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Farewell to others, but never we part,
Heir to my Royalty — Son of my heart !
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway,
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day !1


The Vision of Belshazzar is based upon Daniel v.

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The monarch saw, and shook,

And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless waxed his look,

And tremulous his voice.
“ Let the men of lore appear,

The wisest of the earth,
And expound the words of fear,

Which mar our royal mirth.”


Chaldea's seers are good,

But here they have no skill ; And the unknown letters stood

Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age

Are wise and deep in lore ; But now they were not sage,

They saw but knew no more.


A captive in the land,

A stranger and a youth,
He heard the King's command,

He saw that writing's truth.
The lamps around were bright,

The prophecy in view; He read it on that night,

The morrow proved it true.


“ Belshazzar's grave is made,

His kingdom passed away,

He, in the balance weighed,

Is light and worthless clay;
The shroud, his robe of state,

the stone;
The Mede is at his gate !

The Persian on his throne!”


See 2 Kings xviii and xix for the historical incident.



'HE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,

And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

II Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.


For the angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved --and forever grew still !


And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.


And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail :
And the tents were all silent the banners alone
The lances unlifted — the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur? are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !



O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.

GRAY's Poemata These stanzas were written on hearing of the death of the Duke of Dorset, who was killed by a fall from his horse while hunting, in March, 1815. Dorset had been among Byron's warmest friends at Harrow.

“Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year? ... I mean those beginning, “There's not a joy the world can give,' etc., on which I pique myself as being the truest, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote.Byron's letter to Moore, March, 1816


THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes

away, When the glow of early thought declines in Feeling's dull decay; 'Tis not on Youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades

so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere Youth itself be past.

1 Ashur : the highest god of the Assyrians; but the word here stands for the country of Assyria itself.


Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess :
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain
The shore to which their shivered sail shall never stretch again.


Then the mortal coldness of the soul like Death itself comes

down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is 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;

'T is but as ivy-leaves around the ruined 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 vanished

scene; As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet, all brackish though

they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to


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