with the Muse through those interminable depths-first, visiting in the pleasure of imagination--the yet unexplored North Pole of our own Planet; then, to behold the secret wonders of the far-off Nebulæ, or Starry Islands!

The Author having already seen more than Ninety Summers, and witnessed the gradual decline of great errors, by the discovery and steady progress of many grand and wonderful truths; he may not be an earthly witness of many more, but, endeavouring to elicit the truth, he remains in perfect confidence that whatever portion of it his work may contain, will finally be received and established.

With this introduction the author ventures again to start his little craft on the sea of public opinion-trusting that though it may, from some quarters, meet with the stormy winds of opposition, that it will eventually reach in safety a friendly port.

STRATFORD: PRINTED AT THE "COURIER OFFICE," WEST HAM, E.

The Shade of Byron.

INTRODUCTION.

FRIEND BYRON! why with unthrift negligence
Leave us to guess the fate of thy Don Juan ?
Why didst thou suffer death to call thee hence
While yet thy Pegasus had got a shoe on?
Why didst thou let Peg loiter on the road,
Indulging in digression-episode-

Till the grim tyrant, grinning, overtook thee,
And all thy bright poetic fire forsook thee?

No! not forsook-e'en death could not steal that ;
He could not stick that trophy in his hat!

;

Or if he could, 'twas what he could not sell,

Nor in a fitful, gen'rous freak be donor;
And so he dropp'd it, for he knew full well

'Twas of no use to any but the owner.

None else could wield it-such a slashing weapon!

A very Sampson's jaw-bone of an ass,

Slaying follies like Philistinés, a heap on.

Exposing their deforms as in a glass,

And vices too, though priests pronounce thee "vicious," Ungodly scorner," "infidel," "blasphemous,"

And all that stale and hyper-pious rant,
For, that thy Muse approved not their descant.
The sun of thy reproof was much too bright
For their mole eyes to look at; so, for fear
Thy very dust should dazzle them, they said,
"In our pagodas let it not be laid;

Lest through some crevice, on a windy day,

It should escape and blind us!-why, it may,

And then "-what then ?-"why, spite of bells and steeple,

We could no more contrive to-blind the people !"

Rest, rest thy hallow'd dust-still rest in peace ;

It little matters where thou tak'st thy rest;
The meteor track which thou hast left behind,
Cannot be clouded by th' envenom❜d breath
Of priestly ban, nor be the less admir'd
Because of their forbidding, and denied
Reception1 at their six-penny show-box;2
That sanctified receptacle of gain !

(Where knotted small-cord whip might be applied).
Why desecrate th' intended house of prayer,3
Of praise, devotion, and heartfelt thanksgiving?

No matter-neither these, nor death himself
Could check thy fire, or suffocate thy fame.
That thou'st ta'en with thee-this still shines with us,

Th' inestimable treasure of thy mind.

Thy spirit flown where envy cannot dwell,

Nor foes can e'er disturb. Yet we bemoan thee

1 It may not be generally known that the remains of Lord Byron were not permitted to enter Westminster Abbey; nor a monument to his memory suffered to be erected there.

2 A gratuity is required of those who wish to see the interior and various curiosities in the Abbey.

"And he went into the temple, and began to cast out them that sold therein and them that bought."-St. Matthew xxi. 12; Luke xix. 35.

Snatch'd from us ere thine intellectual bloom
Had pour'd forth half its treasures to our sight,
Thy bright meridian splendour quench'd in gloom,
For ever quench'd, alas! in death's dark night.

Enough, enough; let erring man submit ;
'Tis not for him t'arrest the hand Divine.
That hand, however mov'd, is ever right;
The power that gave hath ta'en away again
The precious pearl which pharisaic pride
Ungrateful spurn'd-unworthy of the gift.

Rest to thy bones, Byron !—"mad wag" thou wert,
Thy Hudibrastic wantonness of rhyme-

Thy mockeries of verse-poetry run mad-
Methinks thou dost unmercifully lash

The writhing back of some poor scribbling wight;
Some self-dubb'd poet, with no other dub

Than his own self-conceit. Or was't that tir'd
Of soaring 'midst thine own sublimities

On eagle pinions through th' etherial height,

Thou play'd'st the tumbler pigeon, and came down,

And down, and down, till thou had'st reach'd the earth, Then fell asleep, and dream'd of thy Don Juan.

I beg thy pardon, Byron-'twas but now

My fancy mounted thee on Pegasus,

And now I've made a pigeon of thee. What?

"Not to be pluck'd!" Why? Hast thou not pluck'd others,

Like the fierce eagle I compar'd thee to,

And left them not a single plume to fly with ?

A pretty joke, i'faith! that thou should'st maul,
And tear, and pluck the hearts out of thy fellows,