And why should I feel less than they?
We were all inmates of one place,
And I, the monarch of each race,
Had power to kill-yet, strange to tell!
In quiet we had learn'd to dwell:
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are: even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.

Stanzas to Augusta.

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,
Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose and set not to the last.

Oh! 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 brookThere's more in one soft word of thine Than in the world's defied rebuke.

Thou stood'st, 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-e'en to me.

Byron's last poem.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;

No torch is kindled at its blaze
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,

Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow (1).

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake (2),
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death

Is here:-up to the field and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out- less often sought than found
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.

Pensieri e sentenze varie.

* **

When things are at the worst, they sometimes mend.

(1) Questa poesia fu scritta a Missolonghi, il 22 gennaio del 1824, perciò il poeta dice: « Ma non è così, e non in questo luogo che siffatti pensieri abbiano a scuotere l'anima mia, nè è questo il momento adatto, quando cioè la gloria fregia la bara dell'eroe, o cinge (di lauro) la sua fronte ».

(2) Verso piuttosto oscuro. Sembra che il poeta ricordi al suo spirito la nobiltà dei suoi natali. Il lago (lake) rappresenta il sangue degli antenati dal quale quello del poeta è sgorgato qual rivoletto.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?

Man may despoil his brother man of all
That's great or glittering, kingdoms

fall, hosts yield,

Friends fail, slaves fly, and all

betray, and, more

Than all, the most indebted, but a heart
That loves without self-love!

Benefits turn poison in bad minds.

For a king

'Tis sometimes better to be feared than loved.

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep:
'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears
The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares.

All, when life is new,

Commence with feelings warm and prospects high;
But time strips our illusions of their hue,

And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly, like the snake.

The despotism of vice,

The weakness and the wickedness of luxury,
The negligence, the apathy, the evils
Of sensual sloth-produce ten thousand tyrants,

Whose delegated cruelty surpasses

The worst acts of one energetic master,

However harsh and hard in his own bearing.

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,

Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head,

And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.

There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner o'er the humblest grave.

The test of affection is a tear.

He who seeks the flowers of truth

Must quit the garden for the field.

Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men weep;
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep.

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day

Of toil, is what we covet most; and yet

How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay!

A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate:
Let this one toil for bread, that rack for rent,
He who sleeps best may be the most content.