the system of factory slavery, the most cruel and shameless abuse of human rights that has ever disgraced any age or country,—and the crimes and miseries of Ireland, the effect of misgovernment and horrible oppression, will ere long vanish before a spirit of just and benign legislation. We thank even foreigners for their deserved reproaches; and doubt not that the public mind, awakened into energy, will promptly remove the causes which have provoked and justified them. In the woods and valleys lone, Tell me not the tale, my flower! FAR AWAY. Far away!-My soul is far away, Where the blue sea laves a mountain shore; In the woods I see my brother play; Midst the flowers my sister sings once more, Far away!-My dreams are far away, Far away! When, at midnight, stars and shadows reign; "Gentle child," my mother seems to say, "Follow me where home shall smile again,"Far away! Far away!-My hope is far away Where Love's voice young Gladness may restore: O thou Dove! now soaring through the day, Lend me wings to reach that brighter shore,— Far away! ECHO SONG. In thy cavern-hall, Echo, art thou sleeping? By the fountain's fall Dreamy silence keeping? Yet one soft note borne From the shepherd's horn Wakes thee, Echo, into music leaping! Strange, sweet Echo! into music leaping? Then the woods rejoice, Then glad sounds are swelling, From each sister-voice Round thy rocky dwelling; And their sweetness fills All the hollow hills With a thousand notes, of one life telling, Softly-mingled notes, of one life telling. O soft star of the West, Still guide the weary home, Shine from thy rosy heaven; O soft star of the West, THE LONELY BIRD. From a ruin thou art singing, By thy summer-music stirr'd; Whence winn'st thou that exulting breath? Thy song flows richly swelling To a triumph of glad sounds, As from its cavern-dwelling Though the castle echoes catch no tone Though the fires be quench'd, and the feasting done, How can that flood of gladness Rush through thy fiery lay, From the haunted place of sadness, From the bosom of decay? While dirge-notes in the breezes moan Through the ivy garland heard, Yet I know a heart, wild singer! Whose love hath left his bower; JOURNAL OF CONVERSATIONS WITH LORD BYRON, BY LADY BLESSINGTON. NO. XI.* "THERE are two blessings of which people never know the value until they have lost them, (said Byron,) health and reputation. And not only is their loss destructive to our own happiness, but injurious to the peace and comfort of our friends. Health seldom goes without temper accompanying it; and, that fled, we become a burden on the patience of those around us, until dislike replaces pity and forbearance. Loss of reputation entails still greater evils. In losing caste, deservedly or otherwise, (continued Byron,) we become reckless and misanthropic: we cannot sympathize with those, from whom we are separated by the barrier of public opinion, and pride becomes the scorpion, girt by fire, that turns on our own breasts the sting prepared for our enemies. Shakspeare says, that it is a bitter thing to look into happiness through another man's eyes;' and this must he do (said Byron) who has lost his reputation. Nay, rendered nervously sensitive by the falseness of his position, he sees, or fancies he sees, scorn or avoidance in the eyes of all he encounters; and, as it is well known that we are never so jealous of the respect of others as when we have forfeited our own, every mark of coldness or disrespect he meets with arouses a host of angry feelings that prey upon his peace. Such a man is to be feared (continued Byron); and yet how many such have the world made! how many errors have not slander and calumny magnified into crimes of the darkest dye! and, malevolence and injustice having set the condemned seal on the reputation of him who has been judged without a trial, he is driven without the pale of society, a sense of injustice rankling in his heart; and if his hand be not against each man, the hand, or at least the tongue, of each man is against him. The genius and powers of such a man (continued Byron) act but as fresh incitements to the unsated malice of his calumniators; and the fame they win is but as the flame that consumes the funeral pile, whose blaze attracts attention to the substance that feeds it. Mediocrity is to be desired for those who lose caste, because, if it gains not pardon for errors, it sinks them into oblivion. But genius (continued Byron) reminds the enemies of its possessor, of his existence, and of their injustice. They are enraged that he on whom they heaped obloquy can surmount it, and elevate himself on new ground, where their malice cannot obstruct his path." It was impossible not to see that his own position had led Byron to these reflections; and on observing the changes in his expressive countenance while uttering them, who could resist pitying the morbid feelings which had given them birth? The milk and honey that flowed in his breast has been turned to gall by the bitterness with which his errors have been assailed; but even now, so much of human kindness remains in his nature, that I am persuaded the effusions of wounded pride which embody themselves in the biting satires that escape from him are more productive of pain to him who writes, than to those on whom they are written. Knowing Byron as I do, I could forgive the most cutting satire his pen ever traced, because I know the bitter feelings and violent reaction which led to it; and that, in thus avenging some * Concluded from No. CLI. p. 315. |