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And now on that mountain I stood on that day,

But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; DEEM'ST IT TO BE.

Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, WERE my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head! I need not bave wanderd from far Galilee ;

But the Gods of the Pagan shall never profane It was but abjuring my creed to efface

The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign; The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race:

And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people may be, If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee! Our worship, oh Father, is only for thee. If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die.

BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow,

As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know;

We sate down and wept by the waters
In his hand is my heart and my hope--and in thine
The land and the life which for him I resign.

Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,

Made Salem's high places his prey;

And ye, oh hor desolate daughters ! HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.

Were scatter'd all weeping away. Oh, Mariamne! now for thee

While sadly we gazed on the river The beart for which thou blod'st is bleeding ;

Which rollid on in freedom below, Revenge is lost in agony,

They demanded the song; but, oh never And wild remorse to rage succeeding.

That triumph the stranger shall know! Oh, Mariamne! where art thou ?

May this right hand be wither'd forever, Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading.

Ere it string our high harp for the foe! Ah! couldst thou-thou wouldst pardon now,

On the willow that harp is suspended, Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding.

Oh Salem ! its sound should be free; And is she dead?—and did they dare

And the hour when thy glories were ended

But left me that token of thee:
Obey my phrensy's jealous raving?
My wrath but doom'd my own despair:

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended
The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving.-

With the voice of the spoiler by me! But thou art cold, my murder'd love !

And this dark heart is vainly craving For her who soars alone above,

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. And leaves my soul unworthy saving.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, She's gone, who shared my diadem;

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; She sunk, with her my joys entombing ;

And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, I swept that flower from Judah's stem,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ;

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,

That host with their banners at sunset were seen : This bosom's desolation dooming; And I have earn'd those tortures well,

Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, Which unconsumed are still consuming!

That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;

And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew JERUSALEM BY TITUS.

still! from the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, I beheld thee, oh Sion! when render'd to Rome: But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride: Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, And there lay the rider distorted and pale, And forgot for a moment my bondage to come; With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, And the fast fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vain. The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed ; And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

(Mariamne, the wife of Herod the Great, falling under the suspicion of infidelity, was put to death by his order. She was a woman of unrivalled beauty, and a haughty spirit: unbappy in being the object of passionate attachment, which borderedon phrensy, to a man who had more or less concern in

the murder of her grandfather, father, brother, and uncle, and who had twice commanded her death, in case of his own. Ever after, Herod was haunted by the image of the murdered Mariamne, until disorder of the mind brought on disorder of the body, which led to temporary derangement.--MILMAN.)

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These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou would solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say

“ Father!"
Though his care she must forego ?
When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had bless'd !

Fare thee well! and if forever,

Still forever, fare thee well: Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain, While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst kuow again : Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show! Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee

Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's wo:
Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arın be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,

To inflict a cureless wound?

Should her livcaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken ;

Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:

1[The Hebrew Melodies, though obviously inferior to opinion I consess my own to have, at first, strongly inchnel. Lord Byron's other works, display a skill in versification and suspicious as I could not help thinking the senti dett and a mastery in diction, which woull have raised an inse that could, at such a moment, indulge in such verses, Ibe rior artist to the very surnmit of distinction -JEFFREY.] taste that prompted or sanctioned their publication appie

2 [It was about the middle of April that hisiwo celebrated to me even suill more questionable. On realing, houeret, copies of verses, “ Fare thee well," and "- A Sketch," made his own account of all the circumstances in the Memorando their appearance in the newspapers: and while the latter I found that on both points I had, in common wub a iarze poem was generally, and, it must be owned, justly con portion of the public, done him injustice. He there descono demned, as a sort of literary assault on an obscure female, and in a manner whose sincerity there was no deb whose situation ought to have placed her is much beneath the swell of tender recollections under the infidence of his satire, as the undignified mole of his allack certainly which, as he sat one night, musing in his study, these stanzas raised her above it, with regard to the other poem, opinions were produced, --The lears, as he said, falling fast over the were a good deal more divided. To many it appeared a paper as he wrote them. Neither did it appear, from tha: strain of true conjugal tenderness,--a kind of appeal which account, to have been from any wish or intention of bus no woman with a heart could resist; while, by others, on own, but through the mjudicious zeal of a fneni sboan be the contrary, it was considered to be a mere showy effusion had suffered to take a copy, that the verses met ibe pidue of sentiment, as difficult for real feeling to have produced eye.- MOORE. The appearance of the MS. confirms the as it was easy for fancy and art, and altogether unworthy account of the circunstances under which it was written of the deep interests involved in the subject. To this latter It is blotted all over with the marks of tears.)

But 'tis done--all words are idle

Words from me are vainer still ; But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.-
Fare thee well!--thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie,
Seard in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

March 17, 1816.


u Honest-honest lago!
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."


Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ;
If like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints
With all the kind mendacity of hints, (smiles-
While mingling truth with falsehood-sneers with
A thread of candor with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To bide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming ;
A lip of lies--a face form'd to conceal;
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel :
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown;
A cheek of parchment—and an eye of stono.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale-
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colors in that soul or face)-
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined:
Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged-
There is no trait which might not be enlarged:
Yet true to " Nature's journeymen,” who made
This monster when their mistress left off' trade-
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

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Bors in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next--for some gracious service unexpressid,
And from its wages only to be guess d-
Rased from the toilet to the table,-where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash’d,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie-
The genial confidante, and general spy-
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess-
An only infant's earliest governess!
She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell.
An adept next in penmanship she grows,
As many a nameless slander deftly shows:
What she had made the pupil of her art,
None know-but that high Soul secured the heart,
And panted for the truth it could not hear,
With longing breast and undeluded ear.
Fold was perversion by that youthful mind,
Which Flaitery fool'd not-Baseness could not blind,
Deceit infect not-nor Contagion soil
Indulgence weaken-nor Example spoil-
Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown-
Nor Genius swell—nor Beauty render vain-
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain-
Nor Fortune change-Pride raise—nor Passion bow,
Nor Virtne teach austerity—till now.
Serenely purest of her sex that live,

But wanting one sweet weakness—to forgive,
| Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know,
She deems that all could be like her below:
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend,
For Virtue pardons those she would amond.

Bat to the theme :--now laid aside too long,
The baleful burden of this honest song-
Thungh all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she served before.
If mothers--none know why-before her quake;
If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake;
If early habits--those false links, which bind
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind-

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in upitied pain.
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee in thy leprosy of inind
As loathsome, to thyself as to mankind !
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black-as thy will for others would create :
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed-
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with

Look on thine earthly victims—and despair!
Down to the dust !-and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear-
Thy name-thy human name—to every eyo
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers--
And festering in the infamy of years.

March 29, 1816.

("I send you my last night's dream, and request to have use weltering in the wind,'' weltering on a gibbet?' I have ifty copies struck off, for private distribution. I wish Mr. no dictionary, so look. In the mean time, I have put festerGifford to look at them. They are from lise.”-- Lord Byron ing ;' which, perhaps, in any case is the best wor of the 10 M. Murray, March 30, 1816.)

two. Shakspeare bas it often, and I do not think it too * (lo first draughi-weltering."-"I doubt about wel. strong for the figure in this thing. Quick! quick: quick! lering. We say weitering in blood;' but do not they also quick!"--Lord Byron to Mr. Murray, April 2.)

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA." When all around grew drear and dark,

And reason half withheld her rayAnd hope but shed a dying spark

Which more misled my lonely way; In that deep midnight of the mind,

And that internal strife of heart, When dreading to be deem'd too kind,

The weak despair—the cold depart; When fortune changed--and love fled far,

And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose, and set not to the last. Oh! bless'd be thine unbroken light!

That watch'd me as a seraph's eye, And stood between me and the night,

Forever shining sweetly nigh. And when the cloud upon us came,

Which strove to blacken o'er thy rayThen purer spread its gentle flame,

And dash'd the darkness all away. Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,

And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine

Than in the world's defied rebuke. Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,

That still unbroke, though gently bent, Still waves with fond fidelity

Its boughs above a monument. The winds might rend—the skies might pour,

But there thou wert-and still wouldst be Devoted in the stormiest hour

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. But thou and thine shall know no blight,

Whatever fate on me may fall; For heaven in sunshine will requite

The kind-and thee the most of all. Then let the ties of baffled love

Be broken-thine will never break; Thy heart can feel--but will not move;

Thy soul, though soft, will never shake And these, when all was lost beside,

Were found and still are fix'd in thee ;And bearing still a breast so tried,

Earth is no desert-ev'n to me.

Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find; Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,

It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted

It never hath found but in thee.
Then when nature around me is smiling,

The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine ;
And when winds are at war with the ocean,

As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from thee.
Though the rock of my last hope is sbiver'd,

And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd

To pain-it shall not be its slave. There is many a pang to pursue me :

They may crush, but they shall not contemaThey may torture, but shall not subdue me

'T'is of thee that I think-not of them.. Though human, thou didst not deceive me,

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,

Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,

Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me,

Nor, mute, that the world might belie.'
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,

Nor the war of the many with oneIf my soul was not fitted to prize it,

'Twas folly not sooner to shun: And if dearly that error hath cost me,

And more than I once could foresee, I have found that, whatever it lost me,

It could not deprive me of thee.
From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,

Thus much I at least may recall,
It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd

Deserved to be dearest of all:
In the desert a fountain is springing,

In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

July 24, 1816.

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STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. Though the day of my destiny's over,

And the star of my fate hath declined,'

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. My sister! my sweet sister! if a name Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim No tears, but tenderness to answer mine :

"[The Poet's sister, the Honorable Mrs. Leigh-These says, “in printing the stanzas beginning, “Though the day of stanzas-the parting tribute to her, whose unshaken tender my destiny's,'&c., which I think well of as a composiboa") ness had been the author's sole consolation during the crisis

3 [" Though the days of my glory are orer, of domestic misery--were, we believe, the last verses writ

And the sun of my fame hath declined."-15) ten by Lord Byron in England. In a note to Mr. Rogers, dated April 16th, he says, "My sister is now with me, and

4 ["There is many a pang to pursue me, leaves town to-morrow : we shall not meet again for some

And many a peril to stem : time at all events,-if ever! and, under these circumstances,

They may torture, but shall not subdue me : I trust to stand excused to you and Mr. Sheridan, for being

They may crush, but they shall not contemn."-MS7 unable to wait upon him this evening.” On the 25th, the 5f" Though watchful, 'twas but to reclaim me, Poet took a last leave of his native country.]

Nor, silent, to sanction a lie."--MS.) 2 (These beautiful verses, so expressive of the writer's [These stanzas-Than which," says the Quarterly Re wounded feelings at the moment, were written in July, at the view, for January, 1831," there is, perbaps, noitung nore Campagne Diodati, near Geneva, and transmitted to England mournfully and desolately beautiful in the whole range of for publication, with some other pieces. “Be careful," he Lord Byron's poetry"--were also writien at Diodati; and

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