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Of the mail-covered Barons, who proudly to battle,
Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurelled wreath;

Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan slumbers,
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.

Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy;

For the safety of Edward, and England, they fell; My fathers! the tears of your country redress you,

How you fought! how you died I still her annals can tell.

On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enriched with their blood the bleak field;

For the rights of their monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to loyalty sealed.

Shades of heroes farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu!

Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;

Far distant he goes with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown:

Like you he will live, or like you he will perish:
When decayed may he mingle his dust with your own.

Byron.

MOONLIGHT AT THE SEA-SIDE.

The heavens are cloudless, the winds are asleep,
And there is not a breath on the face of the deep;
Save the drowsy sound of the fisherman's oar,
As he heavily nears his boat to the shore.

The shepherd's blythe whistle hath ceased on the hill,
The watch-dog is mute, and the forest is still;
And the silence of ocean—of earth and of sky,
Is soft as the slumber of innocency.

Now the weary fisher hath moored his light skiff,
The seabird hath gone to his place in the cliff;
And the aspect of nature seems silent and dead;
As man's mortal part when the spirit hath fled.

The young autumn moon looks abroad o'er the scene,
Unclouded, untroubled, tranquil and serene;
And walks the blue azure, as lovely and fair
As if the dark tempest had never been there.

It is thus with man in prosperity's hour—

He plucks the gay blossom from pleasure's sweet flower.

And his eye beams as joyously bright and clear

As if it had never been dimmed with a tear.

When the moonlight heavens their glories unfold,
Like a beautiful garment bedropped with gold;
And lake, and river, awl ocean wave's hue
Are all of the deepest cerulean blue;

'Tis in the softness of such a sweet hour
That earthly passions relinquish their power;
Then soars the glad soul, all unfettered and free*
Through the boundless space of immensity.

Then seemeth this earth, with its joys and fears,
Like some faded dream of our boyhood years;
And the bliss that we taste in such moments of thought
Breathes peace to the soul, and is never forgot.

Anon.

TO JESSY.

There is a mystic thread of life

So dearly wreathed with mine alone,

That destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both or none.

There is sform on which these eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight;

By day that form their joy supplies,

And dreams restore it through the night.

There is a voice whose tones inspire

Such thrills of rapture through my breast;

I would not hear a seraph choir

Unless that voice could join the rest.

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There is a. face whose blushes tell
Affection's tale upon the cheek;

But pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more love than words can speak.

There is a lip which mine hath prest,
And none had ever prest before,

It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
And mine—mine only, prest it more.

There is a bosom—all my own-
Hath pillowed oft this aching head:

A mouth which smiles on me alone,
An eye whose tears with mine are shed.

There are two hearts whose movements thrill

In unison so closely sweet!
That, pulse to pulse responsive still,

They both must heave—or cease to beat.

There are two souls whose equal flow,

In gentle streams so calmly run,
That when they part—they part !—ah, no

They cannot part—those souls are one.

Byron.

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