LORD BYRON. Born 1788. Died 1824. FROM THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS.' NOW ye the land where the cypress and myrtle ΚΝΟΙ Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume, Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom; Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, And the voice of the nightingale never is mute; Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye; Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 'Tis the clime of the East; 'tis the land of the Sun Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lover's farewell Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell. S THE STANZAS FOR MUSIC. HERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early youth 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, Then the mortal coldness of the soul till death itself comes down; 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 ruined turret wreath, 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 vanished scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So, midst the withered waste of life, those tears would flow to me. THE OCEAN. HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, THER There is a rapture on the lonely shore, What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, His steps are not upon thy paths, thy fields And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, And dashest him again to earth :-there let him lay. The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Their clay creator the vain title take Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war- Thy shores are empires, changed in all save theeAssyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? Thy waters washed them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts -not so thou ;Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play, Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow: Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Dark-heaving-boundless, endless, and sublime, Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Occan! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror-'t was a pleasing fear, For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here. From Childe Harold. BEFORE THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO. HERE was a sound of revelry by night, THERE And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it?-no; 'twas but the wind, On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet But, hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm! it is-it is-the cannon's opening roar ! Within a windowed niche of that high hall Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, |