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Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn;
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise,
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

Byron.

ON THE

STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR.

From the French.

I.
Star of the brave! whose beam hath shed,
Such glory o'er the quick and dead—
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rushed in arms to greet—
Wild meteor of immortal birth!
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth i

II.

Souls of slain heroes formed thy cays;
Eternity flashed thrdugh thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high, and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a volcano of the skies.

in.
Like lava rolled thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rocked beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.

IV.

Before thee rose, and with thee .grew,

A rainbow of the loveliest hue,

Of three bright colours, each divine,

And fit for that celestial sign;

For freedom's hand had blended them,

Like tints in an immortal gem.

V.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes; .

One, the blue depth of Seraphs' eyes;

One, the pure Spirit's veil of white

Had robed in radiance of its light:

The three so mingled did beseem

The texture of a heavenly dream.

VI.

Star of the brave I thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.

VII.

And freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!

Byron.

ON THE DEATH OF A WIFE.

Whoe'er, like me, with trembling anguish brings
His dearest earthly treasure to these springs,
Whoe'er, like me, to soothe distress and pain,
Shall court these salutary springs in rain;
Condemned, like me, to hear the faint reply,
To mark the fading cheek, the sinking eye,
From the chill brow to wipe the damps of death,
And watch in dumb despair the shortening breath;
If chance should bring him to this humble line, •
Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine;
Ordained to love the partner of my breast,
Whose virtue warmed me, and whose beauty blessed,
Framed every tie that binds the heart to prove,
Her duty friendship, and her friendships love;
But yet remembering that the parting sigh,
Appoints the just to slumber, not to die,
The starting tear I checked—I kissed the rod
And not to earth resigned her—but to God.

Lord Palmerstoru DIRGE OF ALARIC, THE VISIGOTH,

Who stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course, that the body might be interred.

When I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,

Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear;

For I will die as I did live,

Nor take the boon I cannot give.

Ye shall not raise a marble bust

Upon the spot where I repose;
Ye shall not fawn before my dust,

In hollow circumstance of woes:
Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath,
Insult the clay that moulds beneath.

Ye shall not pile with servile toil
Your monuments upon my breast?.

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