Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
So foe could tame—no tyrant could command?
Thit rice is gone—but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath:
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine.
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free,
But now't is only shed for fame and thee 1
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support—the world hath given him fame!

The humbler ranks, the lowly bravo, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led —
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath—'tis all their fate allows—
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The Weeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling In the storm;
While sad, she chants the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarries long —
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave:

'T Is Heaven—not man—must charm away the woe,
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thomless pillow for the widow'd head;
.May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

Hay, IBM.

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS MOORE.

"What say If "—not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man " of all measures," dear Tom,—so here goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme.
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the
flood,

We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud.
Where the Divers of Bathos He drown'd in a heap,
And Southey's last Psean has pillow'd his sleep;
That" Felo de se " who, half drunk with his malmsey,
Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,
Singing " Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza,
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never
man saw.

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses, The fetes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,1 — Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Hetman,—

And wha,t dignity decks the flat face of the great man.

1 [" The newspapers will tell you all that Is to be told of emperors, Ac. They have dined and supped, and shown their flat faces in all thoroughfares and several saloons. Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short In the •iirts; and their conversation Is a catechism, for which, and the answers, 1 refer you to those who have heard it." — Lord Vmto Mr. Moore, June 14, 1814.]

I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty. Tou know, tee are used to quite different graces,

The Czar's look, I own.was much brighter and brisker,
But then he is sadly deficient In whisker;
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-
-mere breeches whlsk'd round, In a waltz with the
Jersey,

Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted
With Majesty's presence as those she invited.

June. 1814.

CONDOLATORY ADDRESS

TO SARAH COUNTESS Or JERSEV, ON THE PRINCE
REGENTS RETURNING! HER MCTURE TO MRS. Ml t. *

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a Ukeness of the brave, or just;
What most admired each scrutinising eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus—for his was not there I
That absence proved his worth,—that absence flx'd
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Search for thy form, In vain and mute amaze.
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less:
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits,
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart,
Could with thy gentle image bear depart;
That tasteless shame be hit, and ours the grief,
To gaze on Beauty's band without Its chief:
Yet comfort still one selfish thought Imparts,
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.

What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?
A garden with all flowers — except the rose; —
A fount that only wants its living stream;
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam.
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause,
Than all he shall not force on our applause.

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine:
The symmetry of youth—the grace of mien—
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene;
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair,
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair 1
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws
A speU which wiU not let our looks repose,

1 P4 The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the plcturc-abductlon by our Regent, and have published them — with my name, too, smack — without even asking leave, or Inquiring whether or no! D—n their impudence, and d—n every thing. It has put me out of patience, and so— I shall say no more about it. —'Byron Letters.]

But turn to gaze again, and find anew.
Some charm that well rewards another view.
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright.
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;
And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone.
To please the paltry heart that pleases none; —
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by;
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and Mine.

August, 1814,

TO BELSHAZZAR.

Belshazzar 1 from the banquet tum,

Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; Behold 1 while yet before thee burn

The graven words, the glowing walL Many a despot men miscall

Crown'd and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of all —

Is it not written, thou must die?

Go! dash the roses from thy brow —

Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them; Youth's garlands misbecome thee now,

More than thy very diadem,
Where thou hast tarnlsh'd every gem: —

Then throw the worthless bauble by, Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn j

And learn like better men to die I

Ob! early in the balance weigh'd,

And ever light of word and worth.
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,

And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth:

But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth—

Unfit to govern, live, or die.

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART. 1

There is a tear for all that die,

A mourner o'er the humblest grave;

But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:

In vain their bones unburicd lie,
All earth becomes their monument I

A tomb is theirs on every page,

An epitaph on every tongue:
The present hours, the future age.

For them bewail, to them belong.

1 [This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, In his twentyninth rear, whilst commanding, on shore, a party belonging to his ship, the Menclaus, ana animating them. In storming the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's first cousin ; but they had never met since boyhood.]

* [These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson—" I feel merry enough to send you a sad song. An event, the death of poor Dorset, (see ante, p. 384.) and the recollection of what 1 once felt, and

For them the voice of festal mirth

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound;

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth
The goblet's tributary round.

A theme to crowds that knew them not

Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not share their glorious lot?

Who would not die the death they chose?

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;

And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.

But there are breasts that bleed with thee

In woe, that glory cannot quell; And shuddering hear of victory,

Where one so dear, so dauntless, feU.

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

While Griefs full heart Is fed by Fame.

Alas 1 for them, though not for thee.
They cannot choose but weep the more;

Deep for the dead the grief must be.
Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.

October. 1814.

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth

distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their

former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret

wreath,

All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

Oh could I feel as I have felt—or be what I have been.

Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a

vanish'd scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish

though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would

flow to me. i

March, 1819,

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

There be none of Beauty's daughters

With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing.
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;

Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an Infant's asleep:

So the spirit bows before thee.

To listen and adore thee;

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA.

Okce fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Maying battt for the ladles, and bows to his foes.3

March 27, 1815.

1 [** Do you remember the lines I tent you early last year? 1 don't wish (like Mr. Fitzgerald) to claim the character of 'Vates,' in all its translations, — but were they not a little prophetic? 1 mean those beginning,' There's not a joy the world can give/ *c, on which I pique myself as being the triu\*t, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote." — Byron Utters, March, 1816.]

i [" I can forgive the rogue for utterly falsifying every Une of mine Ode — which I take to be the last and uttermost stretch of human magnanimity. Do you remember the story of a certain abbe, who wrote a treatise on the Swedish constitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal? Just as he had corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus the Third had destroyed this immortal government. * Sir,' quoth the abbe, * the King of Sweden may overthrow the constitution, hot not my book!!' 1 think of the abbe\ but not with him. Making every allowance for talent and most consummate daring, there is, after all, a good deal in luck or destiny. He might have been stopped by our frigates, or wrecked in the Gulf of Lyons, which is particularly tempestuous—or—a i

ODE FROM THE FRENCH.
L

Wt do not curse thee, Waterloo!
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;
There 'twas shed, but is not sunk —
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion —
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost Labedoyere —
With that of him whose honour'd grave
Contains the " bravest of the brave."
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 'tis full 'twill burst asunder —
Never yet was heard such thunder,
As then shall shake the world with wonder —
Never yet was seen such lightning
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,
Show'ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood. •
II.

The Chief has fallen, but not by you,

Vanquishers of Waterloo!

When the soldier citizen

Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men —

Save in deeds that led them on

Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son —

Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed?

Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell: —so perish all,
Who would men by man enthrall!
III.

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume !4
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ;4
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing
On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,

thousand things. But he is certainly fortune's favourite." — Byron Letters, March, 1815.]

3 See Rev. chap. vlii. v. 7, ftc "The first angel sounded, and there followed hall and fire mingled with blood," &c. <■■ 8. "And tin- second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," &c. t*. 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as It were a lamp; and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." t>. 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood t and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter."

4 [" Poor dear Murat, what an end! His white plume used to be a rallying point In battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage; so would neither suffer his soul nor body to be bandaged." — Byron Letters.]

s Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.

Shone and shlver'd fast around thee —

Of the fate at last which found thee:

Was that haughty plume laid low

By a slave's dishonest blow?

Once — a9 the Moon sways o'er the tide,

It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide j

Through the smoke-created night

Of the black and sulphurous fight,

The soldier raised his seeking eye

To catch that crest's ascendency —

And as it onward rolling rose,

So moved his heart upon our foes.

There, where death's brief pang was quickest,

And the battle's wreck lay thickest,

Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest —
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest —

Victory beaming from her breast ?)
While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!

There he ne'er shall charge again 1
IV.

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch —
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;
France hath twice too well been taught
The " moral lesson " dearly bought —
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon!
But in equal rights and laws.
Hearts and hands in one great cause —
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,
With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!
V.

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion —
And who shall resist that proud union »
The time is past when swords subdued - —
Man may die—the soul's rcnew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever hounding spirit —
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble —
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimson tears will follow yet.1

1 [."Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotcm says, pray look at the conclusion of my 1 Ode on Waterloo,' written in the year 1615, and, comparing it with the Duke de Berri's catastrophe in 1820, tell mc if I have not as good a right to the character of' Vatcs' in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and Coleridge ?—

'Crimson tears will follow yet;' and have they not ?" — Byron Letters, 18ao.J

5 " All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer

FROM THE FRENCH.

Must thou go, my glorious Chief,'

Sever'd from thy faithful few? Who can tell thy warrior's grief,

Maddening o'er that long adieu? Woman's love, and friendship's zeal.

Dear as both have been to me — What are they to all I feel.

With a soldier's faith for thee?

Idol of the soldier's soul!

First in fight, but mightiest now: Many could a world control;

Thee alone no doom can bow. By thy side for years I dared

Death ; and envied those who fell. When their dying shout was heard,

Blessing him they served so wclL *

Would that I were cold with those.

Since this hour I live to see; When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee. Dreading each should set thee free!

Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me,

Gazing on thy soul unbent

Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,

All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine?

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!

Never did I droop before; Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore: All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Lite a volcano of the skies.

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd 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.

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.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph's 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.

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

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 I may we be
For evermore with them or thee!

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL.

PROM THE FRENCH.

Farewell to the Land where the gloom of my Glory
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name—
She abandons me now—but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is flll'd with my fame.
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus
lonely,

The last single Captive to millions in war.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, —
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.

Oh I for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won—
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun!

Farewell to thee, France! — but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then—
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again—
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice—
There are links which must break in the chain that

has bound us, Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice I

ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF SEPAR-
ATION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816.

A Tear ago you swore, fond she 1
"To love, to honour," and so forth:

Such was the vow you pledged to me,
And here's exactly what 'tis worth.

DARKNESS.:

I Had a dream, which was not all a dream.3

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space,

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,

And men forgot their passions in the dread

Of this their desolation; and all hearts

Were chill'd Into a selfish prayer for light:

And they did live by watchflres—and the thrones,

The palaces of crowned kings—the huts,

The habitations of all things which dwell,

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed.

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes

To look once more into each other's face;

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;

Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour

They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a crash—and all was black.

The brows of men by the despairing light

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

The flashes fell upon them; some lay down

And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;

And others hurried to and fro, and fed

Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up

With mad disquietude on the dull sky,

fail In exciting our terror from the extravagance of the plan. To speak plainly, the framing of such phantasms is a dangerous employment for the exalted and teeming Imagination of such n poet as Lord Byron, whose Pegasus ever required rather a bridle than a spur. The waste of boundless space into which they lead the poet, the neglect of precision which such themes may render habitual, make them, in respect to poetry, what mysticism Is to religion. The meaning of the poet, as he ascends upon cloudv wing, becomes the shadow only of a thought, and having eluded the comprehension of others, necessarily ends by escaping from that of the author himself. The strength of poetical conception, and the beauty of diction, bestowed upon such prolusions, is as much thrown away as the colours of a painter, could he take a cloud of mist, or a wreath of smoke, for his canvass. — Sir Walter Scott.]