With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day our studious race begun,
On the same day our studious race was run;
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career,
Thus side by side we strove for many a year;
At last concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As speakers (1) each supports an equal name,
And crowds allow to both a partial fame :
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride,
Though CLEON'S candour would the palm divide,
Yet candour's self compels me now to own
Justice awards it to my friend alone.

Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear!
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn,
To trace the hours which never can return;
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,(2)
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twined,

(I) This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated.

(2) Thus in the private volume:

"Yet in the retrospection finds relief,

And revels in the luxury of grief.”—L. E.

(3) "I remember," says Byron, "that my first declamation astonished Dr. Drury into some unwonted (for he was economical of such) and sudden compliments, before the declaimers at our first rehearsal." Diary.-L. E.

(4) "I certainly was much pleased with Lord Byron's attitude, gesture, and delivery, as well as with his composition. All who spoke on that day adhered, as usual, to the letter of their composition, as in the earlier part of his delivery did Lord Byron. But, to my surprise, he suddenly diverged from the written composition, with a boldness and rapidity sufficient to alarm me, lest he should fail in memory as to the conclusion. There was no failure;-he came round to the close of his composition without discovering any impediment and irregularity on the whole. I questioned him, why he had altered his declamation? He declared he had made no alteration, and did not know, in speaking, that he had deviated from it one letter. I believed him, and from a knowledge of his temperament am convinced, that, fully impressed with the sense and substance of the subject, he was burried on to expressions and colourings more striking than what his pen had expressed." Dr. Drury.-L. E.

(5) In the private volume the poem concludes thus :-
"When, yet a novice in the mimic art,

I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart-
When as the Royal Slave I trod the stage,
To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage-
The praise of Probus made me feel more proud
Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd.
"Ah! vain endeavour in this childish strain
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain!
What can avail this fruitless loss of time,
To measure sorrow in a jingling rhyme!
No social solace from a friend is near,
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear.
I seek not joy in woman's sparkling eye:
The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh.
Adieu, thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream
Thy virtue but a visionary theme;
Thy years of vice on years of folly roll,
Till grinning death assigns the destined goal,
Where all are hastening to the dread abode,
To meet the judgment of a righteous God;
Mix'd in the concourse of the thoughtless throng,
A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along;
A wretelied, isolated, gloomy thing,
Curst by reflection's deep corroding sting;
But not that mental sting which stabs within,
The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin;

The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch:
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies-
His mind the rack from which be ne'er can rise.

When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song,(3)
Or placed me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue received applause,(4)
His sage instruction the primeval cause,
What gratitude to him my soul possest
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone

The praise is due, who made that fame my own.(5)
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful Ina blest,
It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.(8)

IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain!

For me, whate'er my folly, or my fear,
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here:
No dread internal haunts my hours of rest,
No dreams of injured innocence infest; (6)
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft,
Conscience, my last but welcome guest, is left.
Slander's empoison'd breath may blast my name,
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame;
Deceit may chill the current of my blood,
And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood;
Presaging horror darken every sense-

Even here will conscience be my best defence.
My bosom feeds no worm which ne'er can die:' (7)
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by.
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile,

M heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile :
No more with former bliss my heart is glad;
Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad:
From fond regret no future joy can save;
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave."-L. E.

(6) "I am not a Joseph," said Lord Byron, in 1821, "nor a Scipio; but I can safely affirm, that I never in my life seduced any woman."-L. E.

(7) "We know enough even of Lord Byron's private his. tory to give our warrant that, though his youth may have shared somewhat too largely in the indiscretions of those left too early masters of their own actions and fortunes, falsehood and malice alone can impute to him any real cause for hopeless remorse, or gloomy melancholy." Sir Walter Scott.-L. E.

(8)

To Dr. Drury," observes Moore, "Lord Byron has left on record a tribute of affection and respect, which, like the reverential regard of Dryden for Dr. Busby, will long associate together honourably the names of the poet and the master." The above is not, however, the only one. In a note to the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, he says, "My preceptor was the best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late- when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and veneration-of one who would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his instructor." We extract the following from some unpublished letters of Lord Byron

"Harrow, Nov. 2, 1804. There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness and nothing of pedantry, in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live. Ile is the best master we ever had, and at the same time respected and feared."" Nov. 11, 1804. I revere Dr. Drury. He is never violent, never outrageous. I dread offending him;-not, however, through fear; but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure."-L. E.

Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,(1)
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;-
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow
O'er their last scene of happiness below.
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys)
Recall one scene so much beloved to view,
As those where Youth her garland twined for you?
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion, (2) smiled on youth.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON HIS AD-
VISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY.

DEAR Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind;--
I cannot deny such a precept is wise;
But retirement accords with the tone of my mind:
I will not descend to a world I despise.

(I) In a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, Lord Byron says:"No one could, or can be, more attached to Harrow than I have always been, and with reason;- a part of the time passed there was the happiest of my life."L. E.

(2) "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb. (See a subsequent poem, under this title, p. 39. — L. E.]

(3) The true reason of the haughty distance at which Byron, both at this period and afterwards, stood apart from his more opulent neighbours, is to be found (says Moore)" in his mortifying consciousness of the inadequacy of his own means to his rank, and the proud dread of being made to feel his own inferiority by persons to whom, in every other respect, he knew himself superior." Mr. Becher frequently expostulated with him on this unsociableness; and one of his friendly remonstrances drew forth these lines,

Did the senate or camp my exertions require, Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth; When infancy's years of probation expire, Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd,

Still mantles unseen in its secret recess;At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd,

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. (3)

Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's praise; Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, With him I would wish to expire in the blaze.

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, What censure, what danger, what woe would I brave!

Their lives did not end when they yielded their breath; Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave.

Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd?
Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules!
Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd?
Why search for delight in the friendship of fools?

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love;
In friendship I early was taught to believe;
My passion the matrons of prudence reprove;

I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive.

To me what is wealth? it may pass in an hour,
If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown.
To me what is title?-the phantom of power;

To me what is fashion?-I seek but renown.

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul;

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth: Then why should I live in a hateful control? Why waste upon folly the days of my youth?

1806.

ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,
ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." (4)
MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot-
Some shall exist beyond the grave.

"Unknown the region of his birth,"
The hero (5) rolls the tide of war;
Yet not known his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.

so remarkably prefiguring the splendid burst with which Lord Byron's volcanic genius was ere long to open upon the world.-L. E.

Such, according to Moore, was Byron's horror of new faces, that, whilst on a visit to one of the few families at Southwell, with whom he was intimate, he frequently jumped out of the window when he saw strangers approaching the house.-P. E.

(4) Written by James Montgomery author of The Ian derer in Switzerland, etc.

(5) No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, etc. are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.

His joy or grief, his weal or woe,

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;

Yet nations now unborn will know

The record of his deathless name.

The patriot's and the poet's frame

Must share the common tomb of all: Their glory will not sleep the same;

That will arise, though empires fall. The lustre of a beauty's eye

Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath. Once more the speaking eye revives, Still beaming through the lover's strain; For Petrarch's Laura still survives:

She died, but ne'er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,

And Time, untiring, waves his wing; Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,

But bloom in fresh unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,

Collected in the silent tomb;

The old and young, with friends and foes, Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,

Yet falls at length, a useless fane; To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, From dark oblivion meant to guard?

A bright renown shall be enjoy'd
By those whose virtues claim reward.

Then do not say the common lot

Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; Some few, who ne'er will be forgot, Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

REMEMBRANCE.

'Tis done! I saw it in my dreams: No more with Hope the future beatns; My days of happiness are few: Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, My dawn of life is overcast;

1806.

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu !—— Would I could add Remembrance too! 1806. [Now first published.]

TO A LADY

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET BAND
WHICH BOUND HER TRESSES.

THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,
Like relics left of saints above.

Oh! I will wear it next my heart;
Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee;
From me again 'twill ne'er depart,

But mingle in the grave with me.

The dew I gather from thy lip

Is not so dear to me as this; That I but for a moment sip,

And banquet on a transient bliss: This will recall each youthful scene,

E'en when our lives are on the wane;
The leaves of Love will still be green
When Memory bids them bud again.
Oh! little lock of golden hue,

In gently waving ringlet curl'd,
By the dear head on which you grew,
I would not lose you for a world:

Not though a thousand more adorn
The polish'd brow where once you shone,
Like rays which gild a cloudless morn,
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone.

1806. [Now first published.]

THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA.

AN IMITATION OF MACPHERSON'S OSSIAN. (1) DEAR are the days of youth! Age dwells on their remembrance through the mist of time. In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. "Not thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers!" Past is the race of heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; their souls ride on the wings of the wind; they hear the sound through the sighs of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds! Such is Calmar. The grey stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from eddying tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers on the blast of the mountain.

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his angry spear; but mild was the eye of Calmar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks: they streamed like the meteor of the night. No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts were given to friendship,-to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their swords in battle; but fierce was the pride of Orla:-gentle alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cave of Oithona.,

From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. Their ships cover the ocean Their hosts throng on the green hills. They come to the aid of Erin.

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the armies: but the blazing oaks gleam through the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in their hands. Fingal called his chiefs: they stood around. The king was in the midst. Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet the foe. But where is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin? He rests in the halls of Tura; he knows not of our coming. Who

(I) It may be necessary to observe, that the story, though considerably varied in the catastrophe, is taken from "Nisus and Euryalus," of which episode a translation is already given.

will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and call the chief to arms? The path is by the swords of foes; but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye chiefs! Who will arise?"

"Son of Trenmor! mine be the deed," said haired Orla, "and mine alone. What is death to me? I love the sleep of the mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards, and lay me by the stream of Lubar." "And shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I see thee die, and not lift the spear? No Orla! ours has been the chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells; ours be the path of danger: ours has been the cave of Oithona; ours be the narrow dwelling on the banks of Lubar." "Calmar," said the chief of Oithona, "why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall alone. My father dwells in his hall of air he will rejoice in his boy; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. Let him not say, 'Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin: he died with gloomy Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? Live, Calmar! Live to raise my stone of moss; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of praise." "Orla," said the son of Mora, "could I raise the song of death to my friend? Could I give his fam to the winds? No, my heart would speak in sighs: faint and broken are the sounds of sorrow. Orla! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud shall be ours on high: the bards will mingle the names of Orla and Calmar."

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying blaze of the oak dim twinkles through the night. The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed: they frown in sleep; their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. The fires are faint; their embers fail in smoke. All is hushed; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar: "we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time for delay ?" "It is a time for vengeance," said Orla of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps: seest thou his spear? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! he shall feel his wound: my fame shall not soar on the blood of slumber. Rise, Mathon, rise! The son of Connal calls; thy life is his; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the gathering chiefs bound on the plain. "Fly! Calmar, fly!" said dark-haired Oila. "Mathon is mine. I shall die in joy: but Lochlin crowds around. Fly through the shade of night." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is cleft; his shield falls

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe is seen! but the sleepers are many; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their locks; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above their prey.

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his friend, 'Tis Calmar: he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; but Calmar lives! he lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on the hills of Morveu."

"Never more shall Calmar chase the deer of Morven with Orla," said the hero. "What were the chase to me alone? Who would share the spoils of batt.6 with Calmar? Orla is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on others in lightning: to me a silver beam of night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay me with my friend. Raise the song when I am dark!"

They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four grey stones mark the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our sails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to Morven :-the bards raised the song.

What form rises on the roar of clouds? Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 'Tis Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed Mora; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spread them on the arch of the rainbow; and smile through the tears of the storm." (1)

(1) I fear Laing's late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson's Ossian might prove the traus lation of a series of poems complete in themselves; but, while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults-particu. larly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. The present humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, however inferior, which

evinces an attachment to their favourite author.

L'AMITIÉ EST L'AMOUR SANS AILES. (1)

[Written December, 1806.]

WHY should my anxious breast repine,

Because my youth is fled?

Days of delight may still be mine;

Affection is not dead.

In tracing back the years of youth,
One firm record, one lasting truth
Celestial consolation brings;
Bear it, ye breezes, to the seat
Where first my heart responsive beat,—
Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Through few, but deeply chequer'd years,
What moments have been mine!
Now half obscured by clouds of tears,
Now bright in rays divine;
Howe'er my future doom be cast,
My soul, enraptured with the past,

To one idea fondly clings;
Friendship! that thought is all thine own,
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone---
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave
Their branches on the gale,
Unheeded heaves a simple grave,
Which tells the common tale;
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray,
Till the dull knell of childish play

From youder studious mansion rings;
But here whene'er my footsteps move,
My silent tears too plainly prove

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Oh Love! before thy glowing shrine

My early vows were paid;

My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine,
But these are now decay'd:

For thine are pinions like the wind,
No trace of thee remains behind,

Except, alas! thy jealous stings.
Away, away! delusive power,
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour;
Unless, indeed, without thy wings.
Seat of my youth! (2) thy distant spire
Recalls each scene of joy;

My bosom glows with former fire,-
In mind again a boy.

Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill,
Thy every path delights me still,

Each flower a double fragrance flings;
Again, as once, in converse gay,
Each dear associate seems to say

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

(1) See ante, p. 36, c. I, note. We insert this poem here on account of the date of its composition. It was not however included in the publication of 1807.-L. E.

(2) Harrow.

(3) The Earl of Clare.-L. E.

(4) The young poet had recently received from Lord Clare an epistle containing this passage:-"I think, by your last letter, that you are very much piqued with most of your friends; and, if I am not much mistaken, a little so with me. In one part you say, there is little or no doubt a few years, or months, will render us as politely indifferent to each other, as if we had never passed a portion of our time together:' indeed, Byron, you wrong me; and I have no doubt-at least I hope you wrong yourself."-L. E. (5) It is difficult to conjecture for what reason, but these stanzas were not included in the publication of 1807; though few will hesitate to place them higher than any

My Lycus! (3) wherefore dost thou weep?
Thy falling tears restrain;
Affection for a time may sleep,

But, oh, 't will wake again. (4)

Think, think, my friend, when next we meet, Our long-wish'd interview, how sweet!

From this my hope of rapture springs; While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, Absence, my friend, can only tell,

"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
In one, and one alone, deceived,
Did I my error mourn?
No-from oppressive bonds relieved,
I left the wretch to scorn.

I turn'd to those my childhood knew,
With feelings warm, with bosoms true,

Twined with my heart's according strings;
And till those vital chords shall break,
For none but these my breast shall wake

Friendship, the power deprived of wings!
Ye few! my soul, my life is yours,
My memory and my hope;
Your worth a lasting love ensures,
Unfetter'd in its scope;

From smooth deceit and terror sprung,
With aspect fair and honey'd tongue,
Let Adulation wait on kings:
With joy elate, by snares beset,
We, we, my friends, can ne'er forget
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"
Fictions and dreams inspire the bard
Who rolls the epic song;
Friendship and Truth be my reward-
To me no bays belong;

If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies,
Me the enchantress ever flies,

Whose heart and not whose fancy sings;
Simple and young, I dare not feign;
Mine be the rude yet heartfeld strain,
"Friendship is Love without his wings!"

THE PRAYER OF NATURE. (5)

[Written December 29, 1806.] FATHER of Light! great God of Heaven!

Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?

Father of Light, on thee I call!

Thou see'st my soul is dark within; Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,

Avert from me the death of sin.

thing given in that volume. "Written when the author was not nineteen years of age, this remarkable poem shows," says Moore, "how early the struggle between natural piety and doubt began in his mind." In reading the celebrated critique of the Edinburgh Review on the Hours of Idleness, the fact that the volume did not include this "Prayer of Nature" ought to be kept in mind.-L. E.

This little poem, on the whole, affords a tolerably correct notion of Lord Byron's religious creed, though the contradictory nature of his writings renders it impossible to set that question positively at rest. He probably had no pre cise opinion on the subject of religion, and considered it, as he himself says in Don Juan,

"--a pleasant voyage, perhaps to float
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation."

To a memorandum of the writers on Divinity, whose works