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In barrenness and ruin—where
BIRTH OF A POET.
On a blue summer night,
While the stars were asleep,
Like gems of the deep, In their own drowsy light;
While the newly mown hay
On the green earth lay,
From a lone woody place,
With large blue eyes,
Brimful of water and light;
And å forehead alarmingly bright:
He grew As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness grow,
In the dropping of natural dew,
Till his heart had blown As the sweet strange flowers of the wilde ness blow; Till every thought wore a changeable stain Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain:
A proud and passionate boy was he,
Like all the children of Poesy;
With wonderful eyes
Full of wo and surprise,
Then ventured out,
The brave sky bending o'er him!
. I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
They went like battle o'er my soul:
I stood and saw the morning light,
A standard swaying far and free;
Where nations warr'd for liberty.
I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep:
And shouted to the eaglet soaring ;
To hear the gallant waters roaring;
But, I am strangely alter'd now
I love no more the bugle voice-
And all the sons of God rejoice-
WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER THE FUNERAL OF BYRON.
I STOOD above the sea. I heard the roar
A warrior-ship, with all her banners torn,
I thought of Greece—the proud one dead;
Struck—with his heart in flower ;
In his descent,
O'er which he went,
The everlasting ocean lay
Below my weary eyes;
The everlasting skies :
A thousand birds around me flew,
Like spirits from the summer deep,—
They left me--and I fell asleep:
But soon a loud, strong trumpet blew,
And by, an armed angel flew, With tresses all on fire, and wings of color'd flame :
And then the thunder broke
About me, and I woke-
The warrior-poet's name !
Far from his home, to die
I started—wonder'd—where was I?-
Some awful rite:
With overpowering might; And lo! upon a rocky throne,
Appear'd a dead man that I knew; His hair unbound, his forehead wet with dew;
And then the angel, standing o'er him, said This incantation, with her wings outspread.
Bard of the ocean, wake!
Of solid blue,
A most untimely dew!
Thy silken robes away-
And let it play,
young Spartan's when he set
Not over bowers,
But over drifted snow;
Sweltering in moonlight rain,
the blossoms that have birth, Breathe on the heavens a stain
But o'er the rude,
Up, Byron, up! with eyes.
Where men may read their destinies ! Up! in thy golden panoply complete Transfigured-all prepared to meet
The Moslem foe!
What! still unmoved, thou Sleeper! still
Thy forehead set-
Awake thee, Byron! Thou art call’d,
power! to break
Silent as death,
On the shorn Samson, while he slept,
Or, like the pirate-band that stole
The sleeping God of wine ;
Thrilling with awe divine,–
A giant by surprise :
Awake, anointed one, awake!
The awful sky
With sweet, remote,
Tremble and shake-