Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind Who bow'd so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught'st the rest to see. With might unquestion'd,-power to save,— Thine only gift hath been the grave, To those that worshipp'd thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition 's less than littleness! Thanks for that lesson-it will teach To after-warriors more, That led them to adore Those pagod things of sabre sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. The triumph, and the vanity, The sword, the sceptre, and that sway All quell'd!-Dark spirit! what must be The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope, That with such change can calmly cope? Or dread of death alone? To die a prince-or live a slave- He who of old would rend the oak,† And darker fate hast found: I have taken my leave of that stage, and henceforth will mountebank it no longer." In the evening, a Gazette Extraordinary announced the abdication of Fontainebleau, and the poet violated his vows next morning, by composing this ode, which he immediately published, though without his name. His Diary says, "April 10. To-day I have boxed one bour-written an ode to Napoleon Buonaparte-copied iteaten six biscuits-drunk four bottles of soda water, and redde away the rest of my time." **Certaminis gaudia"-the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Chalons, given in Cassiodorus. * "Out of town six days. On my return, find my poor little pagod, Napoleon, pushed off his pedestal. It is his own fault. Like Milo, he would rend the oak; but it closed again, wedged his hands, and now the beasts-lion, bear, down to the dirtiest jackal--may all tear him. That Muscovite winter wedged his arms:-ever since, he has fought with his feet and teeth. The Spaniard, when the lust of sway An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, Yet better had he neither known But thou-from thy reluctant hand Too late thou leav'st the high command It is enough to grieve the heart To think that God's fair world hath been And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, If thou hadst died as honor dies, To shame the world again- Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust But yet methought the living great To dazzle and dismay: Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, How bears her breast the torturing hour? Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem; "T is worth thy vanish'd diadem! The last may still leave their marks; and 'I guess now' (as the Yankees say), that he will yet play them a pass."-Byron Diary, April 8. Sylla.--We find the germ of this stanza in the Diary of the evening before it was written:-"Methinks Sylla did better; for he revenged, and resigned in the height of his sway, red with the slaughter of his foes-the finest instance of glorious contempt of the rascals upon record. Diocletian did well too-Amurath not amiss, had he become aught except a dervise-Charles the Fifth but so so: but Napoleon worst of all."-Byron Diary, April 9. § It is well known that Count Neipperg, a gentleman in the suite of the emperor of Austria, who was first presented to Maria Louisa within a few days after Napoleon's abdication, became, in the sequel, her chamberlain, and then her husband. He is said to have been a man of remarkably plain appearance. The count deid in 1831. Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, That Corinth's pedagogue* hath now Thou Timour! in his captive's caget That spirit pour'd so widely forth- Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,t There was a day-there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thineWhen that immeasurable power Unsated to resign Had been an act of purer fame, Through the long twilight of all time, As if that foolish robe could wring Yes-one-the first-the last-the best- Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one! Tilly Hon. Douglas Kinnaird, for a Selec- than. HE subsequent poems were written at the request of with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Namy tion of Hebrew Melodies, and have been published January, 1815. It told the triumphs of our King, It made our gladden'd valleys ring, The cedars bow, the mountains nod; Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! Since then, though heard on earth no more, Still bid the bursting spirit soar To sounds that seem as from above, Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, ON JORDAN'S BANKS. In dreams that day's broad light cannot remove. ON Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, IF THAT HIGH WORLD. If that high world, which lies beyond It must be so: 't is not for self That we so tremble on the brink; And striving to o'erleap the gulf, Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think To hold each heart the heart that shares: With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs! THE WILD GAZELLE. THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills May glance in tameless transport by : A step as fleet, an eye more bright, And o'er her scenes of lost delight The cedars wave on Lebanon, But Judah's statelier maids are gone! More blest each palm that shades those plains Than Israel's scatter'd race; For, taking root, it there remains In solitary grace: It cannot quit its place of birth, It will not live in other earth. But we must wander witheringly, And where our fathers' ashes be, OH! WEEP FOR THOSE. Он! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice? On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, Yet there even there-oh, God-thy thunders sleep! There where thy finger scorch'd the tablet stone! Oh! in the lightning let thy glance appear; JEPHTHAH'S DAUGHTER. SINCE our Country, our God-oh, my Sire! And the voice of my mourning is o'er, And of this, oh, my Father! be sure- Though the virgins of Salem lament, When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. OH! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, And oft by yon blue gushing stream Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, And feed deep thought with many a dream, And lingering pause, and lightly tread; Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! Away! we know that tears are vain, That death nor heeds nor hears distress: Will this unteach us to complain? Or make one mourner weep the less? And thou-who tell'st me to forget, Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. MY SOUL IS DARK. My soul is dark-oh! quickly string Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. That sound shall charm it forth again: If in these eyes there lurk a tear, "T will flow, and cease to burn my brain. But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, And ached in sleepless silence long; And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, And break at once-or yield to song.* I SAW THEE WEEP. I SAW thee weep-the big bright tear I saw thee smile-the sapphire's blaze It could not match the living rays As clouds from yonder sun receive Which scarce the shade of coming eve Those smiles unto the moodiest mind THY DAYS ARE DONE. THY days are done, thy fame begun: The triumphs of her chosen Son, * Though thou art fall'n, while we are free The generous blood that flow'd from thee Thy name, our charging hosts along, Thy fall, the theme of choral song To weep would do thy glory wrong; SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. WARRIORS and chiefs! should the shaft or the sword Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, "It was generally conceived that Lord Byron's reported singularities approached on some occasions to derangement; and at one period, indeed, it was very currently asserted that his intellects were actually impaired. The report only served to amuse his lordship. He referred to the circumstance, and Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path: Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath!" Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, Farewell to others, but never we part, SAUL. THOU whose spell can raise the dead, King, behold the phantom seer!" 66 Why is my sleep disquieted? Who is he that calls the dead ? To thy heart thy hand shall guide: "ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER.” FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, I strive to number o'er what days Which all that life or earth displays The serpent of the field, by art And spells, is won from harming; declared that he would try how a madman could write: seiz ing the pen with eagerness, he for a moment fixed his eyes in majestic wildness on vacancy; when, like a flash of inspira tion, without erasing a single word, the above verses were the result." |