The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.

May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black-as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,-
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with

prayer,

Look on thine earthly victims-and despair!
Down to the dust!—and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear-
Thy name-thy human name
-to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers –
And festering (1) in the infamy of years.

March 29. 1816.

(1) [In first draught" weltering." "I doubt about weltering.' We say 'weltering in blood;' but do not they also use 'weltering in the wind,' 'weltering on a gibbet?' I have no dictionary, so look. In the mean time, I have put festering;' which, perhaps, in any case is the best word of the two. Shakspeare has it often, and I do not think it too strong for the figure in this thing. Quick! quick! quick! quick!"— Lord B. to Mr. M. April 2.-E]

The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.

May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black-as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,-
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with

prayer,

Look on thine earthly victims-and despair!
Down to the dust!—and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear-
Thy name-thy human name-to every eye
The climax of all scorn should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers
And festering (1) in the infamy of years.

March 29. 1816.

(1) [In first draught" weltering."—"I doubt about 'weltering.' We say 'weltering in blood;' but do not they also use' weltering in the wind,' 'weltering on a gibbet?' I have no dictionary, so look. In the mean time, I have put festering;' which, perhaps, in any case is the best word of the two. Shakspeare has it often, and I do not think it too strong for the figure in this thing. Quick! quick! quick! quick!"— Lord B. to Mr. M. April 2.-E]

STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. (')

["WHEN ALL AROUND," &c.]

I.

WHEN all around grew drear and dark,
And reason half withheld her ray-
And hope but shed a dying spark
Which more misled my lonely way;

II.

In that deep midnight of the mind,
And that internal strife of heart,
When dreading to be deem'd too kind,
The weak despair-the cold depart;

III.

When fortune changed—and love fled far,
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast,

Thou wert the solitary star

Which rose and set not to the last.

(1) [His sister, the Honourable Mrs Leigh. These stanzas - the parting tribute to her, whose unshaken tenderness had been the author's sole consolation during the crisis of domestic misery—were, we believe, the last verses written by Lord Byron in England. In a note to Mr. Rogers, dated April 16th, he says, "My cister is now with me, and leaves town to-morrow: we shall not meet again for some time at all events, -if ever! and, under these circumstances, I trust to stand excused to you and Mr. Sheridan, for being unable to wait upon him this evening." On the 25th, the poet took a last leave of his native country. —E]

VOL. X.

IV.

Oh! blest be thine unbroken light!
That watch'd me as a seraph's eye,
And stood between me and the night,
For ever shining sweetly nigh.

V.

And when the cloud upon us came,
Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray-
Then purer spread its gentle flame,
And dash'd the darkness all away.

VI.

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine,

And teach it what to brave or brookThere's more in one soft word of thine Than in the world's defied rebuke.

VII.

Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree,
That still unbroke, though gently bent,

Still waves with fond fidelity

Its boughs above a monument.

VIII.

The winds might rend-the skies might pour, But there thou wert-and still would'st be Devoted in the stormiest hour

To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me.

IX.

But thou and thine shall know no blight,
Whatever fate on me may fall;