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Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
So I, your plaudits ringing in mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near-
To think my scenic hour for ever past,
And that those valued plaudits are my last.

years steal on--and higher duties crave
Some space between the theatre and the grave;
That, like the Roman, in the Capitol,
I may adjust my mantle e'er I fall :
My life's brief act in public service flown,
The last, the closing scene, must be my own.
Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced parts
May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men:
And if

your bosoms own this kindly debt Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget 0, how forget !-how oft I hither came, In anxious hope, how oft returned in fame! How oft around your circle this weak hand Has wav'd immortal Shakspeare's magic wand, Till the full burst of inspiration came, And I have felt, and you have fann'd, the flame! By mem’ry treasur'd, while her reign endures, These hours must live and all their charms are yours. O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, What fervent benedictions now were thine? But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, When e'en your praise falls faultering from my tongue, And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL!

Address to the Rainbon.

AND yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, ... 019 But words of the Most High,

Have told why first thy robe of beams
Was woven in the sky.

sa I When o'er the green undelug'd earth

Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, ahi How

w came the world's grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred signPas yung ist And when its yellow lustre smildus "?

Bands ਨੂੰ O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child

ma lagi butun To bless the bow of God.

Who Is bre Methinks, thy jubilee to keep,

The first-made anthem rang
On earth deliver'd from the deep,

And the first poet sang.
Nor ever shall the muse's eye

Unraptured greet thy beam :
Theme of primeval prophecy,

Be still the poet's theme !
The earth to thee her incense yields,

The lark thy welcome sings,
Where glittering in the freshen’d fields

The snowy mushroom springs.
How glorious is thy girdle cast

O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirror'd in the ocean vast,

A thousand fathoms down !

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As fresh in yon horizon dark,

As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark

First sported in thy beam.
For, faithful to its sacred

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,
Nor lets the type grow pale with age
That first spoke peace to man.


The Night before the Battle of Waterloo.

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her Chivalry; and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd 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,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfin'd;
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,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm! Arm! it is it is the cannon's opening


Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear :
And when they smil'd because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,

And rous'd the vengeance blood alone could quell : He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell !

Ab! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess


Battle's magnificently-stern array 30 96.4375 b. The thunder-clouds elose o'er it, which when rent

The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover-heap'd and pent, Rider and horse, friend, foe, -in one red burial blent !


These lines of Lord Byron take their rise from the manner in which the Duke of Wellington, and his officers, were spending the night, when imperious necessity summoned them to their posts:

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THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,

The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sigh’d, when, at twilight, repairing

To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill :
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion ;

For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fervour of youth's warm emotion,

He sung the bold anthem of ERIN GO BRAGH! Sad is my fate said the heart-broken stranger

The wild deer and wolf to the cover can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger:

A home and a country remain not to me! Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers liv’d, shall I spend the sweet Or cover my harp with wild-woven flowers, [hours,

And strike to the numbers of ERIN GO BRAGA !
Erin ! my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore !
But, alas! in a far-foreign land I awaken, wol

And sigh for the friends that can meet me no more!
Oh! cruel fate, wilt thou never replace me

f peace, where no perils can
my brothers embrace m
end me or live to

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