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(The following Stanzas were addressed by Lord Byron to his Lady, a few months before their separation.)


THERE is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreathed with mine alone,
That destiny's relentless knife

At once must sever both or none.

There is a form, on which those eyes
Have often gazed with fond delight;
By day, that form their joy supplies,
And dreams restore it through the night.
There is a voice, whose tones inspire
Such thrills of rapture in my breast;
I would not hear a seraph choir

Unless that voice would join the rest.
There is a face, whose blushes tell

Affection's tale upon the cheek;
But, pallid at one fond farewell,

Proclaims more words than love can speak.
There is a lip, which mine hath prest,
And none had ever prest before;
It vowed to make me sweetly blest,
And mine, mine only, press it more.
There is a bosom all mine own,

Hath pillowed oft this aching head;
A mouth, which smiles on me alone;

An eye, whose tears with mine are shed.
There are two hearts, whose movements thrill
In unison so closely sweet,

That pulse to pulse, responsive still,

They both must heave, or cease to beat.
There are two souls, whose equal flow,
In gentle streams so calmly run,

That when they part, they part-Oh! no!
They cannot part-their souls are one!


STAY, lady stay, for mercy's sake,
And hear a helpless orphan's tale:
Ah, sure my looks must pity wake—
'Tis want that makes my cheek so pale!
Yet I was once a mother's pride,

And my brave father's hope and joy:
But in the Nile's proud fight he died-
And I am now an orphan boy!
Poor, foolish child! how pleased was I
When news of Nelson's victory came,
Along the crowded streets to fly,

To see the lighted windows flame!
To force me home my mother sought-
She could not bear to see my joy!
For with my father's life 'twas bought-
And made me a poor orphan boy!
The people's shouts were long and loud;
My mother, shuddering, closed her ears;
"Rejoice! rejoice!" still cried the crowd-
My mother answered with her tears!
"Oh! why do tears steal down your cheeks,"
Cried I," while others shout for joy?"
She kissed me, and in accents weak,
She called me her poor orphan boy!

"What is an orphan boy?" I said;
When suddenly she gasped for breath,
And her eyes closed; I shrieked for aid :—
But, ah! her eyes were closed for death!
My hardships since I will not tell :

But now no more a parent's joy;
Ah! lady, I have learnt too well
What 'tis to be an orphan boy!

Oh! were I by your bounty fed!
Nay, gentle lady, do not chide :
Trust me, I mean to earn my bread-

The sailor's orphan boy has pride.

"Lady, you weep-what is't you say?
You'll give me clothing, food, employ !
Look down, dear parents! look, and see
Your happy, happy, orphan boy!"


THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair woman and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !

ye not hear it ?-No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance; let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet :

But, hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar !

* Johnson has shrewdly said, "Few characters can bear the microscopic eye of Scrutiny!" How far those pseudo critics and provincial lecturers who, to please the party for which they write or speak, cast their pharisaical missiles at the head of the noble poet, and, in their profound want of feeling and taste, talk even "lightly" of his unrivalled productions-how far, it may be asked, those Joseph-Surface-like gentry apply the Doctor's apophthegm to themselves, it would be somewhat curious to speculate; and yet, perhaps, hardly worth the investigating ;— certain it is, however, that their morals, as well as their intellect, are far inferior to those of the highly-gifted individual whom they wish to malign; and, "when the hand of time shall have swept" them and their grovelling lucubrations from the face of the earth, the poetical fame of Lord Byron will go on increasing, and his character. as the most original poet of his time, be admitted and established by posterity, both in Europe and America.

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell, He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon nights so sweet such awful morn could rise?
And there was mounting in hot haste the steed:
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe! they come !
they come !"

And wild and high the "Camerons' gathering" rose !
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard; and heard, too, have her Saxon foes :-
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring which instils

The stirring memory of a thousand years,

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears! And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with Nature's tear-drops as they pass,

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,

Over the unreturning brave,-alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the


Which now beneath them, but above shall grow

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay,
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!


An Image of the Immensity of Eternity.

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,

By the deep Sea, and music in its roar :
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe and feel,
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean-roll !
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore;-upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

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