Oh! hadst thou in the battle died, Triumphant e'en in death, The patriot's-as the poet's-pride, Then had thy full career malice and fate defied ! What architect, with choice design, -Of Rome or Athens styled Ere left a monument like thine ?— A prouder motto marks thy stone He asked a fulcrum-thou demandedst none, Didst on thyself depend, to shake the world-alone! Thine eye to all extremes and ends And opposites could turn, And, like the congelated lens, Could sparkle, freeze, or burn ; But in thy mind's abyss profound, As in some limbo vast, More shapes and monsters did abound, To set the wondering world aghast, Than wave-worn Noah fed, or starry Tuscan found! Was love thy lay,-Cathæra reined Her car, and owned the spell ! Was hate thy theme,-that murky fiend For hotter earth left hell! The palaced crown, the cloistered cowl, Thy smile was deadlier than thy scowl, In guise unearthly didst thou roam the earth, Screened in Thalia's mask,-to drug the tragic bowl! Lord of thine own imperial sky, In virgin" pride of place," Thou soared'st where others could not fly, And hardly dared to gaze !— The Condor, thus, his pennonned vane O'er Cotopaxa spreads, But should he ken the prey, or scent the slain,Nor chilling height nor burning depth he dreads, From Ande's crystal crag, to Lima's sultry plain! Like Lucan's, early was thy tomb, And more than Bion's mourned ;— But from thy blazing shield recoiled Pale Envy's bolt of lead; She, but to work thy triumphs, toiled, And, muttering coward curses, fled;— Thee, thine own strength alone-like matchless Milo, -foiled. We prize thee, that thou didst not fear What stoutest hearts might rack, And didst the diamond genius wear, That tempts-yet foils-the attack. We mourn thee, that thou wouldst not find, –Since such there were, some kindred mind,— For friendship lasts through life's long day, And doth, with surer chain than love or beauty, bind! We blame thee, that with baleful light -A comet, plunging from his height, Accorded king of anarch power, That hid thy God, in evil hour, Or showed Him only to deride, And, o'er the gifted blaze of thine own brightness, lour! Thy fierce volcanic breast, o'ercast With Hecla's frosty cloke, All earth with fire impure could blast, O'er ocean, continent, and isle, The conflagration ran ;— Thou, from thy throne of ice, the while, Didst the red ruin calmly scan, \nd tuned Apollo's harp-with Nero's ghastly smile! What now avails that muse of fire,— Her nothing of a name! Thy master hand and matchless lyre, And silent, solemn mockery to the dead! Ne'er, since the deep-toned Theban sung Unto the listening Nine, Hath classic hill or valley rung With harmony like thine! Who now shall wake thy widowed lyre ! To that Herculean task aspire; But-less than thou-for fame he cares, And scorns both hope and fear-ambition and desire! X TO LADY CAROLINE LAME. BY THE LATE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD BYRON, Sixteen Years ago. AND say'st thou that I have not felt, Whilst thou wert thus estranged from me Nor know'st how dearly I have dwelt And I will learn to prize thee less ;- And change the heart thou mayest not bless! They'll tell thee, Cara! I have seemed, What thou hast done, too well, for me- |