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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.)
STANZAS FOR MUSIC. There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;
Is thy sweet voice to me:
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
As an infant's asleep:
ODE FROM THE FRENCH.
With that youthful chief competed?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
On thy war-horse through the ranks
Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.
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.
FROM THE FRENCH.
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 eagle's burning crest-
Victory beaming from her breast ?)
Fell, or fled along the plain ;
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 ?
All thou calmly dost resign,
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.
ON THE STAR OF “THE LEGION OF HONOR."
FROM THE FRENCH.
Star of the brave !-whose beam bath shed
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,
Aud here 's exactly what 'tis worth.
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
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed,
To look once more into each other's face;
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,
FROM THE FRENCH.
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.)
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.
The comet of a season, and I saw
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
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
And I had not the digging of this grave."
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,
Was a most famous writer in his day,
To pay him honor,—and myself whate'er
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,
I see ye, ye profane ones! all the wbile,
You are the fools, noi 1-for I did dwell
On that Old Sexton's natural homily,
["* 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