Thbut I knowat- thy blessed bosom fraught

With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought— I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colours blent, When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent! With nought remorse can claim-Nor Virtue scorn.



THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from wo,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:-
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but oh!

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy Gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending,
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.


FAREWELL! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,


Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye,
Are in that word-Farewell!-Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain-

I only feel-Farewell!-Farewell!


BRIGHT be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine,
On earth thou wert all but divine,

As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine,
When we know that thy God is with thee.


Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be: There should not be the shadow of gloom, In aught that reminds us of thee. Young flowers and an evergreen tree May spring from the spot of thy rest: But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?


WHEN We two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.


The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow-

It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;

I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.


They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me-
Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee to well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell.


In secret we met

In silence I grieve,

That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I great thee?

With silence and tears.



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WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth,
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of wo,
And storied urns record who rests below;
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen,
Not what he was, but what he should have been;
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth:
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power,

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

By nature vile, enobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.
Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn,
Pass on-it honours none you wish to mourn:
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise,
1 never knew but one, and here he lies.

Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.

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THERE's not a joy the world can give like that is takes away, [dull decay; When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which

fades so fast,

[be past. But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself


Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.


Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itse comes down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our [appears. And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice



Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, [hope of rest; Through midnight hours that yield no more their former

These Verses were given by Lord Byron to Mr. Power, Strand, who has published them, with very beautiful music by Sir John Stevenson.

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