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The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not wbat he was, but what he should have been;
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth :
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,
Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,
Degraded mass of animated dust!
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit !
By nature vile, ennobled but by name,
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise,
I never knew but one, and here he lies.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.

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FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer

For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky. "Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;

But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the



pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,

Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain

I only feel-Farewell !-Farewell !


Bright be the place of thy soul !

No lovelier spirit than thine E'er burst from its mortal control,

In the orbs of the blessed to shine.

On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be; And our sorrow may cease to repine,

When we know that thy God is with thee.


Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom,

In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree

May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?


When we two parted

In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

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

Gray's Poemata.


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.

2. Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of

happiness, Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: magnet of their course is gone, or only points in

vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never

stretch again.


* These Verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful

music by Sir John


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