His business so augmented of late years,

That he was forced, against his will no doubt (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers),

For some resource to turn himself about, And claim the help of his celestial peers,

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out, By the increased demand for his remarks:

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

This was a handsome board—at least for heaven ;
And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew;
Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven,
Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,
They threw their pens down in divine disgust,
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

MISSOLONGHI, January 22, 1824.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move :

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone :
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone.

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now

Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece--she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down
Unworthy manhood!-unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown

Of beauty be.

brought out
letters is aln
hair, a palen
activity of fi
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mcause, if you had.
if you had seen

have thought it.

What fools

I way

which like children

STANZAS FOR MUSIC..

There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me,

When, as if its sound were causing
The charmed ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming;

And the midnight moon is weaving

Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving,
As an infant's asleep :

So the spirit bows before thee,

To listen and adore thee,

With a full but soft emotion,

Like the swell of Summer's ocean.

DESCRIPTION OF HAIDEE FROM "DON JUAN."

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold,

That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd In braids behind; and though her stature were Even of the highest for a female mould,

They nearly reached her heel; and in her air There was a something which bespoke command, As one who was a lady in the land.

Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes
Were black as death, their lashes the same hue,
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies
Deepest attraction; for when to the view
Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies,

Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew : 'Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, And hurls at once his venom and his strength.

Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure dye
Like twilight, rosy still with the set sun ;
Short upper lip-sweet lips that make us sigh
Ever to have seen such for she was one
Fit for the model of a statuary

(A race of mere impostors, when all's done I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal).

FROM "STANZAS."

Could Love for ever

Run like a river,

And Time's endeavour

Be tried in vain

No other pleasure

With this could measure,

And like a treasure

We'd hug the chain;
But since our sighing

Ends not in dying,

And, formed for flying,

Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason

Let's love a season,—

But let that season be only Spring.

When lovers parted

Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted,
Expect to die,-

A few years older,

Ah! how much colder
They might behold her

For whom they sigh !
When link'd together,
In every weather,

They pluck Love's feather

From out his wing—
He'll stay for ever,

But sadly shiver

Without his plumage, when past the spring.

FROM "THE VISION OF JUDGMENT."

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate :

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull,

So little trouble had been given of late :

Not that the place by any means was full, But since the Gallic era "eighty-eight,"

The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, And "a pull all together," as they say At sea-which drew most souls another way.

The angels all were singing out of tune,

And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,
Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon
Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

The guardian seraphs had retired on high,
Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky

Save the recording angel's black bureau ;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply
With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.

His business so augmented of late years,
That he was forced, against his will no doubt
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers),

For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out, By the increased demand for his remarks:

Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

This was a handsome board-at least for heaven;
And yet they had even then enough to do,
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven,
So many kingdoms fitted up anew;
Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven,
Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,
They threw their pens down in divine disgust,
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust.

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR.

MISSOLONGHI, January 22, 1824.

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move :

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone :
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone.

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle ;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain