Thou, Timour! in his captive's cage (1)
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage?

But one-"The world was mine"
Uniess, like he of Babylon,

All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit, pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven, (2)
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst, (3)
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very fiend's arch mock; (4)
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!

There was a day-there was an hour, (5)
While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thine-
When that immeasurable power

Unsated to resign

Had been an act of purer fame
Than gathers round Marengo's name,
And gilded thy decline

Through the long twilight of all time,'
Despite some passing clouds of crime.

(1) The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane. (2) Prometheus.

(3) In the first draught—

(4)

"He suffered for kind acts to men
Who have not seen his like again,

At least of kingly stock;

Since he was good, and thou but great,

Thou canst not quarrel with thy fate."-L. E.

"The very fend's arch mock

Tolipa wanton, and suppose her chaste."-Shakspeare. [We believe there is no doubt of the anecdote here alluded to-of Napoleon's having found leisure for an unworthy amour, the very evening of his arrival at Fontainebleau. -L. E.]

(5) The three last stanzas, which Lord Byron had been solicited by Mr. Murray to write, to avoid the stamp duty then imposed upon publications not exceeding a sheet, were not published with the rest of the poem. "I don't like them at all," says Lord Byron, "and they had better be left out. The fact is, I can't do any thing I am asked to do, however gladly I would; and at the end of a week my interest in a composition goes off."-L. E.

The poem originally contained but eleven stanzas; the rest were afterwards added in successive editions.-P. E. (6) 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

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 in

But thou forsooth! must be a king,
And don the purple vest,-
As if that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that faded garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star-the string-the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away?

Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the great; (6)
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?

Yes! one; the first-the last-the best-
The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate,

Bequeath'd the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one! (7)

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. (8)

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame: But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

sured the world that none of his successors would have been like himself- the ancient or modern world might have gone on, like the empire of China, in a state of lethargic prosperity. Suppose, for instance, that, instead of Tiberius and Caligula, Augustus had been immediately succeeded by Nerva, Trajan, the Antonines, or even by Titus and his father-what a difference in our estimate of himself!-So far from gaining by the contrast, I think that one half of our dislike arises from his having been heired by Tiberins-and one half of Julius Caesar's fame, from his having had his empire consolidated by Angustus.-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 go. vernacent is the worst-all are so bad. As for democracy,

it is the worst of the whole; for what is, in fact, democracy? -an aristocracy of blackguards."- L. E.

(7) 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. 'Tis a sad business; and, after all, I shall think bigher 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."-L., E.

(8) "Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose yon an experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase." Lord B. to Mr. Moore, May 10, 1814.-L. E.

"Many of the best poetical pieces of Lord Byron, having the least amatory feeling, have been strangely distorted by his calumniators, as if applicable to the lamented circumstances of his latter life. The foregoing verses were written more than two years previously to his marriage, and to show how averse his lordship was from touching, in the most distant manner, upon the theme which might be deemed to have a personal allusion, he requested me, the morning before he last left London, either to suppress the verses entirely, or to be careful in putting the date when they were originally written." Nathan.-P. E.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness cease?

[chain,We repent-we abjure-we will break from our We will part,— -we will fly to--unite it again! Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! Forgive me, adored one!-forsake, if thou wilt;But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, And man shall not break it-whatever thou mayst. And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be; [sweet, And our days seem as swift, and our moments more With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet. 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 resignThy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

May, 1814.

"WHAT say I?"-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.
If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the
flood,

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 chain,
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,
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!
Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim,
But give support-the world hath given him fame!
The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led-
Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
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 melancholy 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;
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;

(1) "The newspapers will tell you all that is to be told of emperors, etc. They have dined and supped, and shown their Et faces in all thoroughfares and several saloons. Their uniforms are very becoming, but rather short in the skirts; and their conversation is a catechism, for which, and the answers, I refer you to those who have heard it." Lard B. to Mr. Moore, June 14.-P. E.

(2) "His late Majesty, George the Fourth, when Prince Regent, formed a collection of miniature portraits of the ladies of his Court, the most celebrated for their beauty. The Countess of Jersey's was necessarily among them, but some pique against that lady subsequently led to its being

That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, 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

sent away from Carlton House. The affair at the time made much noise in the fashionable world, and formed the subject of the condolatory address in question, from Lord Byron's pen." Finden's Illustrations.-P. E.

"The newspapers have got hold (I know not how of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-abduction by our Regent, and have published them-with my name, too, smack-without even asking leave, or inquiring whether or no! D-n their impudence, and d-n every thing. It has put me out of patience, and so---I shall say no more about it." B. Letters.-L. E.

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
His 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:
Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts,
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts.
What can his vaulted gallery now disclose?
A garden with all flowers-except the rose!
A fount that only wants its living stream;
A night, with every star, save Dian's beam.
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be,
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee;
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause,
Than all he shall not force on our applause.
Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine,
With all that Virtue asks of homage thine:
The symmetry of youth-the grace of mien-
The eye that gladdens-and the brow serene;
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair,
Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair!
Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws
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.

TO BELSHAZZAR.

Aug. 1814.

BELSHAZZAR! from the banquet turn, Nor in thy sensual fulness fall; Behold! while yet before thee burn The graven words, the glowing wall. Many a despot men miscall

Crown'd and anointed from on high; But thou, the weakest, worst of all

Is it not written, thou must die?

Go! dash the roses from thy brow

Grey hairs but poorly wreathe with them; Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, More than thy very diadem,

(1) This gallant officer fell in August, 1814, in his twentyninth year, whilst commanding, on shore, a party belonging to his ship, the Menelaus, and animating them, in storm

Where thou hast tarnish'd every gem:

Then throw the worthless bauble by, Which, worn by thee, even slaves contemn; And learn, like better men, to die! Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,

And ever light of word and worth, Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, And left thee but a mass of earth. To see thee moves the scorner's mirth: But tears in Hope's averted eye Lament that even thou hadst birthUnfit to govern, live, or die.

ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF SIR
PETER PARKER, BART. (1)
THERE is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
For them is Sorrow's purest sigh
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent:
In vain their bones unburied lie,

All earth becomes their monument!
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, 184

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:

ing the American camp near Baltimore. He was Lord Byron's first-cousin; but they had never met since boyhood. -L. E.

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.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC. (1)

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

Gray's Poemata.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath.

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

Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene;

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be,

So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. (2)

March, 1815.

ON NAPOLEON'S ESCAPE FROM ELBA. ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure, Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his leisure, From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,

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.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness

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

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears.

(1) These verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, of the Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson. "I feel merry enough to send you a sad song. An event, the death of poor Dorset (see ante, p. 9), and the recollection of what I once felt, and ought to have felt now, but could not-set me pondering, and finally into the train of thought which you have in your hands. I wrote them with a view to your setting them, and as a present to Power, if he would accept the words, and you did not think yourself degraded, for once in a way, by marrying them to music. I don't care what Power says to secure the property of the song, so that it is not compli mentary to me, nor any thing about condescending' or 'noble author'-both 'vile phrases,' as Polonius says."Lord B. to Mr. Moore.-L. E.

(2) "Do you remember the lines I sent you early last year? I don't wish (like Mr. Fitzgerald) to claim the character of 'vates,' in all its translations, but were they not a little prophetic? I mean those beginning, 'There's not a joy the world can give,' etc., on which I pique myself as being the truest, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote." Letters, March, 1816.-L. E.

B.

(3) "I can forgive the rogue for utterly falsifying every line of mine Ode-which I take to be the last and uttermost stretch of human magnanimity. Do you remember the story

March 27, 1815.

ODE FROM THE FRENCH. We do not curse thee, Waterloo! Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew; There 'twas shed, but is not sunkRising from each gory trunk, Like the water-spout from ocean, With a strong and growing motionIt soars, and mingles in the air, With that of lost LabedoyèreWith that of him whose honour'd grave Contains the "bravest of the brave." A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose; When 'tis full 't will burst asunderNever yet was heard such thunder As then shall shake the world with wonderNever yet was seen such lightning As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Like the Wormwood Star, foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Showering down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.(4)

of a certain abbé, who wrote a treatise on the Swedish constitution, and proved it indissoluble and eternal! Just as he had corrected the last sheet, news came that Gustavus the Third had destroyed this immorts! government. 'Sir,' quoth the abbé, the King of Sweden may overthrow the constitution, but not my book!!' I think of the abbé, but not with him. Making every allowance for talent and most consummate daring, there is, after all, a good deal in luck or destiny. He might have been stopped by our frigates, or wrecked in the Gulf of Lyons, which is particularly tempestuous-or-a thousand things. But he is certainly Fortune's favourite." B. Letters, March, 1815.-L. E.

(4) See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, etc. "The first angel sounded, and there followed bail and fire mingled with blood," etc. v. 8. "And the second angel sounded, and as it were a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood," etc. v. 10. "And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp; and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of waters." v. 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter."

:—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!

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;

(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.— L. E.

(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, comparing it with the Duke de Berri's catastrophe 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?-

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 nations' 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.
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.(5)
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.

'Crimson tears will follow yet;'
and have they not?" B. Letters, 1820.-L. E.

(4) "All wept, but particularly Savary, and a l'olish 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."

(5) "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 of the like: this you may, however depend on as true."-Private Letter from Brussels.