Page images

the system of factory slavery, the most cruel and shameless abuse of human rights that has ever disgraced any age or country,—and the crimes and miseries of Ireland, the effect of misgovernment and horrible oppression,—will ere long vanish before a spirit of just and benign legislation. We thank even foreigners for their deserved reproaches; and doubt not that the public mind, awakened into energy, will promptly remove the causes which have provoked and justified them.




SLEEP!-we give thee to the wave,
Red with life-blood of the brave;
Thou shalt find a noble grave,

Fare thee well !
Sleep!-thy billowy field is won !
Proudly may the funeral gun,
Midst the hush at set of sun,

Boom thy knell.
Lonely, lonely is thy bed!
Never there may tear be shed,
Marble rear'd, or brother's head

Bow'd to weep.
Yet thy record on the sea,
Borne through battle high and free,
Long the red-cross flag shall be,-

Sleep, oh! sleep!


Sister! since I met thee last,
O'er thy brow a change hath pass'd ;
In the softness of thine eyes
Deep and still a shadow lies;
From thy voice there thrills a tone
Never to thy childhood known;
Through thy soul a storm hath moved,
Gentle sister! thou hast loved !
Yes! thy varying cheek hath caught
Hours too bright from troubled thought;
Far along the wandering stream
Thou art followed by a dream;

In the woods and valleys lone,
Music haunts thee, not thine own.
Wherefore fall thy tears like rain ?
Sister! thou hast loved in vain !
Tell me not the tale, my flower!
On my bosom pour that shower ;-
Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted,
Tell me not of young hopes blasted;
Bring not forth one burning word,
Let thy heart no more be stirr'd!
Home alone can give thee rest,-
Weep, sweet sister, on my breast !


Far away!-My soul is far away,

Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore;
In the woods I see my brother play;
Midst the flowers my sister sings once more,

Far away! Far away!- My dreams are far away,

When, at midnight, stars and shadows reign; “ Gentle child," my mother seems to say, “ Follow me where home shall smile again,"

Far away! Far away !--My hope is far away

Where Love's voice young Gladness may restore: O thou Dove! now soaring through the day, Lend me wings to reach that brighter shore,

Far away!

Echo Song.

In thy cavern-hall,

Echo, art thou sleeping ?
By the fountain's fall

Dreamy silence keeping?
Yet one soft note borne

From the shepherd's horn
Wakes thee, Echo, into music leaping!
Strange, sweet Echo ! into music leaping ?

Then the woods rejoice,

Then glad sounds are swelling,
From each sister-voice

Round thy rocky dwelling ;
And their sweetness fills

All the hollow hills
With a thousand notes, of one life telling,
Softly-mingled notes, of one life telling.

Echo! in my heart

These deep thoughts are lying,
Silent and apart,

Buried, yet undying;
Till some gentle tone,

Wakening, haply, one,
Calls a thousand forth, like thee replying! -
Strange, sweet Echo ! e'en like thee replying !

A lyre its plaintive sweetness pour'd

Forth on the wild wind's track ;
The stormy wanderer jarr'd the chord,
But gave the music back.

Oh! child of song,

Bear hence to heaven thy fire!
What hop'st thou from the reckless throng?

Be not like that lost lyre

Not like that lyre !
A flower its leaves and odour cast

On a swift-rolling wave;
Th' unheeding torrent darkly pass d,
And back no treasure gave.

Oh! heart of love,
Waste not thy precious dower!
Turn to thine only home above !

Be not like that lost flower

Not like that flower!


O soft star of the West !

Gleaming far,
Thou'rt guiding all things hence,

Gentle star!
From rock and foaming wave

The sea-bird to her nest;
The hunter from the hills,

The fisher back to rest.
Light of a thousand brooks,

Gleaming far!
O soft star of the West,

Blessed star!

No bowery roof is mine,

No hearth of love and rest,
Yet guide me to my shrine,

O soft star of the West !
There, there my home shall be,

Heaven's dew shall wet my breast,
When prayer and tear gush free;

O soft star of the West!

O soft star of the West,

Gleaming far,
Still guide the weary home,

Gentle star!
Shine from thy rosy heaven;

Pour joy on earth and sea !
Shine on! though no sweet eyes

Look forth to watch for me.
Light of a thousand brooks,

Gleaming far!
O soft star of the West,

Blessed star!

THE LONELY BIRD. From a ruin thou art singing,

O lonely, lonely bird ! The soft blue air is ringing

By thy summer-music stirr'd;
But all is dark and cold beneath,

When harps no more are heard ;
Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath?

O lonely, lonely bird !
Thy song flows richly swelling

To a triumph of glad sounds,
As from its cavern-dwelling

A stream in glory bounds!
Though the castle echoes catch no tone

Of human step or word,
Though the fires be quench'd, and the feasting done,

O lonely, lonely bird !
How can that flood of gladness

Rush through thy fiery lay,
From the haunted place of sadness,

From the bosom of decay ?
While dirge-notes in the breezes moan

Through the ivy garland heard,
Come, chant with thy rejoicing tone,

O lonely, lonely bird !
Yet I know a heart, wild singer !

Like thy forsaken tower,
Where joy no more may linger,

Whose love hath left his bower; And I know a spirit e'en like thee,

To mirth as lightly stirr d, Though it soar from ruin in its glee

O lonely, lonely bird !


BY LADY BLESSINGTON. NO. XI.* " THERE are two blessings of which people never know the value until they have lost them, (said Byron,) health and reputation. And not only is their loss destructive to our own happiness, but injurious to the peace and comfort of our friends. Health seldom goes without temper accompanying it; and, that fled, we become a burden on the patience of those around us, until dislike replaces pity and forbearance. Loss of reputation entails still greater evils. In losing caste, deservedly or otherwise, (continued Byron,) we become reckless and misanthropic: we cannot sympathize with those, from whom we are separated by the barrier of public opinion, and pride becomes the scorpion, girt by fire, that turns on our own breasts the sting prepared for our enemies. Shakspeare says, that it is a bitter thing to look into happiness through another man's eyes;' and this must he do (said Byron) who has lost his reputation. Nay, rendered nervously sensitive by the falseness of his position, he sees, or fancies he sees, scorn or avoidance in the eyes of all he encounters; and, as it is well known that we are never so jealous of the respect of others as when we have forfeited our own, every mark of coldness or disrespect he meets with arouses a host of angry feelings that prey upon his peace. Such a man is to be feared (continued Byron); and yet how many such have the world made! how many errors have not slander and calumny magnified into crimes of the darkest dye! and, malevolence and injustice having set the condemned seal on the reputation of him who has been judged without a trial, he is driven without the pale of society, a sense of injustice rankling in his heart; and if his hand be not against each man, the hand, or at least the tongue, of each man is against him. The genius and powers of such a man (continued Byron) act but as fresh incitements to the unsated malice of his calumniators; and the fame they win is but as the flame that consumes the funeral pile, whose blaze attracts attention to the substance that feeds it. Mediocrity is to be desired for those who lose caste, because, if it gains not pardon for errors, it sinks them into oblivion. But genius (continued Byron) reminds the enemies of its possessor, of his existence, and of their injustice. They are enraged that he on whom they heaped obloquy can surmount it, and elevate himself on new ground, where their malice cannot obstruct his path.”

It was impossible not to see that his own position had led Byron to these reflections; and on observing the changes in his expressive countenance while uttering them, who could resist pitying the morbid feelings which had given them birth? The milk and honey that flowed in his breast has been turned to gall by the bitterness with which his errors have been assailed; but even now, so much of human kindness remains in his nature, that I am persuaded the effusions of wounded pride which embody themselves in the biting satires that escape from him are more productive of pain to him who writes, than to those on whom they are written. Knowing Byron as I do, I could forgive the most cutting satire his pen ever traced, because I know the bitter feelings and violent reaction which led to it; and that, in thus avenging some

* Concluded from No. CLI. p. 315.

« PreviousContinue »