Sidor som bilder

Witb brakes entangled, scarce a path between, Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene:

Declining gently, falls a fading flower; · Euryalas his heavy spoils impede,

Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead; And lingering beauty hovers round the dead.

But Nisos scours along the forest's maze | To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze,

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, Revenge his leader, and despair his guide; On every side they seek his absent friend.

Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, -O God! my boy," he cries, “ of me bereft,

Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; In what impending perils art thou left!"

Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe; Listening he runs-above the waving trees,

Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow: Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze;

In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, The war-cry rises, thundering boofs around

Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. In viewless circles wheeld, his falchion flies, Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies; The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys: Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, The hapless boy a ruffian train surround,

The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. While lengthening shades his weary way confound; Thus Nisus all bis fond affection proved Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, | Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved; Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew.

Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace! Ah! must be rush, his comrade's fate to share ? What force, what aid, what stratagem essay,

Celestial pair! if aught my verse can claim, Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ?

| Wasted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! Hiis life a votive ransom nobly give,

Ages on ages shall your fate admire,
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? No future day shall see your names expire,
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, | While stands the Capitol, immortal dome!
On Lana's orb he cast his frenzied eye:-

And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome! * Goddess serene, transcending every star! Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar!

By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF : When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove;

EURIPIDES. If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace

( Époris urip jaev ayav, x. 5. a.] | Thine altars with the produce of the chase, Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd,

When fierce conflicting passions urge To free my friend, and scatter far the proud.”

The breast where love is wont to glow, Tbus having said, the hissing dart he flung;

What mind can stem the stormy surge Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung;

Which rolls the tide of human woe? The thirsty point in Salmo's entrails lay,

The hope of praise, the dread of shame, Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay:

Can rouse the tortured breast no more; He sobs, he dies,-the troop in wild amaze,

The wild desire, the guilty flame,
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze.

Absorbs each wish it felt before.
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven,
A second shaft with equal force is driven :

But if affection gently thrills

The soul by purer dreams possest,
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes;
Veld by the night, secure the Trojan lies.

The pleasing balm of mortal ills
Barning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall:

In love can soothe the aching breast : * Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!"

If thus thou comest in disguise, Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew,

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew.

What heart unfeeling would despise

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals;

But never from thy golden bow Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise,

May I beneath the shaft expire! And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies :

Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, Me, me,- your vengeance hurl on me alone;

Awakes an all-consuming fire: Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own.

Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears! Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven! attest!

With others wage internal war; He could not-durst not-lo! the guile confest!

Repentance, source of future tears,
AI, all was mine, his early fate suspend;

From me be ever distant far!
He only loved too well his hapless friend:
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove; May no distracting thoughts destroy
His faalt was friendship, all his crime was love."

The holy calm of sacred love!
He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword

May all the hours be wing'd with joy, | Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored;

Which hover faithful hearts above! Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest,

Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast :

May I with some fond lover sigh, As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, Whose heart may mingle pure with mine-Languid in death, expires beneath the share;

With me to live, with me to die!

· Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,

Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta;
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name.

My vative soil ! beloved before,

Now dearer as my peaceful home, Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore,

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam! This very day, this very hour,

May I resign this fleeting breath! Nor quit my silent humble bower ;

A doom to me far worse than death. Have I not heard the exile's sigh,

And seen the exile's silent tear,
"Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,

A pensive weary wanderer here?
Ah! hapless dame! (1) no sire bewails,

No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails

Thy steps within a stranger's doors. Perish the fiend whose iron heart,

To sair affection's truth unknown,
Bids ber he fondly loved depart,

Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key (2)

The milder treasures of his soul, --
May such a friend be far from me,

And ocean's storms between us roll!

Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize,
If to such glorious height be lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope.
Not that our heads much eloquence require,

The ATHENIAN'S (4) glowing style, or Tully's fire. | A manner clear or warm is useless, since

We do not try by speaking to convince.
| Be other orators of pleasing proud,

We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd :
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone,
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan:
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen ;
The slightest motion would displease the Dean; (5)
Whilst every staring graduate would prate
Against what he could never imitate.

The man who bopes to obtain the promised cup
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up;
Nor stop, but rattle over every word
No matter what, so it can not be heard.
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space
May safely hope to win the wordy race.


High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
MAGNUS (3) his ample front sublime uprears :
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god,
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his pod.
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little versed in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken.
What though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord piled the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France ?

| The sons of science these, who, thus repaid,

Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade;
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie
Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for die:
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix'd within their walls :
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's (6) note,
More than the verse on which the critic wrote:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;

(1) Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was de. less intimates at Cambridge, the opportunity was too tempt. serted by him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. ing to be resisted. Some of them were wont to rouse the The chorus from which this is taken here addresses Medea ; Doctor from his slumbers, in the lodge of Trinity, and when though a considerable liberty is taken with the original, by lie appeared at the window, foaming with wrath, and cry. expanding the idea, as also in some other parts of the trans. ing out, "I know you, gentlemen, I know you l” he was imlation.

mediately greeted with the response of—“ We beseech thee (2) The original is Καθαράν ανοίξαντι κλήδα φρενών, literally

to hear us, good Lort:-iood Lort deliver us !"-P. E. "disclosing the bright key of the mind."

(1) Demosthenes. (3) No reflection is here intended against the person men (6) In most colleges, the Fellow who superintends the tioned under the name of Magnus. He is merely represented chapel service is called Dean.--LE. us perforining an unavoidable function of his office. Indeed, (6) The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Camsuch an attempt could only recoil upon myself; as that bridge; a man whose powers of mind and writings may, gentleman is now as much distinguished by his eloquence, perhaps, justify their preference. and the dignified propriety with which he fills his situation,

(Lord Byron, in a letter written in 1818, says :-"I re. as he was in his younger days for wit and conviviality.

member to have seen Porson at Cambridge, in the hall of Dr. William Lort Mansel was, in 1798, appointed to the onr college, and in private parties; and I never can recollect head-ship of Trinity College, by Mr. Pitt. He was indebted him except as drunk or brutal, and generally both. I mean in to the influence of his fellow collegian, the late Mr. Perceval, ! an evening ; for, in the hall, he dined at the Dean's table, and for bis subsequent promotion to the see of Bristol. He is at the Vice-master's; and be then and there appeared supposed to have materially assisted in the Pursuits of Lite sober in his demeanour; but I have seen him, in a private rature. His Lordship died at Trinity Lodge, in June, 1820. party of under-graduates, take up a poker to them, and

heard him use language as blackguard as his action. Of His Lordship's name appears to have afforded occasion for | all the disgasting brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, a somewhat profane pun; and, to Byron's gay and thought. Porson was the most bestial, as far as the few times I save

To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour;(1)
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread.
But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,

They'd fly to seek the next who filld his place.
| Sach are the men who learning's treasures guard!
Sach is their practice, such is their reward !
This mach, at least, we may presume to say-
The premium can't exceed the price they pay.


Though what they utter'd I repress,
Yet I conceive thou 'lt partly guess;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day:
Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, “I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care :
“May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
Wbat 'tis to feel the restless woe
Wbich stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!" (2)

What though we never silence broke?
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke!
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels :
Deceit the guilty lips impart;
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But souls interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As this our glances ost conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, "'t was the spirit moved us." !

No specious splendour of this stone

Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.(4)

kim went. He was tolerated in this state amongst the 1 (4) In a letter to Miss Pigot, of Southwell, written in young men for his talents; as the Turks think a madman in June, 1807, Lord Byron thus describes Eddlestone:-“He is spired, and bear with him. He used to recite, or rather vomit, exactly to an hour two years younger than myself, nearly pages of all languages, and could hiccup Greek like a Helot: my height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and and certainly Sparta never shocked her children with a gross. light locks. My opinion of his mind you already know; 1 er exhibition than this man's intoxication." 1818.-L. E.) hope I shall never bave occasion to change it." Eddlestone,

(1) Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost bis on leaving his choir, entered into a mercantile house in the place, and subsequently (I bad almost said consequently) metropolis, and died of a consumption, in 1811. Lord Byron, the honour of representing the University. A fact so glaring on hearing of his death, thus writes to the mother of his fair

quires no comment. (Lord Henry Petty is now Marquess correspondent:-"I am about to write to you on a silly subof Lansdowne.-L. E.)

ject, and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may remem. (2) These verses were written at flarrowgate, in August ber a cornelian, which some years ago I consigned to Miss 1806.-LE.

Pigot, indeed gave to her, and now I am about to make the 3) The cornelian of these verses was given to Lord By | most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gave it ran by the Cambridge chorister, Eddlestone, whose musical to me, when I was very young, is dead, and though a long talents first introduced him to the young poet's acquaint time has elapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial ance, and for whom he appears to have entertained, subse. I possessed of that person (in whom I was very much ingcently, a sentiment of the most romantic friendship.-L. E. terested), it has acquired a value by this event I could have

Moore mentions another instance of a similar sentiment, I wished it never to have borne in my eyes. If, therefore, entertained by the noble bard during the period of his stay | Miss Pigot should have preserved it, I must, under these in Greece, for an individual of far inferior rank to his own. circumstances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be The object of this warm and enthusiastic feeling was a transmitted to me, and I will replace it by something she Greek youth, named Nicolo Giraud, the son of a widow may remember me by equally well. As she was always so lady, in wbose house the artist Lusieri lodged. In this young kind as to feel interested in the fate of him who formed the man he appears to have taken the most lively and even bro subject of onr conversation, you may tell her that the giver tberly interest; so much so, as not only to have presented of that cornelian died in May last, of a consumption, at the to him, on their parting at Malta, a considerable sum of age of twenty-one,-making the sixth, within four months, money, bat to have subsequently designed for him a still of friends and relations that I have lost between May and more munificent, as well as permanent, provision. In the the end of August.. The cornelian heart was returned ac.

rough dranght of his intended will, transmitted by him to his cordingly; and, indeed, Miss Pigot reminded Lord Byron i bequeaths to Nicolo Girand the sum of £7000, to that he had left it with her as a deposit, not a gift. It is

be paid on his attaining the age of twenty-one years.-P. E. now in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh.-L. E.

Some, who can sneer at friendship’s ties,

Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me; Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure the giver loved me. He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it; I told him when the gift I took,

My only fear should be to lose it. This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,

And ever since I've loved a tear. Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But he who seeks the flowers of truth

Must quit the garden for the field. "Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume; The flowers which yield the most of both

In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
Had Fortune aided Nature's care,

For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,

If well proportion’d to his mind.
But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form had fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been,

And none remain’d to give the rest.

No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début (2)
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new :
Here then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise;
But all our dramatis personæ wait,
In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate. .
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find?
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.


“Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath:
These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
We give the palm where Justice points it due.”


Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;


On factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What though our “nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Sball dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured bis dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits “ war not with the dead:”
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;

(0) « When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good actor. I representation. Some intimation of this design having got Besides Harrow speeches, in which I shone, I enacted Pen. among the actors, an alarm was felt instantly at the ridicule ruddock, in The Wheel of Fortune, and Tristram Fickle, in thus in store for them. To quiet their apprehensions, the the farce of The Weathercock, for three nights, in some pri author was obliged to assure them that if, after having vate theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great applause. heard his epilogue at rehearsal, they did not of themselves The occasional prologue for our volunteer play was also of my pronounce it harmless, and even request that it should be composition. The other performers were young ladies and gen. preserved, he would most willingly withdraw it. In the tlemen of the neighbourhood; and the whole went off with great mean time it was concerted between this gentleman and effect upon our good-natured audience.” Diary, 1821.-L. E. Lord Byron, that the latter should, on the morning of re

(2) This prologue was written by the young poet, behearsal, deliver the verses in a tone as innocent, and as tween stages, on his way from Harrowgate. On getting into free from all point, as possible, reserving his mimicry, in the carriage at Chesterfield, he said to his companion, “Now, which the whole sting of the pleasantry lay, for the evening Pigot, I'll spin a prologue for our play;" and before they of representation. The desired effect was produced. All reached Mansfield he had completed his task,-interrupting, the personages of the green-room were satisfied, and even only once, his rhyming reverie, to ask the proper pronun. wondered how a suspicion of waggery could have attached ciation of the French word “debut," and, on being answered I itself to so well-bred a production. Their wonder, however, (not, it would seem, very correctly), exclaiming, “Ay, that | was of a different nature a night or two after, when, on will do for rhyme to new."" The epilogue, which was hearing the audience convulsed with laughter at this same from the pen of the Rev. Mr. Becher, was delivered by Lord composition, they discovered at last the trick which the un Byron.-L. E.

suspected mimic had played on them, and had no other “In order to afford to his Lordship an opportunity of dis resource than that of joining in the laugh which his playful playing his powers of mimicry, this composition consisted of imitation of the whole dramatis personæ excited."Moore. good-humoured portraits of all the persons concerned in the -P.E.

Years bare roli'd on, Likh na Garr, since I left you,

Years must elapse ere 1 tread you again : Nature of Ferdure and flowers has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain, Eagland! the beauties are tame and doinestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar: Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic!

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!(11

TO ROMANCE. PAREST of golden dreams, Romance!

Auspicious queen of childish joys, Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys; At length, in spells no longer bound,

I break the letters of my youth; No more I tread thy mystic round,

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. And yet 't is hard to quit the dreams

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Where every nymph a goddess seems,

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; While Fancy holds her boundless reign,

And all assume a varied hue; When virgins seem no longer vain,

And even woman's smiles are true. And must we own thee but a name,

And from thy hall of clouds descend? Nor find a sylph in every dame,

A Pylades (2) in every friend? But leave at once thy realms of air

To mingling bands of fairy elves; Confess that woman 's false as fair,

And friends have feeling for themselves ? With sbame I own I've felt thy sway;

Repentant, now thy reign is o'er: No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar. Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,

And think that eye to truth was dear; To trust a passing wantou's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear! Romance! disgusted with deceit,

Far from thy motley court I fly, Where Affectation holds her seat,

And sickly Sensibility:

Whose silly tears can never flow

For any pangs excepting thine; Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. Now join with sable Sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee ber simple sigh,

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female choir,

To mourn a swain for ever gone, Who once could glow with equal tire,

But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears

On all occasions swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,

With faucied fames and frenzy glow;
Say, will you mourn my absent name,

Apostate from your gentle train ? An infant bard at least may claim

From you a sympathetic strain. Adieu, fond race! a long adieu !

The hour of fate is hovering nigh; E'en now the gulf appears in view,

Where unlamented you must lie: Oblivion's blackening lake is seen,

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; Where you, and eke your gentle queen,

Alas! must perish altogether.




"But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician,
Should condemn me for printing a second edition;
If sood Madam Squintem my work should abuse,
May I venture to give her a smack of my muse?”

New Bath Guide. | CANDOUR compels me, BECAER! (3) to commend

The verse which blends the censor with the friend;
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause.
For this wild error which pervades my strain,
I sue for pardon,-must I sue in vain?
The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart,
Can youth then hush the dictates of the beart?

bare I roata untain in his miliar face,

D la The Island, a poem written a year or two before Lord Byron's death, we have these lines :

** He who first met the Highland's swelling blue
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue,
Hail in each erag a friend's familiar face,
And clasp the mountain in his mind's embrace.
Long have I roarn'd through lands which are not mine,
Adored the Alp, and loved the Apennine,
Revered Permasses, and beheld the steep
Jose's Ida and Olympus crown the deep:
but "t was not all long ages' lore, nor all
Theur nature held me in their thrilling thuall;
The infant rapture still survived he boy,
And Lorets na Garr with Ida look do'er Troy.
Mix'd Celtie memories with the Phrygian mount,

And Highland lines with Castalie's clear fount." "Wher very young," (be adds in a note) “ about eight years of age, after an attack of the scarlet fever at Aberdeen, I was removed, by medical advice, into the mighlands, and from this period I date my love of mountainous countries. I can never forget the effect, a few years afterwards, in 1 England, of the only thing I had long seen, even in minia | atore, of a mountain, in the Malvern Hills. After I returned ta Cheltenham, I used to watch them every afternoon, at sauset, with a sensation which I cannot describe." -L.E.

In “The Adieu" (published among his occasional pieces). Lord Byron again mentions Lachin y Gair, or Loch-na-Garr, in a manner that marks the impressions made upon bis feelings by the scenes of his boyhood :

“Adieu, ye mountains of the elime,

Where grew my youthful years;
Where Loch-na-Garr, in snows sublime,

His giant summit rears."-P. E, 2) It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the companion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friend. ships which, with those of Acbilles and Patroclus, Nisus and Euryalas, Damon and Pytbias, have been handed down to posterity as reinarkable instances of attachments which, in all probability, never existed beyond the imagination of the poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist.

(3) The Rev. John Becher, prebendary of Southwell, the well-known author of several philanthropic plans for the ainelioration of the condition of the poor. In this gentleman the youthful poet found not only an honest and judicious critic, but a sincere friend. To his care the superintendence of the second edition of Hours of Idleness, doring its progress through a country press, was intrusted, and at his suggestion several corrections and omissions were made.

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