Shoots downward, glittering through the pure screne Slow-travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears, To rise before me-rise, O ever rise, Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! " BYRON. LORD BYRON. Born 1788; Died 1824. An unwise education of the sort most likely to unhinge a character in which strong passion and most keen sensitiveness were combined, did much to destroy the balance of Byron's mind. At the age of eleven he succeeded to a title and large estates; but this served only to confirm the waywardness of which his baneful education had laid the foundation. Unhappiness drove him to excess, and remorse darkened his life. He died when on the eve of a new career, as a volunteer in the cause of Greek independence. In 1811, the poems, "Childe Harold,” “The Giaour," and "The Bride of Abydos," won for him a rapid and brilliant fame, which his later poems confirmed. His genius was stormy and turbulent; but combines, to a degree unsurpassed, powerful and melodious language with intense feeling, and vivid imagination. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes 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. 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 wreathe, 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. MY NATIVE LAND-GOOD NIGHT. ADIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, A few short hours and he will rise Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; My dog howls at the gate. "Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along." 'Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind: Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, And have no friend, save these alone, Mine own would not be dry. "Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, Why dost thou look so pale? Or dost thou dread a French foeman? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak, But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek. "My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake, And when they on their father call, 66 What answer shall she make ?". Enough, enough, my yeoman good, But I, who am of lighter mood, Will laugh to flee away." |