" There were many other instances of the like: this, however, you may depera on as true."-Private Letter from Brussels.

The music of thy martial sphere

Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted Was fame on high and honor here;

In strife with the storm, when their battles were won And thy light broke on human eyes,

Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Like a volcano of the skies.

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! Like lava rollid thy stream of blood,

Farewell to thee, France !-but when Liberty rallies And swept down empires with its flood;

Once more in thy regions, remember me thenEarth rock'd beneath thee to her base,

The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; As thou didst lighten through all space;

Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it againAnd the shorn Sun grew dim in air,

Yet, yet, I may battle the hosts that surround us, And set while thou wert dwelling there.

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voiceBefore thee rose, and with thee grew,

There are links which must break in the chain that A rainbow of the loveliest hue

has bound us, Of three bright colors,' each divine,

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice ! And fit for that celestial sign; For Freedom's hand had blended them, Like tints in an immortal gem.

ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF SEPOne tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ;

ARATION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816. One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes; One, the pure Spirit's veil of whito

A year ago you swore, fond she ! Had robed in radiance of its light:

“ To love, to honor,” and so forth; The three so mingled did beseem

Such was the vow you pledged to me,
The texture of a heavenly dream.

Aud here 's exactly what 'tis worth.
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail !
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free!

Our tears and blood must flow for thee.

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.' When thy bright promise fades away,

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Our life is but a load of clay.

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, And Freedom hallows with her tread

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth The silent cities of the dead ;

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; For beautiful in death are they

Morn came and went-and came, and brought no day, Who proudly fall in her array ;

And men forgot their passions in the dread And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be

Of this their desolation; and all hearts
For evermore with them or thee!

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires-and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other's face;
Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of my Glory Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name Ortho volcanoes, and their mountain-torch:
She abandons me now, but the page of her story, A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;

Extinguish'd with a crash-and all was black. I have coped with the nations which dread me thus The brows of men by the despairing light lonely,

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The last single Captive to millions in war.

The flashes fell upon them; some lay down

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown’d me, Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled; ! I made theo the gem and the wonder of earth, And others hurried to and fro, and fed But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. With mad disquietude on the dull sky,


1 The tricolor.

before us only fail in exciting our terror from the extrava* In the original MS.-" A Dream."]

gance of the plan. To speak plainly, the framing of such

phantasms is a dangerous employment for the exalted and In this poem Lord Byron has abandoned the art, so pe teeming imagination of such a poet as Lord Byron, whose culiarly his own, of showing the reader where his purpose Pegasus ever required rather a bridle than a spur. The len's, and has contented himself with presenting a mass of waste of boundless space into which they lead the poet, the overlol ideas unarranged, and the meaning of which it is neglect of precision which such themes may render habitual, not easy to attain. A succession of terrible images is placed make them, in respect to poetry, what mysticism is to rebefore us, fitting and mixing, and disengaging themselves, ligion. The meaning of the poet, as he ascends upon cloudy as in the dream of a feverish man--chimeras dire, to whose wing, becomes the shadow only of a thought, and having existence the mind refuses credit, which confound and eluded the comprehension of others, necessarily ends by wtary the ordinary reader, and baffle the comprehension, escaping from that of the author himself. The strength of Erea of those more accustoined to the flights of a poetic poetical conception, and the beauty of diction, bestowed louse. The subject is the progress of utter darkness, until upon such prolusions, is as much thrown away as the colors it becomes, in Shakspeare's phrase, the “ burier of the dead;" of a painter, could he take a cloud of mist, or a wreath of and the assemblage of terrific ideas which the poet has placed smoke, for his canvass.--Sir Walter SCOTT.)

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The pall of a past world; and then again

And the clouds perish'd! Darkness had no need With curses cast them down upon the dust,

Of aid from them-She was the Universe. And gnash'd their teeth and howld: the wild birds

Diodati, July, 1816.
And, terrified, did Autter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutos
Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd

And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food: I stood beside the grave of him who blazed
And War, which for a moment was no more,

The comet of a season, and I saw
Did glut himself again ;-a meal was bought

The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed With blood, and each sate sullenly apart

With not the less of sorrow and of awe Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left;

On that neglected turf and quiet stone, All carth was but one thought--and that was death, With name no clearer than the pames unknown, Immediate and inglorious; and the pang

Which lay unread around it; and I ask'd Of famine fed upon all entrails—men

The Gardener of that ground, why it might be Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; That for this plant strangers his memory task'd The meager by the meager were devour’d,

Through the thick deaths of half a century? Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,

And thus he answer'd - Well, I do not know
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept

Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, He died before iny day of Sextonship,
Till hunger clung them, of the dropping dead

And I had not the digging of this grave."
Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, And is this all? I thought,-and do we rip
But with a piteous and perpetual moun,

The veil of Immortality ? and crave And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand

I know not what of honor and of light Which answer'd not with a caress-he died.

Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two

So soon, and so successless? As I said, Of an enormous city did survive,

The Architect of all on which we tread, And they were enemies: they inet beside

For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay Tho dying embers of an altar-place

To extricate remembrance from the clay, Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, For an unholy usage; they raked up,

Were it not that all life must end in one, And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands Of which we are but dreamers ;-as he caught The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, Blew for a little life, and made a flame

Thus spoke he,Ớ“I believe the map of whom Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up

You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld

Was a most famous writer in his day,
Each other's aspects-saw, and shriek’d, and died And therefore travellers step from out their way
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,

To pay him honor,—and myself whate'er
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow

Your honor pleases,"'~then most pleased I shook Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, From out my pocket's avaricious nock The populace and the powerful was a lump,

Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere Seasonlees, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare A lump of death,--a chaos of hard clay.

So much but inconveniently :-Yo smile,
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,

I see ye, ye profane ones! all the wbile,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
Ships sa lorless lay rotting on the sea,

You are the fools, noi 1-for I did dwell
And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye,
They slept on the abyss without a surge-

On that Old Sexton's natural homily,
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, In which there was Obscurity and Fame,
The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; The Glory and the Nothing of a Name."
The winds were w.ther'd in the staguant air,

Diodati, 1816


["* Darkness" is a grand and gloomy sketch of the supposed consequences of the final extinction of the Sun and the heavenly bojies: executed, undoubtedly, with great and scarful force, but with something of German exaggeration, and a fantastical solution of incidents. The very conception is ter. rible above all conception of known calainity, and is too oppressive to the imagination to be contemplaied with pleasure, even in the faint reflection of poetry:-JEFFREY.)

? (On the sheet containing the ongmal draught of these lines, Lord Byron has written :-" The following poem (as most that I have endeavored to write) is founded on a fact; and ihis detail is an attempt at a serious initation of the style of a great poet-its beauties and its defects: I say the style ; for the thoughts I claim as my own. In this, if there be any thing ridiculous, let it be attributed to me, at least as much as to Mr. Wordsworth; of whom there can exist few greater adınırers than myself. I have blended what I would deem to be ihe beauties as well as defects of his style ; and it ought to be remeinbered, that, in such things, whether there be praise or dispraise, there is always what is called a compunent, however unintentional."]

:[" The Grave of Churchill might have called from Lord Byron a deeper commemoration ; for, though they severaly ditfered in character and genius, there was a resemblance de tween their history and character. The satire of Church' flowed with a more profase, though not a more einbittered, stream: while, on the other hand, he ran noi be compared to Lord Byron mi pont of tenderness or imagination. But tk: these poets held themselves above the opinion of the word, and both were fo:lowed by ihe fame and popularity whic! they seemed to despise The writings of bulhexhuni anni borii, though somelunes ill-regulated, generosity of mind, ar a spirit of proud independence, frequently pushed io er tremes. Both carried iheir hatred of hypocrisy beyond the vergeor prudence, and indulgedileir vel or satire to the bus. ders of licentiousness. Both died in the fiuwer of their age in a foreign land."--SIR WALTER SCOTT.-Churchill del at Boulogne, November, 4, 1764, in the thirty-third year or las age.-*. Though his associates obtained Christin burial for ! him, by bringing the body to Dover, where it was terra in the old cemetery which once belonged to the college church of St. Martin, tirey inscribed upon his iombstone, in

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