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By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell, When their dying shout was heard, Blessing him they served so well. (1) Would that I were cold with those,

Since this hour I live to see; When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free!

Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me, Gazing on thy soul unbent. Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer,
Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,
All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine? My chief, my king, my friend, adieu! Never did I droop before;

Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore:

All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

ON THE STAR OF "THE Legion of HONOUR."

[FROM THE FRENCH.]

STAR of the brave!-whose beam hath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead-
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,—
Wild meteor of immortal birth!
Why rise in heaven to set on earth?
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a volcano of the skies.

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock`d beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.

(1) "At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon-ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, 'Vive l'Empereur, jusqu'à la mort!' There were many other instances

Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
Of three bright colours, (2) each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom's hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of seraph's eyes;
One, the pure spirits' veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.

And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL.

[FROM THE FRENCH.]

FAREWELL to the land where the gloom of my glory
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name-
She abandons me now-but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame.
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me
only

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus
The last single Captive to millions in war. [lonely,
Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem
crown'd me,

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,—
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. [thee,
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were

won

Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun! Farewell to thee, France!-but when Liberty ra

lies

Once more in thy regions, remember me then,

of the like this you may, however depend on as true."-Pr vate Letter from Brussels

(2) The tricolour.

The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys: Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it againYet. yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us, And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voiceThere are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!

FARE THEE WELL.

"Alas! they had been friends in youth;

But whispering tongues can poison truth:
And constancy lives in realms above:
And life is thorny; and youth is vain:
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain;

*

But never either found another

To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining.
Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
Shall wholly do away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been."
Coleridge's Christabel.(1)

FARE thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.

Would that breast were bared before thee
Where thy head so oft hath lain,

While that placid sleep came o'er thee
Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover

"Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee-
Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe:

Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,

Than the one which once embraced me,

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(1) This motto was not prefixed to these lines until several editions had been printed. Mr. Coleridge's poem was, in fact, published in June, 1816, and reached Lord Byron after he had crossed the Alps, in September. It was then that he signified his wish to have the extract in question affixed to all future copies of his stanzas; and the reader, who might have doubted Mr Moore's assertion in his Life, that Lord Byron's hopes of an ultimate reconciliation with his Lady survived even the unsuccessful negotiation prompted by the kind interference of Madame de Staël, when he visited her at Copet, will probably now consider the selection and date of this motto, as circumstances strongly corroborative of the biographer's statement:

"A dreary sea now flows between

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do

away, I ween,

The marks of that which once hath been! "

Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;

Love may sink by slow decay, But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away:

Still thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth Is-that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow

Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"
Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more mayst see,
Then the heart will softly tremble
With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know ;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest;
Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now:
But 't is done all words are idle—
Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well!—thus disunited,
Turn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.

March 17, 1816 (2)

The saddest period of Lord Byron's life was also, we see. one of the busiest. His refuge and solace were ever in the prac tice of his art; and the rapidity with which he continued to pour out verses at this melancholy time, if it tended to prolong some of his personal annoyances, by giving malevolent critics fresh pretences for making his private affairs the subject of public discussion, has certainly been in no respect injurious to his poetical reputation.-E.

t

(2) "It was about the middle of April that his two celebrated copies of verses, "Fare thee well," and "A Sketch," made their appearance in the newspapers; and while the latter poem was generally, and, it must be owned, just ly condemned, as a sort of literary assault on an obscure female, whose situation ough: to have placed her as much beneath his satire, as the undignified mode of his attack certainly raised her above it, with regard to : the other poem, opinions were a good deal more divided. To

A SKETCH. (1)

"Honest-honest Iago!

If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee."-Shakspeare.
BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next for some gracious service unexpress'd,
And from its wages only to be guess'd-
Raised from the toilet to the table,--where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie-
The genial confidante, and general spy-
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess-
An only infant's earliest governess!

She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spell.
An adept next in penmanship she grows,
As many a nameless slander deftly shows:
What she had made the pupil of her art,
None know—but that high Soul secured the heart,
And panted for the truth it could not hear,
With longing breast and undeluded ear.
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind,
Which Flattery fool'd not-Baseness could not
blind,

Deceit infect not-nor Contagion soil-
Indulgence weaken-nor example spoil-
Nor master'd Science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown-
Nor Genius swell-nor Beauty render vain-
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain—

If mothers-none know why-before her quake;
If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake;
If early habits-those false links, which bind
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind-
Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betrays her as she crawls;
If like a viper to the heart she wind,

And leave the venom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,

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To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells?
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints
With all the kind mendacity of hints,
While mingling truth with falsehood-sneers with
smiles-

A thread of candour with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd schem-

A lip of lies-a face form'd to conceal;
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel:
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown;
A cheek of parchment-and an eye of stone.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale-
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face)—
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined:

[ing;

Nor Fortune change-Pride raise-nor Passion Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged—

bow,

Nor Virtue teach austerity-till now.

Serenely purest of her sex that live,

But wanting one sweet weakness-to forgive.
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know,
She deems that all could be like her below:
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend,
For Virtue pardons those she would amend.
But to the theme-now laid aside too long,
The baleful burthen of this honest song-
Though all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she served before.

There is no trait which might not be enlarged:
Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade-
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.

many it appeared a strain of true conjugal tenderness,-a kind
of appeal which no woman with a heart could resist; while, by
others, on the contrary, it was considered to be a mere showy
effusion of sentiment, as difficult for real feeling to have pro-
duced as it was easy for fancy and art, and altogether unworthy
of the deep interests involved in the subject. To this latter opi-
nion I confess my own to have been, at first, strongly inclined;
and suspicious as I could not help thinking the sentiment that
could, at such a moment, indulge in such verses, the taste that
prompted or sanctioned their publication appeared to me even
still more questionable. On reading, however, his own account
of all the circumstances in the Memoranda, I found that on both
points I had, in common with a large portion of the public, done this. It is blotted all over with the marks of tears."

him injustice. He there described, and in a manner whose
sincerity there was no doubting, the swell of tender recollections
under the influence of which, as he sat one night musing in his
study, these stanzas were produced, -the tears, as he said, fall-
ing fast over the paper as he wrote them. Neither did it appear,
from that account, to have been from any wish or intention of
his own, but through the injudicious zeal of a friend whom he
suffered to take a copy, that the verses met the public eye."
Moore.

(1) "I send you my last night's dream, and request to have

The appearance of the MS. confirms, and more than confirms

May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind,
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black-as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,-
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with
prayer,

Look on thine earthly victims-and despair!
Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear-
Thy name-thy human name—to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers-
And festering (1) in the infamy of years.

March 29, 1816.

ENDORSEMENT TO THE DEED OF SEPARATION, IN THE APRIL OF 1816.(2)

A YEAR ago you swore, fond she!

"To love, to honour," and so forth: Such was the vow you pledged to me, And here's exactly what 't is worth.

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.(3)

WHEN all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray-
And hope but shed a dying spark

Which more misled my lonely way:

In that deep midnight of the mind,

And that internal strife of heart,
When, dreading to be deem'd too kind,
The weak despair-the cold depart;
When fortune changed-and love fled far,
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,

fifty copies struck off, for private distribution. I wish Mr. Gifford to look at them. They are from life. Lord B. to Mr. M. March 30, 1816.-E.

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66

Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose and set not to the last.
O! blest be thine unbroken light!
That watch'd me as a seraph's eye,
And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.
And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray-

Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away.

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,

And teach it what to brave or brook-
There's more in one soft word of thine

Than in the world's defied rebuke.
Thou stoodst, as stands a lovely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent,
Still waves with fond fidelity

Its boughs above a monument.

The winds might rend-the skies might pour.
But there thou wert-and still wouldst be
Devoted in the stormiest hour

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.
But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;
For Heaven in sunshine will requite

The kind-and thee the most of all.
Then let the ties of baffled love

Be broken-thine will never break;
Thy heart can feel-but will not move;
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake.
And these, when all was lost beside,
Were found and still are fix'd in thee ;—
And bearing still a breast so tried,
Earth is no desert-even to me.

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. (4) THOUGH the day of my destiny's over,

And the star of my fate hath declined, (5) Thy soft heart refused to discover

The faults which so many could find;

were, we believe, the last verses written by Lord Byron in England. In a note to Mr. Rogers, dated April 16th, he says.My sister is now with me, and leaves town to-morrow: we (1) In first draught-"weltering."-"I doubt about welter- shall not meet again for some time at all events,-if ever! and, ing. We say weltering in blood;' but do not they also use under these circumstances, I trust to stand exeused to you weltering in the wind,' 'weltering on a gibbet?' I have no and Mr. Sheridan, for being unable to wait upon him this evendictionary, so look. In the mean time, I have put festering;'ing." On the 25th, the poet took a last leave of his native counwhich, perhaps, in any case is the best word of the two. Shaks-try.-E. peare has it often, and I do not think it too strong for the figure (4) These beautiful verses, so expressive of the writer's in this thing. Quick! quick! quick! quick!" Lord B. to Mr. M. April 2.

(2) The lawyers objected to it as superfluous. It was written as we were getting up the signing and sealing." Lord B. to Mr. Moore. Ravenna, 1820.

(3) His sister, the Honourable Mrs. Leigh.-These stanzas, the parting tribute to her, whose unshaken tenderness had been the author's sole consolation during the crisis of domestic misery

wounded feelings at the moment, were written in July, at the Campagne Diodati, near Geneva, and transmitted to England for publication, with some other pieces. "Be careful," he says, "in printing the stanzas beginning, Though the day of my destiny's,' etc., which I think well of as a composition."-E.. In the MS.

"Though the days of my glory are over,

And the sun of my faine hath declined."-E

Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
It shrunk not to share it with me,
And the love which my spirit hath painted
It never hath found but in thee.

Then when nature around me is smiling,
The last smile which answers to mine,
I do not believe it beguiling,

Because it reminds me of thine:

And when winds are at war with the ocean,
As the breasts I believed in with me,
If their billows excite an emotion,

It is that they bear me from thee.

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd,
And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd

To pain-it shall not be its slave.
There is many a pang to pursue me:

They may crush, but they shall not condemn-
They may torture, but shall not subdue me—
'Tis of thee that I think—not of them.(1)
Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
Though slander'd, thou never couldst shake,
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
Though parted, it was not to fly,
Though watchful, 't was not to defame me,
Nor, mute, that the world might belie.(2)
Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
Nor the war of the many with one-
If my soul was not fitted to prize it,

'Twas folly not sooner to shun:
And if dearly that error hath cost me,
And more than I once could foresee,

I have found that, whatever it lost me.
It could not deprive me of thee.

From the wreck of the past, which hath perish'd,
Thus much I at least may recall,

It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd
Deserved to be dearest of all:

In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,

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"Though watchful, 't was but to reclaim me, Nor, silent, to sanction a lie."-E.

(3) These stanzas were also written at Diodati; and sent home at the time for publication, in case Mrs. Leigh should sanction it. "There is," he says, "amongst the manuscripts an Epistle to my Sister, on which I should wish her opinion to be consulted before publication; if she objects, of course omit it." On the 5th of October he writes, "My sister has decided on the omission of the lines. Upon this point, her option will be followed. As I

And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

July 24, 1816.

EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA.(3)

929

My sister! my sweet sister! if a name
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine.
Mountains and seas divide us, but it claim
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine:
Go where I will, to me thou art the same-
A loved regret which I would not resign.
There yet are two things in my destiny,-
A world to roam through, and a home with thee.
There first were nothing-had I still the last,
It were the haven of my happiness;
But other claims and other ties thou hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
Reversed for him our grandsire's (4) fate of yore,—
He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

If my inheritance of storms hath been
'In other elements, and on the rocks
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,

I have sustain❜d my share of worldly shocks, `
The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
My errors with defensive paradox;

I have been cunning in mine overthrow,
The careful pilot of my proper woe.

Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward.
My whole life was a contest, since the day
That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd
The gift,-a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
And I at times have found the struggle hard,
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay :
If but to see what next can well arrive.
But now I fain would for a time survive,

Kingdoms and empires in my little day
I have outlived, and yet I am not old;
And when I look on this, the petty spray
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd·

have no copy of them, I request that you will preserve one for me in MS.; for I never can remember a line of that nor any other composition of mine. God help me! if I proceed in this scribbling, 1 shall have frittered away my mind before I am thirty; but poetry is at times a real relief to me. To-morrow I am for Italy." The Epistle was first given to the world in 1830.-E.

(4) Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage tious name of "Foul-weather Jack." without a tempest. He was known to the sailors by the face

He

"But, though it were tempest-tossed,
Still his bark could not be lost."

returned safely from the wreck of the Wager (in Ansor.'s voyage), and subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after, as commander of a similar expedition.

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