TRIBUTES TO THE MEMORY OF LORD BYRON. LINES ON THE DEATH OF LORD He sleeps in the land of his earliest dream, And the sons of the heroes of ancient days, O'er the grave of their brother are mourning; For he came to their succour, he came for their praise, Like the might of their fathers returning. Oh, his was a spirit, great, gloomy, and dread, Where Hector and Homer were blended; For the cloud of the grave round his brightness was spread, When the flash of his thunder descended. He haunted the patriot's earliest tomb, And sung like an orphan his sadness; For vainly he look'd o'er the vallies of gloom, For the heirs of that freedom and gladness! He has hallow'd their cause, it has hallow'd his name, Their fame is embalm'd with his glory; E'en the Turk, while he bleeds on his pages with shame, Immortally lives in their story. But Britain must mourn with a deeper distress Like the song of the bard that is sleeping? Oh, then, let the light of his pages be sought. Let her breathe in his language her sorrow; She cannot be wrung with one anguishing thought, But there she its language may borrow. The course of his spirit was awfully high, Among the dread regions of thunder; It flash'd through the deep and it flamed through the sky,-- It burst every trammel asunder! He looked on the world,---it was splendour or gloom, All midnight or noon, in his mirror:--He search'd heaven and earth, and he rent every tomb, For the stories of rapture and terror. Yet think not the soft harp of passion unstrung, the sphere, And the landscape bloom lovely and tender; His genius would beam in the dew of a tear, Or rise from the ocean in splendour. The angel has hush'd the wild strain of his breath, And who shall its slumbers awaken! Thus far thrills the harp with a pensive regret, That all was an halo of brightness; LINES ON THE DEATH OF LORD LET Britain's muse, in deepest gloom array'd, With Shakspeare's self to share the human mind; To stand the foremost on the roll of fame, trace At ev'ry step their ruin and disgrace; And taught the world to wonder at his lay, And in her conflict with the Moslem host, ON READING THE DEATH OF LORD WHO can refrain a dewy tear to shed, In manhood's prime he clos'd his bold career, And may his magnanimity and zeal The folowing Extract from a Letter written by a School fellow of Lord Byron, contains some interesting recollections of his early life :“I AM almost alarmed when I think how many years ago it is since I was sent, a little urchin, to improve my morals and accomplishments at Harrow School. There were then, in that commonwealth of letters, about three hundred sturdy fellows who had roughed the accidents of a public school, and were for the most part diligently pursuing the cause of cricket and football, as a relief to the minor occupations of the classics. Some of these boys have since acquired some reputation as men. There was, first, Lord Hardwicke's son (the late Lord Royston,) who was drowned, to the sorrow of his friends, who augured very highly of him. There was the late Duke of Dorset, (a delicate boy,) the present Duke of Devonshire, and a host of Lords beside. Mr. Peel, the now Under-secretary of State, (who even then excited great hope,) and his secretary, the Hon. George Dawson, and his brother Lionel; some of the Drurys, who are now, I believe, masters there; Procter, who has since written verses under another name, as you know; and above all the celebrated George Gordon, Lord Byron. I remember the first (Roy ston) when he gained so much applause by his recitation of the famous speech of Antony; and Dawson, a proud-spirited boy, who reminded me of his youth the other day, when he opposed the encroachments of the clergy at Derry, and his bold and smiling brother Lionel; and Peel, clever and cynical, who made for me a copy of Alcaics, by which I gained a prize, the last line of one stanza being "Deserit horrifici barathrum," which is all I remember of the matter. In regard to the last mentioned, and the most renowned of these Harrow boys, he, though he was lame, was a great lover of sports, preferred hockey to Horace, relinquished even Helicon for duckpuddle,' and gave up the best poet that ever wrote hard Latin for a game of cricket on the common.' He was not remarkable (nor was he ever) for his learning; but he was always a clever, plain-spoken and undaunted boy. I have seen him fight by the hour like a Trojan, and stand up against the disadvantages of his lameness with all the spirit of an ancient combatant. 'Don't you remember your battle with Pitt?' said I to him in a letter, (for I had witnessed it ;) but it seems that he had forgotten it. "You are mistaken, I think, (said he in reply ;) it must have been with Rice-pudding Morgan, or Lord Jocelyn, or one of the Douglases, or George Raynsford, or Pryce (with whom I had two conflicts,) or with Moses Moore (the clod,) or with somebody else, and not with Pitt; for with all the abovenamed, and other worthies of the fist, had I an interchange of black eyes and bloody noses, at various and sundry periods. However, it may have happened, for all that." LORD BYRON'S OPINION OF THE DRAMA. "THE characters in a play are never the characters of life. It is impossible that they should be, for, after all, who will assert that he is capable of judging exactly, still less of drawing that of the nearest friend whom he sees daily. All characters on paper must be delineated with much of the author's perceptions rather than the truth. Historical characters are again doubly-distilled fiction,— the lie of the historian, and the lie of the poet. The drama of every writer must be from his own imagination; his own mind must be the glass of the telescope, and if that is dim or cracked, the objects seen through it will be distorted accordingly. But I am such a heretic upon the English Drama, that I shall merely bewilder without explaining my schism. I look upon Congreve (whom you mention) to have drawn comic characters superior to the other you mention; and that the charge against him of having too much wit, is like that against Pope of having too much harmony. There can never be too much of that which is Intellect, or of that which is Beauty." * Shakspeare. Lit. Gaz. THE VILLAGE MAIDEN. (To the Editor of the Mirror.) SIR,-The peculiar species of blank verse which I now present you with, might warrant in its defence a greater share o time and paper than I can afford for it, and as from your general selection I am well convinced, that as you neither think the presence of rhyme alone the soul of poetry, so neither will you, I trust, deny the absence of it as excluding poetic ideas. I may, at some future period, not improbably give you a short essay, with examples, on the subject; however, laying his argument aside, I hope the novelty (and novelty generally attracts) of it will prove an excuse for its insertion in the MIRROR, though I should feel sorry if it should give rise to any unfavourable" reflections."-Yours, &c. ALPHEUS. Tell me,fair maiden, whither art thou going Scarce yet the sun, in all his orient beauty, Grey breaks morn's twilight, herald of the day- Mists that have long since veiled in murky dark ness Earth's fairest features, night's celestial curtains, Draw from the vallies. There, see him rise like wrestler from his slum- Fresh and unwearied, all past toils forgetting, Yet 'tis a sight unknown, unseen by many, ocean Slowly resurges ! Glory, and, ah! like Man's, not evanescent And thou, young maiden, fair in rural beauty, Dost thou not own a gem, all gems surpassing, Yes---for thine is the bosom free from anguish--- hover-- Free from the grief that oft-times thorns the pillow Prest by the titled :-- Oh! 'tis not wealth that shields the heart from silent, Secret forebodings---calms the brow of anger, Health flies far distant---and can Wealth recall Hope's rays deceive us---Wealth, alas ! how useless! Friendship betrays us---Wealth, how more than futile All thine endeavours! No---'tis that pure, that unperverted feeling, LINES ALPHEUS. TRAVELLING through the romantic country of Switzerland, I stopped one evening at an ancient monastery of Capuchins, situated on the banks of the river Aa, in the valley of Sarnen, in the canton of Underwald. I was surprised to find the gates open, and the porter not appearing, I entered the ancient walls, and wandered on till the sound of the solemn chanting of the brotherhood guided me to the chapel, where I arrived in time to witness the funeral of one of the monks. After the mournful rites were closed, I introduced myself to the venerable superiors, who welcomed me with cordial hospitality, and gave me the following short history of the monk, whose obsequies were celebrating when I arrived at the convent :-- "He was an Englishman, about 30 years of age, and had only taken the vows a few months before his decease. After the usual noviciate, during which time, by his courteous and obliging manners and disposition, and his unaffected piety, he had gained the hearts of the whole community. He was a child of misfortune from his birth, at which period he lost his mother; his father married again in a short time, and a son by this latter marriage soon took the precedence of him in his father's affections, and in every thing else. These unfortunate circumstances, as he advanced in years, caused an increase of the melancholy tinge in his disposition, which he inherited from his mother, who was unhappy in her marriage. When at the age of 18, he received strong impressions in favour of the Roman Catholic religion; and on his coming of age, he made known his intentions of renouncing the Protestant Faith, and becoming a priest of the Romish Church. In this, however, he was opposed by his father, and the rest of his family, and after a great struggle was obliged to give up his intentions; but by this opposition his mind became unhinged, On being cautioned against losing my heart and he ran into a course of extravagance at Covent Garden Theatre. THOU bad'st me Cupid's shafts beware, Nor with fond eyes o'er beauty rove ;-- I did---for Cupid smiled not there, But yet I fell a prey to---Love. Ibid. of conduct quite contrary to his former deportment; and disappointments in other plans for future life succeeding rapidly on each other, he at last left his country, unknown to his friends. "After wandering across the continent, with scarcely any support but that of cha rity, he found his way to Sarnen, and interested the Holy Fathers so much in his behalf as to be admitted into the fraternity." ANECDOTE OF GEORGE MOR. A MEMORABLE circumstance occurred to who commanded in that quarter, but was soon released. THE CHILD SAVED ABOUT the beginning of August, when the best fishing may generally be had in those rivers where the fish run from the sea, I was staying at the pleasant village of in the Western Highlands of Scotland, for the purpose of a few days' amusement. It is now many years since, but a circumstance which then occurred made a deep impression on me. It had rained incessantly since my arrival; and it is no depreciation of the beauties of the place, when I say I was The river heartily tired of my quarters. was from bank to brae,* and quite unfit for fishing; and the rain falling in torrents, would, had it been otherwise, have rendered it impossible. An idle fellow, who lived near the inn, was my only resource; but he was an expert angler, and that was a higher qualification, in the present instance, than if he had been a profound philosopher. I had again and again examined my tackle; every knot was tied, and every loop examined; doubtful pieces of gut rejected, and fresh ones substituted, with the same care and scruple as if I meant to bob for whales. The rain lashed the casements furiously; not a creature moved in the dirty lane; the fowls crowded for shelter to the out-houses, and the cattle, occasionally lowing in their stalls, broke, but did not dispel, that kind of indescribable silence which strikes so heavy on the mind when we feel it amid At once a noise in the haunts of men. the street burst on my ear, and my companion and myself were instantly in the middle of a crowd, now nearly opposite the door. "Good God, Donald! what do ye there with the gentleman, when your laddie is by this time half way into the river?" It was but too true: a brook, dreadfully swollen, ran down the street into the larger stream, and the child, unobserved, had dropt into it. From the height of the banks it was impossible to seize it, and it was now fast hurrying to a part, which was covered for the convenience of the road which passed that way, immediately above their junction. Relief was at this spot impossible, and all turned to the roaring pool below, where it was frightful to look at its violence and its agitation, whirling and eddying round the sides, and its dark, profound stillness in other places was not less horrid. The poor father, who at first was incapable of reflection, had been directed by some of his cooler friends to fetch his leister (fish * A phrase familiar in Scotland. spear,) and just at the moment when the child rushed with dreadful violence from the covered way already mentioned, and was about to be forced by the eddy into the centre of the river, where all assist ance would have been unavailing, he seized him with his weapon, fastening it in his clothes, and had the unutterable pleasure of saving his own son, which, I believe, almost repaid him for the moments of torture to which he had been subjected. This event disturbed the quiet of the clachan for that evening. Donald was raised to consequence by his threatened misfortune; and in a land where whiskey and kindness flow in the same channel, enough of both was poured out to overset a better regulated head than that of my village crony. Not a victor at the Games was ever greeted with more welcome than Donald, on his returning from the side of the river with his son in his arms; not a window did he pass at which loud tapping was not heard, inviting him to come in and shew his callant to the impatient inmates, who stood ready with their bottle to eke out the full tide of their congratulation. It was an evening of revelling: there was less merriment and frolic than a wedding or a christening would have licensed, but I believe fully as much drinking, for the occurrence of the morning had given a tinge of gravity to their meeting, which on that account, perhaps, seemed to authorize deeper libations to dispel it. The next morning ushered in a day's sport, which might form the chronicle of a cockney sportsman's recollection for a whole life time. The Sketch Book. No. XX. TO-DAY. TO-DAY is like a child's pocket money, which he never thinks of keeping in his pocket. Considering it bestowed upon us for the sole purpose of being expended as fast as possible in dainties, toys, and nicknacks, we should reproach ourselves for meanness of spirit were we to hoard it up, or appropriate it to any object of serious utility. It is the only part of life of which we are sure; yet we treat it as if it were the sole portion of existence beyond our control. We make sage reflections upon the past, and wise resolutions for the future, but no one ever forms an important determination for to-day. What ever is urgent must be reserved for tomorrow; the present hour is a digression, an episode that belongs not to the main business of life; we may cut it out altogether, and the plot will not be the less complete. In spite, however, of its being a truism, it must be admitted that to-day is a portion of our existence. Granted, exclaims the idler, but, after all, what is a single day?-A question which is peevishly repeated three hundred and sixtyfive times in a year, when we commence a new score of similar interrogatories; so that we might as well say at once, "What is a single life?" Short as the interval might be, and however indolently we may have passed it, to-day has not been altogether unimportant. Perched upon our goodly vehicle, the earth, we have swung through space at a tolerably brisk rate in the performance of our annual rotation round the sun; so many miles of life's journey have, at all events, brought us so much nearer to its end; they are struck off from our account; we shall never travel over them again. With every tick of our watch in that brief space of time, some hundreds or thousands have started from the great antenatal infinite to light and life; while as many have returned into the darkness of the invisible world. And we ourselves, though we sometimes exclaim, like the Emperor Titus, that we have lost a day, may be well assured that to-day has not lost sight of us. The footsteps of Time may not be heard when he treads upon roses, but his progress is not the less certain; we need not shake the hour-glass to make the sands of life flow faster! they keep perpetually diminishing; night and day, asleep or awake, grain by grain, our existence dribbles away. We call those happy moments when Time flies most rapidly, forgetting that he is the only winged personage that cannot fly backwards, and that his speed is but hurrying us to the grave. Those individuals who seek happiness will withdraw themselves from this whirl and vortex of excitement. They will not aggravate the diseased enlargement of the public heart, and share the painful intensity of its pulsations, by residing in the capital. There is no holy calm, no sabbath of the soul, no cessation of strife, in that vast arena of the passions, where life is a ceaseless struggle of money-getting and money-spending; a contest of avarice and luxury; a delirium of the senses or of the mind. If we desire peace and repose, let us look out upon the variegated earth, ever new and beautiful-upon the azure doom of Heaven, hung around with painted clouds upon the wide waters, dancing and glittering in the sun, or lying in the stillness of their crystal sleep. Let us listen to the music of the sky, when the boughs are singing to the wind, and the |