For as on thee my memory ponders, Thy form appears through night, through day: Alas! again no more we meet, "May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker, Of him who never can forget!" 1 [These verses were written at Harrowgate, in August 1806.] THE CORNELIAN. 1 No specious splendour of this stone And blushes modest as the giver.2 Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me; [The cornelian of these verses was given to Lord Byron by the Cambridge chorister, Eddlestone, whose musical talents first introduced him to the young poet's acquaintance, and for whom he appears to have entertained, subsequently, a sentiment of the most romantic friendship.] 2 [In a letter to Miss Pigot, of Southwell, written in June, 1807, Lord Byron thus describes Eddlestone:"He is exactly to an hour two years younger than myself, nearly my height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know; I hope I shall never have occasion to change it." Eddlestone, on leaving his choir, entered into a mercantile house in the metropolis, and died of a consumption, in 1811. On hearing of his death, Lord Byron thus wrote to the mother of his fair correspondent: "I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may remember a cornelian, which some years ago I consigned to Miss. Pigot, indeed gave to her, and now I am about to make the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gave it to me, when I was very young, is dead, and though a long time has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial I possessed of that person (in whom I was very much interested), it has acquired a value by this event I could have wished it never to have borne in my eyes. If, therefore, Miss Pigot should have preserved it, I must, under these circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be transmitted to me, and I will replace it by something she may remember me by equally well. As she was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate of him who formed the subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the giver of that cornelian died in May last, of a consumption, at the age of twenty-one, -making the sixth, within four months, of friends and relations that I have lost between May and the end of August." The cornelian heart was returned accordingly; and, indeed, Miss Pigot reminded Lord Byron that he had left it with her as a deposit, not a gift. It is now in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh.] Yet still the simple gift I prize,— He offer'd it with downcast look, As fearful that I might refuse it; I told him, when the gift I took, My only fear should be to lose it. This pledge attentively I view'd, Still, to adorn his humble youth, Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth, Must quit the garden for the field. "T is not the plant uprear'd in sloth, Had Fortune aided Nature's care, But had the goddess clearly seen, His form had fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remain'd to give the rest. AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 1 ["When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good actor. Besides Harrow speeches, in which I shone, I enacted Penruddock, in the "Wheel of Fortune,' and Tristram Fickle, in the farce of The Weathercock,' for three nights, in some private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. The occasional prologue for our volunteer play was also of my composition. The other performers were young ladies and gentlemen of the neighbourhood; and the whole went off with great effect upon our goodnatured audience."- Byron Diary.] 2 [This prologue was written by the young poet, between stages, on his way from Harrowgate. On getting into the carriage at Chesterfield, he said to his companion," Now Pigot, I'll spin a prologue for our play;" and before they reached Mansfield he had completed his task,-interrupting, only once, his rhyming reverie, to ask the proper pronunciation of the French word "début," and, on being answered, exclaiming, "Ay, that will do for rhyme to new." The epilogue, which was from the pen of the Rev. Mr. Becher, was delivered by Lord Byron.] Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A "OUR nation's foes lament on Fox's death, TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE Он factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth |