A hundred fires, far flickering from the height,
Blazed o'er the general revel of the night,
The feast in honour of the guest, return'd
To peace and pleasure, perilously earn'd;
A night succeeded by such happy days
As only the yet infant world displays. (1)

(1) [Byron the sorcerer! He can do with me according to his will. If it is to throw me head-long upon a desert Island; if it is to place me on the summit of a dizzy cliff-his power is the same. I wish he had a friend or a servant, appointed to the office of the slave, who was to knock every morning at the chamber-door of Philip of Macedon, and remind him he was mortal-DR PARR.]

STANZAS:

TO A HINDOO AIR.

[These verses were written by Lord Byron a little before he left Italy for Greece. They were meant to suit the Hindostanee air-" Alla Malla Punca," which the Countess Guiccioli was fond of singing.]

OH!-my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Where is my lover? where is my lover?
Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
Far far away! and alone along the billow?

Oh! my lonely-lonely-lonely-Pillow!
Why must my head ache where his gentle brow lay?
How the long night flags lovelessly and slowly,
And my head droops over thee like the willow.

Oh! thou, my sad and solitary Pillow!

[ing,

Send me kind dreams to keep my heart from breakIn return for the tears I shed upon thee waking Let me not die till he comes back o'er the billow.

Then if thou wilt- -no more my lonely Pillow, In one embrace let these arms again enfold him, And then expire of the joy-but to behold him! Oh! my lone bosom!-oh! my lonely Pillow!

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTYSIXTH YEAR.

Missolonghi, Jan. 22. 1824. (')

1.

"Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

2.

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

3.

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

(1) [This morning Lord Byron came from his bedroom into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile" You were complaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now. This is my birth-day, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write." He then produced these noble and affecting verses.- COUNT GAMBA.]

5.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

6.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

7.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

8.

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

9.

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

10.

Seek out-less often sought than found—
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest. (1)

(1) [Taking into consideration every thing connected with these verses, the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near grave glimmering sadly through the whole, — there is perhaps no production within the range of mere human composition, round which the circumstances and feelings under which it was written cast so touching an interest.— MOORE.]