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Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:

She was my early friend, and now shall be
Something-I know not what-does still uphold My sister-ill I look again on thee.
A spirit of slight patience;- not in vain,

I can reduce all feelings but this one ;
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

And that I would not;—for at length I see Perhaps the workings of defiance stir

Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. Within me,-or perhaps a cold despair,

The earliest-even the only paths for meBrought on when ills habitually recur,

Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun,
Perhaps a kinder clime,

or purer
air

I had been better than I now can be; (For even to this may change of soul refer,

The passions which havelorn mewould haveslepti And with light armour we may learn to bear), I had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not

With false Ambition what I to do? The chief companion of a calmer lot.

Little with Love, and least of all with Fame; I feel almost at times as I have felt [brooks,

And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, In happy childhood; trees, and flowers, and And made me all which they can make a name. Which do remember me of where I dwelt

Yet this was not the end I did pursue, Ere my young mind was sacrificed lo books,

Surely I once beheld a nobler ajm.
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt

But all is over-I am one the more
My heart with recognition of their looks; so baffled millions which have gone before.

And even at moments I could think I see
Some living thing to love-but none like thee.

And for the future, this world's future may

From me demand but little of my care; Here are the Alpine landscapes which create

I have outlived myself by many a day; A fund for contemplation ;-10 admire

Having survived so many things that were; Is a brief feeling of a trivial date;

My years have been no slumber, but the prey But something worthier do such scenes inspire :

Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share Here to be lonely is not desolate,

Of life which might have fill'd a century,
For much I view which I could most desire,

Before ils fourth in time had pass'd me by.
And, above all, a lake I can behold
Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old.

And for the remnant which may be to come Oh that thou wert but with me!-but I grow

lam content; and for the past I feel

Not thankless,-for within the crowded sum The fool of my own wishes, and forget The solitude which I have vaunted so

Of struggles, happiness at times would steal,

And for the present, I would not henumb Has lost its praise in this but one regrel;

My feelings farther.-Nor shall I conceal
There may be others which I less may show;

That with all this I still can look around
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet
I feel an ebb in my philosophy,

And worship Nature with a thought profound. And the lide rising in my alter'd eye.

For thee, my own sweet sister! in thy heart I did remind thee of our own dear Lake,(1)

I know myself secure, as thou in mine;

We were and are-I am, even as thou artBy the old Hall which may be mine no more.

Beings who ne'er each other can resign; Leman's is fair; but think not I forsake

It is the same, together or apart, The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore:

From life's commencement to its slow decline Sad havoc Time must with my memory make

We are entwined-lel death come slow or fast, Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before;

The tie which bound the first endures the last! Though, like all things which I have loved, they Resign’d for ever, or divided far.

[are The world is all before me; I but ask

HONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGAT Of Nature that with which she will comply

HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.(2)
It is but in her summer's sun to bask,

SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.(3)
To mingle with the quiet of her sky,
To see her genıle face without a mask,

When the last sunshine of expiring day
And never gaze on it with apathy.

In summer's twilight weeps itself away,

(1) The Lake of Newstead Abbey.-E.

(riend" in the litle-page having reached him,-"I request you," (2) Sheridan died the 7th of July, 1816, and this monody was he says, “lo expunge that name, unless you please to add, by a written al Diodati on the 17th, at the request of Mr. Douglas person of quality,' or, 'of wit and humour.' It is sad trash, and Kinnaird. "I did as well as I could,” says Lord Byron, “but must have been done to make it ridiculous."-E. where I have not my choice, I pretend to answer for nothing." (3) Sheridan's own monody on Garrick was spoken from the A proof-sheet of the poem, with the words “by request of a same boards, by Mrs. Yates, in March, 1779.—“One day," says

Who hath not felt the softness of the hour His was the thunder-his the avenging rod,
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower? The wrath-the delegated voice of God! [blazed
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes Which shook the nations through his lips-and
While Nature makes that melancholy pause, Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised.(2)
Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time And here, oh! here where yet, all young and warm,
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, To gay creations of his spirit charm,
Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, The matchless dialogue-the deathless wit,
The voiceless thought which would not speak but Which knew not what it was to intermit;
A holy concord-and a bright regret, [weep. The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
A glorious sympathy with suns that set?

Home lo our hearts the truth from which they spring; "T is not harsh sorrow-but a tenderer woe, These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought

Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, To fulness by the fiat of his thought,
Felt without bitterness—but full and clear, Here in their first abode you still may meet,
A sweet dejection- a transparent tear,

bright with the hues of his Promethean heat;
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, A halo of the light of other days,
Sheil without shame-and secret without pain. Which still the splendour of its orb betrays.
Even as the tenderness that hour instils

But should there be to whom the fatal blight When summer's day declines along the hills,

Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes,

Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone When all of Genius which can perish dies.

Jar in the music which was born their own, A mighty Spirit is eclipsed-a Power

Still let them pause-ah! little do they know Hath pass'd from day to darkness--to whose hour

That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Of light no likeness is bequeath'd—no name, Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze [Woe.(3) Focus at once of all the rays of Fame!

fix'd for ever to detract or praise; The flash of Wit,the bright Intelligence,

Repose denies her requiem to his name; The beam of Song, the blaze of Eloquence,

And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. Set with their Sun-but still have left behind

The secret enemy whose sleepless eye The enduring produce of immortal Mind:

Stands sentinel-accuser-judge--and spy, Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon,

The foe-the fool-lhe jealous and the vain, A deathless part of him who died too soon.

The envious who but breathe in o hers' pain, But small that portion of the wondrous whole,

Behold the host! delighting lo deprave. | These sparkling segments of that circling soul.

Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, Which all embraced—and lighten'd over all,

Watch every fault that daring Genius owes To cheer-to pierce-to please-or to appal.

Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, From the charm'd council to the festive board,

Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, Of human feelings the unbounded lord;

And pile the Pyramid of Calumny! In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied,

These are his portion—but if join'd to these The praised the proud-who made his praise their Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, pride.

If the high Spirit must forget to soar, When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan(1) And stoop to strive with Misery at the door,(4) Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man,

To soothe Indignity-and face to face

Lord Byron, “I saw him take it up. He lighted upon the de- uff an action.'-'Well, said I, and what do you mean to do?' dication to the Dowager Lady Spencer. On seeing it, he flew --'Nothing at all for the present,' said he: would you have us into a rage and exclaimed, 'that it must be a forgery, as he had proceed against old Sberry? what would be the use of it?' and gever dedicated any thing of his lo such ad-d canting,' etc.etc. here he began laughing, and going over Sheridan's good gifts -and so be went on for half an hour, abusing his own dedica- of conversation. Such was Sheridan! he could soften an altion, or at least the object of it. If all writers were equally corney! There has been nothing like it since the days of Orsincere, it would be ludicrous.” B. Diary, 1821.-E.

pheus." B. Diary, 1821.-E. (1) See Fox, Burke, and Pill's eulogy on Sheridan's master- (4) This was not fiction. Only a few days before his death speech on the charges exhibited against Mr. Hastings in the Sheridan wrole thus to Mr. Rogers:-“I am absolutely undone House of Commons.-E.

and broken-hearted. They are going to put the carpets out of (2) “I heard Sheridan only once, and that briefly; but I liked window, and break into Mrs. S.'s room and take me: 1501. will bis voice, his manner, and his wit. He is the only one of them remove all difficully. For God's sake let me see you!" Mr. Moore I ever wished to hear at greater length.” B. Diary, 1821. was the immediale bearer of the required sum. This was

(3) “Thave more than once heard Sheridan say, 'that he never written on the 15th of May. On the 14th of July, Sheridan's bad a shilling of his own.' To be sure, he contrived lo extract remains were deposited in Westminster Abbey, -his pall-bearers a good many of other people's. In 1815, I found him at my being the Duke of Bedford, the Earl of Lauderdale, Earl Mul lawyer's. After mutual greetings, he retired. Before recur- grave, the Lord Bishop of London, Lord Holland, and Eari ring to my own business, I could not belp inquiring that of Spencer.-E. Sheridan. 'Oh,' replied the attorney, 'the usual thing! 10 slave

Meet sordid Rage-and wrestle with Disgrace, Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, To find in Hope but the renew'd caress,

And a wide realm of wild reality, The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness :- And dreams in their development have breath, If such may be the ills which men assail,

And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ?

They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given They take a weight from off our waking toils, Bear hearts electric-charged with fire from heaven, They do divide our being; they become Black with the rude collision, inly torn,

A portion of ourselves as of our time, By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, And look like heralds of eternity; Driven o'er the louring atmosphere that nurst They pass like spirits of the past,- they speak Thoughts which have turn’d to thunder-scorch— Like sibyls of the future; they have powerand burst.

The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;

They make us what we were not-what they will, But far from us and from our mimic scene

And shake us with the vision that's gone by, Such things should be-if such have ever been;

The dread of vanish'd shadows-Are they so? Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task,

Is not the past all shadow ? What are they? To give the tribute Glory need not ask,

Creations of the mind ?— The mind can make To mourn the vanish'd beam-and add our mite

Substance, and people planets of its own Of praise in payment of a long delight.

With beings brighter than have been, and give Ye orators ! whom yet our councils yield,

A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field!

I would recall a vision which I dream'd The worthy rival of the wondrous Three!(1)

Perchance in sleep-for in itself a thought, Whose words were sparks of Immortality!

A sluinbering thought, is capable of years,
Ye bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear,

And curdles a long life into one hour.
He was your master-emulate him here!
Ye men of wit and social eloquence!

I saw two beings in the hues of youth
He was your brother-bear his ashes hence! Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,
While powers of mind almost of boundless range,(2) Green and of mild declivity, the last
Complete in kind-as various in their change,

As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, While Eloquence-Wit-Poesy-and Mirth, Save that there was no sea lo lave its base, That humbler harmonist of care on earth,

But a most living landscape, and the wave
Survive within our souls--while lives our sense Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of men
Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence,

Scatter'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke
Long shall we seek his likeness-long in vain, Arising from such rustic roofs;—the hill
And turn to all of him which may remain, Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem
Sighing that Nature form’d but one such man, Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd,
And broke the die--in moulding Sheridan! Not by the sport of nature, but of man:

These two a maiden and a youth, were there

Gazing-lhe one on all that was beneath
THE DREAM.(3)

Fair as herself—but the boy gazed on her;

And both were young, and one was beautiful: Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world, And both were young-yet not alike in youth. A boundary between the things misnamed As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,

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(1) Fox-Pill—Burke. "When Fox. was asked, which he Beggars' Opera), the best farce (the Critic-it is only too good thought the best speech he bad ever hea:d, he replied, “Sheri- for a farce), and the best address (Monologue on Garrick, dan's on the impeachment of Hastings, in the House of Com- and, lo crown all, delivered the very best oration the famous mons.' When he made it, Fox advised him to speak it over agaiu Begum speech) ever conceived or heard in this country.' Somiau Westminster Hall on the trial, as nothing belter could be made body told Sheridan this the next day, and, on hearing il, le of the subject; but Sheridan made his new speech as different burst into lears! Poor Brinsley! if they were tears of pleasure, as possible, and, according to the best judges, very inserior, I would rather have said these few, but most sincere, words, notwithstanding the panegyric of Burke, who exclaimed during than have wrillen the Iliad, or made his own celebrated ph-, the delivery of some passages of il — There! that is the true lippic. Nay, his own comedy never gratilied me more than lo style-something between poetry and prose, and belter than hear that he had derived a moment's gratification from any either.'” B. Diary from Lord Ilolland), 1821.

praise of mine." B. Diary, Dec. 17, 1813. (2) “Lord Holland cold me a curious piece of sentimentality (5) In the first draught of this poem, Lord Byron bad entitiei ! in Sheridan. The other night we were all delivering our reso il “ The Destiny." Mr. Moore says, “Il cost him many a lear pective and various opinions upon him and other hommes mar- in writing" and justly characterises it as “the most mouro quanis, and mine was this:—Whatever Sheridan has done or rul, as well as picturesque 'story of a wa ing lise' that ever chosen to do has been par excellence always the best of its kind. came from the pen and heart of man." It was composed ai He has written the best comedy (School for Scandal), the best Diodati, in July 1816. drama (in my mind, far beyond that St. Giles's lampoon, the

The maid was on the eve of womanhood;

Was darken’d with her shadow, and she saw The boy had fewer summers, but his heart That he was wretched, but she saw not all.(3) Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye

le rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp There was but one beloved face on earth,

He took her hand; a moment o'er his face
And that was shining on him; he had look'd A tablet of unulterable thoughts
Upon it till it could not pass away;

Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;
He had no breath, no being, but in hers;

He dropp’d the hand he held, and with slow steps She was his voice; he did not speak to her, Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, But trembled on her words; she was his sighi,(1) For they did part with mutual smiles; he pass'd For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers, From out the massy gate of that old Hall, Which colour'd all his objects :- he had ceased And mounting on his steed he went his way; To live within himself; she was his life,

And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all: upon a tone,

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. A touch, of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, The Boy was sprung to manhood: in the wilds And his cheek change tempestuously-his heart

Of fiery climes he made himself a home, Unknowing of its cause of agony.

And his soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt But she in these fond feelings had no share:

With strange and dusky aspects; he was not

Jlimself like what he had been ; on the sea
Her sighs were not for him; to her he was
Even as a brother-bul no more; 't was much,

And on the shore he was a wanderer;
For brotherless she was, save in the name

There was a mass of many images

Crowded like waves upon me, but he was
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him;
Herself the solitary scion left

A part of all; and in the last he lay
Of a time-honour'd race.(2)— It was a name[why? Reposing from the noontide sultriness,
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not-and Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade

Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names Time taught him a deep answer-when she loved

Of those who rear’d them; by his sleeping side Another; even now she loved another, And on the summit of that hill she stood

Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds

Were fasten'd near a fountain; and a man Looking afar if yet her lover's steed

Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew.

While many of his tribe slumber'd around : A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

And they were canopied by the blue sky, There was an ancient mansion, and before

So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, Its walls there was a steed caparison'd:

That God alone was to be seen in heaven.(4) Within an antique Oratory stood The Boy of whom I spake;-he was alone,

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon

The Lady of his love was wed with one He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced Who did not love her better :-in her home, Words wbich I could not guess of; then he lean’d A thousand leagues from his,-her native home, His bow'd head on his hands, and shook as 't were She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, With a convulsion-then arose again,

Daughters and sons of Beauty,—but behold! And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear

Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
What he had written, but he shed no tears, The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
lato a kind of quiet: as he paused,

As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. The Lady of his love re-enter'd there;

What could her grief be?-she had all she loved, She was serene and smiling then, and yet

And he who had so loved her was not there She knew she was by him beloved,-she knew, To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts.

(1) In the MS.

though she had discovered it without. I recollect my sensations, "she was his sight,

but cannot describe them, and it is as well.” B. Diary, 1822. For never did he turn his glance until

-E.
Her own had led by gazing on an object."-E.

(4) “This is true keeping-an Eastern picture, persecl in its (2)“Our union,” said Lord Byron in 1821, “would have healed foreground, and distance, and sky, and no part of which is so feuds in which blood had been shed by our fathers-it would dwell upon or laboured as to obscure the principal figure. It is have joined lands, broad and rich-it would bave joioed at often in the slight and almost imperceptible touches that the least one heart and two persons not ill-malched in years (she band of the master is shown, and that a single spark, struck is two years my elder)-and-and-and-what has been the re- from his fancy, lightens with a long train of illumination that sult!"-E.

of the reader.” Waller Scoll.-E. (3) "I had long been in love with M. A. C., and never told it,

What could her grief be?-she had loved him not, l'he beings which surrounded him were gone,
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, Or were at war with him; he was a mark
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd For blight and desolation, compass'd round
Upon hier mind-a spectre of the past.

With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd

In all which was served up to him, until, A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,(3) The Wanderer was return'd :-I saw him stand

He fed on poisons, and they had no power, Before an altar-with a gentle bride;

But were a kind of nutriment; he lived Her face was fair, but was not that which made

Through what which had been death to many men, The starlight of his boyhood ;-as he stood

And made him friends of mountains; with the stars Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came

And the quick Spirit of the Universe The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock

He held his dialogues; and they did teach That in the antique Oratory shook

To him the magic of their mysteries; His bosom in its solitude; and then

To him the book of Night was open’d wide, As in that hour-a moment o'er his face

And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd The tablet of unutterable thoughts

A marvel and a secret-Be it so. Was traced,-and then it faded as it came, And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke My dream was past; it had no further change. The filling vows, but heard not his own words, It was of a strange order, that the doom And all things reeld around him; he could see Of these two creatures should be thus traced out Not that which was, nor that which should have Almost like a reality-the one becn

To end in madness—both in misery. But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall,

July, 1815.
And the remember'd chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,

DARKNESS.(4)
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, eame back

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
And thrust themselves between him and the light: The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
What business had they there at such a time?(1) Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth The Lady of his love ;-Oh! she was changed

Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air,

Morn came and went-and came, and brought 110 As by the sickness of the soul; her mind Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes

And men forgot their passions in the dread (day,

Of this their desolation; and all hearts
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become

Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts

And they did live by watch-fires—and the thrones, Were combinations of disjointed things;

The palaces of crowned kings-lhe huts, And forms, impalpable and unperceived

The habitations of all things which dwell, Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.

Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed, And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise

And men were gather'd round their blazing homes Have a far deeper madness, and the glance

To look once more into each other's face; Of melancholy is a fearful gift;

Happy were those who dwelt within the eye What is it but the telescope of truth?

Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : Which strips the distance of its fantasies,

A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; And brings life near in utler nakedness,

forests were set on fire-but hour by hour Making the cold reality too real!(2)

l'hey fell and faded-and the crackling trunks

Extinguish'd with a crash-and all was black. A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

The brows of men by the despairing light The Wanderer was alone as heretofore,

Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits

(1) “This touching picture agrees closely, in many of its cir. by the congratulations of the byslanders to find that he was-. cumstances, with Lord Byron's own prose account of the wed- married.” Life of Byron. ding in his Memoranda; in which he describes himself as waking,

(2) In the MS. on the morning of his marriage, with the most melancholy re.

." The glance flections, on seeing his wedding-suit spread out before him. In

of nielancholy is a fearful gift; the same mood, he wandered about the grounds alone, lill be

For it becomes the telescope of truth, was summoned for the ceremony, and joined, for the first time,

And shows us all things naked as they are."-E. on that day, bis bride and her family. He knelt down-he re- (3) Mithridales of Pontus. peated the words after the clergyman; but a mist was before his (4) In the original MS.-"A Dream."-E. eyes--his thoughts wero elsewhere; and he was but awakened

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