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(1) In one of Lord Byron's MS. Diaries, begun at Ravenna in May, 1821, we find the following:-"What shall I write?-another Journal? I think not. Any thing that comes uppermost. and call it My Dictionary. Augustus.-I have often been puzzled with his character. Was he a great man? Assuredly. But not one of my great men. I have always looked upon Sylla as the greatest character in history, for laying down his power at the moment when it

was

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign-
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.
May, 1814.

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE
CALEDONIAN MEETING.

Who hath not glow'd above the page where fame
Hath fix'd high Caledon's unconquer'd name;
The mountain-land which spurn'd the Roman
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane, [chain,
Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand
No foe could tame-no tyrant could command?
That race is gone-but still their children breathe,
And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath :
O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine,
And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine.
The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free,
But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee!
But give support-the world hath given him fame!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led-
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
To us bequeath-'tis all their fate allows—
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse :
She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancoly gaze,

Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;

the contrast, I think that one half of our dislike arises from his having been heired by Tiberius-and one half of Julius Cæsar's fame, from his having had his empire consolidated by Augustus. -Suppose that there had been no Octavius, and Tiberius had 'jumped the life' between, and at once succeeded Julius?—And yet it is difficult to say whether hereditary right or popular choice produce the worser sovereigns. The Roman Consuls make a goodly show; but then they only reigned for a year, and were under a sort of personal obligation to distinguish themselves. It is still more difficult to say which form of government is the worst-all are so bad. As for democracy, it is the worst of the whole; for what is, in fact, democracy?—an aris tocracy of blackguards.”—E.

Too great to keep or to resign,' and thus despising them all. As to the retention of his power by Augustus, the thing was already settled. If he had given it up-the commonwealth was gone-the republic was long past all resuscitation. Had Brutus and Cassius gained the battle of Philippi, it would not have restored the republic. Its days ended with the Gracchi; the rest was a mere struggle of parties. You might as well cure a consumption, or restore a broken egg, as revive a state so long a prey to every uppermost soldier, as Rome had long been. As for a despotism, if Augustus could have been sure that all his successors would have been like himself-I mean not as Octavius, but Augustus-or Napoleon could have insured the world that none of his successors would (3) "Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an have been like himself-the ancient or modern world might have experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, gone on, like the empire of China, in a state of lethargic pros- and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your perity. Suppose, for instance, that, instead of Tiberius and proposed setting. Now, if it be so, thi it into the fire without Caligula, Augustus had been immediately succeeded by Nerva, phrase." Lord B. to Mr. Moore, May 10, 1814.—E. Trajan, the Antonines, or even by Titus and his father—what a ||~ The reader will observe that the above stanzas were written difference in our estimate of himself!-So far from gaining by more than two years previously to his marriage.-E.

(2) On being reminded by a friend of his recent promise not to write any more for years-"There was," replied Lord Byron, "a mental reservation in my pact with the public, in behalf of anonymes; and, even had there not, the provocation was such as to make it physically impossible to pass over this epoch of triumphant tameness. 'T is a sad business; and, after all, I shall think higher of rhyme and reason, and very humbly of your heroic people, till-Elba becomes a volcano, and sends him out again. I can't think it is all over yet."-E

1

While sad, she chants the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The coronach's wild requiem to the brave!

'Tis Heaven-not man-must charm away the woe
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widow'd head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

May, 1814.

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS
MOORE.

"WHAT say 19"-not a syllable further in prose;
I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom,-so,
here goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,
On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of
rhyme.
[the flood,
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in
We are smother'd, at least, in respectable mud,
Where the divers of Bathos lie drown'd in a heap,
And Southey's last pæan has pillow'd his sleep;
That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malm-
sey,

Walk'd out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea,
Singing "Glory to God" in a spick-and-span stanza,
The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never

man saw.

WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord
Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave or just;
What most admired each scrutinising eye
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry?
What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus-for his was not there!
That absence proved his worth,-that absence fix'd
Ilis memory on the longing mind, unmix'd;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold colossus could secure.

If thus, fair Jersey! our desiring gaze
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less;
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits,
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart,
Could with thy gentle image bear to part;
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief,
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief:
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?
fount that only wants its living stream;
A garden with all flowers-except the rose!
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam.
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;
Than all he shall not force on our applause.
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause,

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,
With all that Virtue asks of homage thine :

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fus-
ses, (1)

The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,-
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to het-A

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man,

And what dignity decks the flat face of the great

Who, lovely as ever, seem'd just as delighted
With majesty's presence as those she invited.

*

man.

I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party,—
For a prince, his demeanour was rather too hearty.
You know, we are used to quite different graces,

*

*

June, 1814.

921

CONDOLATORY ADDRESS

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE
REGENT'S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS.
MEE. (2)

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and bris-The symmetry of youth-the grace of mien—
But then he is sadly deficient in whisker; [ker, The eye that gladdens—and the brow serene;
And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, [fair!
-mere breeches whisk'd round, in a waltz with the

Jersey,

Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws

of miniature portraits of the ladies of his Court, the most ce-
lebrated for their beauty. The Countess of Jersey's was neces-

(1) "The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of emperors, etc. They have dined and supped, and shown their flat faces in all thoroughfares and several saloons. Their uni-sarily among them, but some pique against that lady subsequently forms are very becoming, but rather short in the skirts; and led to its being sent away from Carlton House. The affair at their conversation is a catechism, for which, and the answers, I refer you to those who have heard it." Lord B. to Mr. Moore, the subject of the condolatory address in question, from Lord the time made much noise in the fashionable world, and formed Byron's pen." Finden's Illustrations.-E. "The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of the Con

June 14.

(2)

"George the Fourth, when Regent, formed a collection

922

A spell which will not let our looks repose,
But turn to gaze again, and find anew
Some charm that well rewards another view.
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright,
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight;
And these must wait till every charm is gone,
To please the paltry heart that pleases none;—
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by;
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine
Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine.
Aug. 1814.

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A tomb is theirs on every page,

An epitaph on every tongue:
The present hours, the future age,
For them bewail, to them belong.

For them the voice of festal mirth

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; While deep Remembrance pours to Worth The goblet's tributary round.

A theme to crowds that knew them not,
Lamented by admiring foes,
Who would not share their glorious lot?
Who would not die the death they chose?

And, gallant Parker! thus enshrined

Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be;
And early valour, glowing, find
A model in thy memory.

But there are breasts that bleed with thee
In woe, that glory cannot quell;
And shuddering hear of victory,

Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell.
Where shall they turn to mourn thee less?
When cease to hear thy cherish'd name?
Time cannot teach forgetfulness,

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame.

Alas! for them, though not for thee,

They cannot choose but weep the more;
Deep for the dead the grief must be,

Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before.
October, 1814

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming.

And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep;
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant's asleep :

So the spirit bows before thee,
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

D-n

dolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-abduction by our (1) This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twentyRegent, and have published them-with my name, too, smack-ninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a party belonging to without even asking leave, or inquiring whether or no! his ship, the Menelaus, and animating them, in storming the their impudence, and d-n every thing. It has put me out of American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's first patience, and so-I shall say no more about it B. Letters. cousin; but they had never met since boyhood.-E.

99

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. (1)

Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have

been, “O lachrymarum fons, lenero sacros

Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a
Ducentium ortus ex animo: quater

vanish'd scene;
Felix! in imo qui scalentem
Pectore le, pia nympha, sensit."

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brack-
Gray's Poemala.

ish though they be,

So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it

would flow to me.(2) takes away,

March, 1815. When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;

ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone,

ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure, (sure which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth it- Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his lei

From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes, [foes. (3) self be past.

Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck

March 27, 1813. of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of ex

ODE FROM THE FRENCH. cess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points

We do not curse thee, Waterloo !

Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never

There 'twas shed, but is not sunkstretch again.

Rising from each gory trunk,

Like the water-spout from ocean, Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death it.

With a strong and growing motionself comes down;

It soars, and mingles in the air, It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream With that of lost Labedoyèreits own;

With that of him whose honour'd grave That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our

Contains the “bravest of the brave.” tears,

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where But shall return to whence it rose ; the ice appears.

When 'tis full’t will burst asunderThough wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth Never yet was heard such thunder distract the breast,

As then shall shake the world with wonderThrough midnight hours that yield no more their Never yet was seen such lightning former hope of rest;

As o'er heaven shall then be brightning! 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret Like the Wormwood Star, foretold wreath,

By the sainted Seer of old,
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and Showering down a fiery flood,

Turning rivers into blood. (4)

grey beneath.

(1) These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, abbé, who wrote a treatise on the Swedish constitution, and of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music proved it indissoluble and eternal! Just as he had corrected by Sir John Stevenson. “I feel merry enough to send you a the last sheet, news came that Gustavus the Third had destroyed sad song. An event, the death of poor Dorsel, and the recol- this immortal government. 'Sir,' quoth the abbé, 'the king lection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but could of Sweden may overthrow the constilution, but not my book!!' not-set me pondering, and finally into the train of thought I think of the abbé, but not with him. Making every allowance which you have in your hands. I wrote them with a view lo your for talent and most consummale daring, there is, after all, a selling them, and as a present to Power, is he would accept the good deal in luck or destiny. He might have been stopped by words, and you did not think yourself degraded, for once in a our frigales, or wrecked in the Gulf of Lyons, which is partiway, by marrying them to music. I don't care what Power cularly tempestuous-or-a thousand things. But he is certainly says to secure the property of the song, so that it is not compli- Fortune's favourite.” B. Lelters, March, 1815. mentary to me, nor any thing about condescending’or noble (4) Seu Rev. chap. viii. o. 7, elc. “The first angel sounded, author'- both “vjle phrases,'as Polonius says."-B. Letters. and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood,” elc. 0. 8.

(2) “Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year? I “And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain don't wish (like Mr. Fitzgerald) to claim the character of vales,' burning with fire was cast into the sea, and the third part of the in all its translations,—but were they not a little prophetic? sea became blood,” etc. v. 10. “And the third angel sounded, I mean those beginning, “There's not a joy the world can and there sell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a give,' etc., on which I pique myself as being the truesi, though lamp; and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the the most melancholy, I ever wrole." B. Letters, March, 1816. rountains of waters,” v. 11. "And the name of the star is called

(3) “I can forgive the rogue for ulterly falsifying every line Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormof mine Ode-which I take to be the last and ullermost stretch wood; and many men died of the waters, because they were of human magnanimity. Do you remember the story of a certain made bitter."

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924

The Chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!

When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men—
Save in deeds that led them on
Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son-
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell:-so perish all,
Who would men by man enthral!

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume! (1)
Whose realm refused thee even a tomb; (2)
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;

Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing
. On thy war-horse through the ranks

Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee-
Of the fate at last which found thee:
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?
Once as the moon sways o'er the tide,
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendency;-
And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest-
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest-
Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

(1) Poor dear Murat, what an end! His white plume used to be a rallying-point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage: so would neither suffer his soul nor body to be bandaged." B. Letters.

(2) Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.

(3) Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, pray look at the conclusion of my Ode on Waterloo,' written in the year 1815, and in comparing it with the Duke de Berri's catastrophe,

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch-
But let Freedom rejoice,

With her heart in her voice;

But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;
France hath twice too well been taught
The "moral lesson" dearly bought-
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon!

But in equal rights and laws,

Hearts and hands in one great cause—
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,

With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nation's blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!
But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion-
And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued—
Man may die-the soul's renew'd :
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for-ever-bounding spirit-
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble —
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimson tears will follow yet (3)

FROM THE FRENCH.

MUST thou go, my glorious Chief, (4)
Sever'd from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior's grief,

Maddening o'er that long adieu?
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal,
Dear as both have been to me-
What are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith for thee?
Idol of the soldier's soul!

First in fight, but mightiest now:
Many could a world control:

Thee alone no doom can bow.

in 1820, tell me if I have not as good a right to the character of Vates, in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and Coleridge?⚫ Crimson tears will follow yet; ' and have they not?" B. Letters, 1820.

(4) "All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exalted from the ranks by Bonaparte. He clung to his master's knees; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted."

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