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"SHE WAS A FORM OF LIFE AND LIGHT, THAT, SEEN, BECAME A PART OF SIGHT;—

"ALAS! THE BREAST THAT INLY BLEEDS (LORD BYRON)

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[From "The Siege of Corinth," stanzas xxii. to xxv. We venture to think the foregoing one of the finest battle-pieces in English poetry. The tumult and agitation of the scene lend a quick, hurried, impetuous movement to the rhythm, and the verse echoes with trump, and drum, and rapid feet, and clashing swords. There is nothing in Scott' so fine as this, despite some crudities of expression; it has all the fire and straightforwardness of old Homer.]

HATH NOUGHT TO DREAD FROM OUTWARD BLOW."-BYRON.

AND ROSE, WHERE'ER I TURNED MINE EYE, THE MORNING STAR OF MEMORY!"-BYRON..

"YES, LOVE INDEED IS LIGHT FROM HEAVEN; A SPARK OF THAT IMMORTAL FIRE-(BYRON)

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THE DEATH OF HUGO.

[The Marquis of Este has discovered a sinful love between his beautiful wife, Parisina, and his natural son, Hugo. The latter is ordered for execution.-See Gibbon's "Miscellaneous Works," iii. 470.]

HE convent bells are ringing,

But mournfully and slow;

In the gray square turret swinging,
With a deep sound, to and fro.
Heavily to the heart they go!
Hark! the hymn is singing—
The song for the dead below,

Or the living who shortly shall be so!
For a departing being's soul

The death-hymn peals and the hollow

bells knoll:

He is near his mortal goal;
Kneeling at the friar's knee,
Sad to hear, and piteous to see-
Kneeling on the bare cold ground,
With the block before, and the guards

around

While the crowd in a speechless circle
gather

To see the son fall by the doom of the
father!

It is a lovely hour as yet

Before the summer sun shall set

Which rose upon that heavy day,
And mocked it with his steadiest ray;

And his evening beams are shed

Full on Hugo's fated head!

AND TINTS TO-MORROW WITH PROPHETIC RAY!"-BYRON.

WITH ANGELS SHARED, BY ALLAH GIVEN, TO LIFT FROM EARTH OUR LOW DESIRE."-BYRON.

"AND O'ER THE FAIR BROAD BROW WERE WROUGHT THE INTERSECTING LINES OF THOUGHT:

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THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE IS NOT THAT OF LIFE."-BYRON.

THE DEATH OF HUGO.

As his last confession pouring
To the monk, his doom deploring
In penitential holiness,

He bends to hear his accents bless
With absolution such as may

Wipe our mortal stains away.

That high sun on his head did glisten
As he there did bow and listen,
And the rings of chestnut hair
Curled half down his neck so bare;

But brighter still the beam was thrown
Upon the axe which near him shone
With a clear and ghastly glitter-
Oh! that parting hour was bitter!
Even the stern stood chilled with awe :
Dark the crime, and just the law-
Yet they shuddered as they saw.

The parting prayers are said and over
Of that false son—and daring lover!
His beads and sins are all recounted;
His hours to their last minute mounted-
His mantling cloak before was stripped,
His bright brown locks must now be clipped!
'Tis done—all closely are they shorn-

The vest which till this moment worn

The scarf which Parisina gave—

Must not adorn him to the grave.

Even that must now be thrown aside,

And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied;
But no-that last indignity

Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye.

All feelings seemingly subdued,

In deep disdain were half renewed,

THE MIND, THe spirit, the PROMETHEAN SPARK."-BYRON.

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THESE FURROWS WHICH THE BURNING SHARE OF SORROW PLOUGHS UNTIMELY THERE."-BYRON.

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"THE DEEPEST ICE WHICH EVER FROZE CAN ONLY O'ER THE SURFACE CLOSE-(LORD BYRON)

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"" HOW BEAUTIFUL IS ALL THIS VISIBLE WORLD!

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

When headsman's hands prepared to bind
Those eyes which would not brook such blind,
As if they dared not look on death.
"No-yours my forfeit blood and breath;
These hands are chained, but let me die
At least with an unshackled eye-
Strike:" and, as the word he said,
Upon the block he bowed his head;
These the last accents Hugo spoke:
"Strike," and flashing fell the stroke-
Roked the head-and, gushing, sunk
Back the stained and heaving trunk,
In the dust, which each deep vein
Slaked with its ensanguined rain;

His eyes and lips a moment quiver,
Convulsed and quick-then fix for ever.

[From "Parisina," stanzas xv. to xvii. "The grand part of this poem is that which describes the execution of the rival son, and in which, though there is no pomp, either of language or sentiment, and everything, on the contrary, is conceived and expressed with studied simplicity and directness, there is a spirit of pathos and poetry to which it would not be easy to find many parallels."-Lord Jeffrey.]

TWILIGHT IN ITALY.

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T is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear!
Each flower the dews have lightly wet;
And in the sky the stars are met,

HOW GLORIOUS IN ITS ACTION AND ITSELF!"-BYRON.

THE LIVING STREAM LIES QUICK BELOW, AND FLOWS, AND CANNOT CEASE TO FLOW."-BYRON.

"WE ARE THE FOOLS OF TIME AND TERROR-DAYS STEAL ON US AND STEAL FROM US;

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THE MIND WHICH IS IMMORTAL MAKES ITSELF- -(BYRON)

A BROTHER'S DEATH.

["The nightingale's high note is heard.") And on the wave is deeper blue, And on the leaf a browner hue,

And in the heaven that clear obscure,

So softly dark, and darkly pure,

Which follows the decline of day,

As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

[From "Parisina."]

A BROTHER'S DEATH.

[In the dungeon of the Castle of Chillon, on the Lake of Geneva, were imprisoned three brothers, each chained to a separate pillar, until, after long years of agony, the two youngest were released by the merciful hand of death. The eldest was at length liberated by his persecutor, and in his joyless freedom tells the tale of his sufferings. The death of the youngest is thus described:-]

UT he, the favourite and the flower,
Most cherished since his natal hour,
His mother's image in fair face,
The infant love of all his race,

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REQUITAL FOR ITS GOOD OR EVIL THOUGHTS."-BYRON.

YET WE LIVE, LOATHING OUR LIFE, AND DREADING STILL TO DIE."-LORD BYRON.

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