Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear;
Sweep from his shiver’d hand the oppressor’s spear ! A
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod?
How long thy temple worshipless, Oh God?

SINCE our Country, our God—Oh, my Sire!
Demand that thy Daughter expire;

Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow—-
Strike the bosom that’s bared for thee now !

II.

And the voice of my mourning is o’er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!

III

And of this, oh, my Father! be sure

That the blood of thy child is as pure

As the blessing I beg ere it flow,

And the last thought that soothes me below.’

3 [J ephtha vowed, if he was victorious over the Ammonites, that whatever came forth from his house to meet him should be offered for a burnt offering. His daughter was the first to greet him, and at her own request——aft/er bewailing her childless lot two months upon the mountains—she was sacrificed by her father. This is the version of the Bible history adopted by Lord Byron ; but according to another interpretation, which agrees equally well with the original Hebrew of the vow, and better with the general tenor of the narrative, she was merely devoted to a single life.]

When this blood of thy giving hath gush’d,
When the voice that thou lovest is husl1’d,
Let my memory still be thy pride,

And forget not I smiled as I died!

OH! SNATCH’D AWAY IN BEAUTY’S BLOOM.

I

Ofll snatch’d away in beaut-y’s bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;

But on thy turf shall roses rear

Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom :

IL

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb’d the dead!

III

Away ! we know that tears are vain,

That death nor heeds nor hears distress : Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou—who tell’st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

MY soul is dark-Oh! quickly string ~
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a. tear,
’Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

II.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must Weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst ;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ach’d in sleepless silence long;
And now ’tis doom’d to know the worst,
And break at once—or yield to song.‘

I SAW THEE WEEP.

I.

I sAw thee weep—the big bright tear
Came o’er that eye of blue;

And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew :

I saw thee smile—the sapphire’s blaze
Beside thee ceased to shine;

It could not match the living rays
That fill’d that glance of thine. _

4 [“ It was generally conceived that Lord Byron’s reported singularities approached on some occasions to derangement; and at one period, indeed, it was very currently asserted that his intellects were actually impaired. The report only served to amuse his Lordship. He referred to the circumstance, and declared that he would try how a. madman could write : seizing the pen with eagerness, he for a. moment fixed his eyes in majestic wildness on vacancy; when, like a. flash of inspiration, without erasing a single word, the above verses were the result.”— N ArrIAN.]

THoU whose spell can raise the dead,
Bid the prophet’s form appear.
“ Samuel, raise thy buried head!
King, behold the phantom seer!”

Earth yaWn’d ; he stood the centre of a cloud:
Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye;

His hand was wither’d, and his veins were dry;
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter’d there,
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ;
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,
Like cavern’d winds, the hollow accents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,

At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.

II

“Why is my sleep disquieted?
Who is he that calls the dead?

Is it thou, O King? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow, when with H18:
Ere the coming day is done,

Such shalt thou be, such thy Son.
Fare thee well, but for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side

To thy heart thy hand shall guide :
Crownless, breathless, headless fall,
Son and sire, the house of Saul !”‘

5 [“Since we have spoken of Witches,” said Lord Byron at Cephalonia, in 1823, “ what think you of the witch of Eudor ‘I I have always thought this the finest and most finished witch-scene that ever was written or conceived ; and you will be of my opinion, if you consider all the circumstances and the actors in the case, together with the gravity, simplicity, and dignity of the language.”]