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All is still! In blood and ashes,
Seen across the sinking flashes,
Leaning on his sabre bare,
Stands a figure of despair,
He who fired that holy hall :
Now he has his vengeance-all!

What is reeking by his side?
Ashes, that were once a bride :
What is blackening on the floor?
'Tis a brother's bosom-gore!

Terrors on his vision rise:

Murderer! thou hast had thy prize!

As decays the final spark,

Forms are flashing through the dark,
Shapes of giant fang and limb :
Down he sinks, and all is dim.
He is gone that parting ban
Never came from mortal man!

Ever, till the endless night,
Shall the lost one wing his flight;
Forced in tenfold pangs to gaze
On the pomp, the blood, the blaze,
At the hour the deed was done,

Neckar, while thy stream shall run!

LORD BYRON'S LAST VERSES.

'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 in my bosom preys

Is like to some volcanic isle: No torch is kindled at its blaze

A funeral pile.

The hopes, the fears, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain,
And power of love I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

But 'tis not here, it is not here,

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now

Where glory seals the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around us see,
The Spartan borne upon his shield

Was not more free.

Awake not Greece !-she is awake!

Awake my spirit -think through whom My life-blood tastes its parent lake—

And then strike home.

I tread reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

If thou regret 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 is best :

Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

Missolonghi, January 22, 1824. On this day I complete my 36th year.

BYRON.

A WORD TO THE FEW.

66

MALCOLM ROSS. FROM THE CITY MUSE,"

THE world is not wholly deserted
By man who is friendly to man;
The few, we might say, are bad-hearted;
The many do good when they can.
Deceit does not walk in our streets
Where'er we encounter their thong,
Though the evil eye' doubts all it meets-
We will think so, although we be wrong.

If we prove, in our search for subsistence,
To meanness we never can bend,
We will find such a one in existence,

Perhaps when least look'd for—a friend. Abuses lie mostly within,

And these are worse, far worse to cure;

Be true to yourself, and you win

Be false, and to lose be as sure.

The spirit of freedom increases
As man seeks his welfare in peace;
The moment that jealousy ceases,

That moment will comfort increase.
Then think not the world is your foe,

And if you be arm'd with the right,
The wrong you may suffer, well know,
Will sooner be brought to the light.

THE TWO FOUNTAINS.

THOMAS MOORE. FROM EVENINGS IN GREECE," 1827.

I SAW,

from yonder silent cave,

Two fountains running side by side,

The one was Memory's limpid wave,

The other cold Oblivion's tide.

"Oh Love!" said I, in thoughtless dream,
As o'er my lips the Lethe pass'd,
"Here, in this dark and chilly stream,
Be all my pains forgot at last."

But who could bear that gloomy blank,
Where joy was lost as well as pain?
Quickly of Memory's fount I drank,
And brought the past all back again :

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