In thee I fondly hoped to clasp

A friend, whom death alone could sever; Till envy, with malignant grasp,

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. True, she has forced thee from my breast, Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat; There, there thine image still must rest,

Until that heart shall cease to beat.

And, when the grave restores her dead,
When life again to dust is given,
On thy dear breast I'll lay my head-
Without thee, where would be my heaven?
February, 1803..

ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. (2) "Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy tower to-day: yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes, it howls in thy empty court." OSSIAN.

THROUGH thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay; In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the

way.

(1) The idea of printing a collection of his Poems first oc curred to Lord Byron in the parlour of that cottage, which, during his visit to Southwell, had become his adopted home. Miss Pigot, who was not before aware of his turn for versi fying, had been reading aloud the Poems of Burns, when young Byron said, "that he, too, was a poet sometimes, and would write down for her some verses of his own which he remembered." He then, with a pencil, wrote these lines, "To D-." A fac-simile of this fronts this page.-L. E.

(2) The priory of Newstead, or de Novo Loco, in Sherwood, was founded about the year 1170, by Henry II., and dedicated to God and the Virgin. It was in the reign of Henry VIII., on the dissolution of the monasteries, that, by a royal grant, it was added, with the lands adjoining, to the other possessions of the Byron family. The favourite upon whom they were conferred was the grand-nephew of the gallant soldier who fought by the side of Richmond at Bosworth, and is distinguished from the other knights of the same Christian name, in the family, by the title of "Sir John Byron the Little, with the great beard." A portrait of this personage was one of the few family pictures with which the walls of the Abbey, while in the possession of the poet, were decorated.-L. E.

(3) There being no record of any of Lord Byron's ancestors having been engaged in the Holy Wars, Mr. Moore sug. gests, that the poet may have had no other authority for this notion than the tradition which he found connected with certain strange groups of heads, which are represented on the old panel work in some of the chambers at Newstead. In one of these groups, consisting of three heads, strongly carved and projecting from the panel, the centre figure evidently represents a Saracen or Moor, with a European female on one side of him, and a Christian soldier on the other. In a second group, the female occupies the centre, while on either side is the head of a Saracen, with the eyes fixed earnestly upon her. Of the exact meaning of these figures there is nothing known; but the tradition is, that they refer to a love adventure of the age of the Crusades.-L. E.

"It is not probable," says Galt, in his Life of Byron, "that the figures referred to any transactions in Palestine in which

Of the mail-cover'd barons, who proudly to battle Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, (3)

The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,

Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell'd

wreath;

Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan (4) slumbers, Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy; (5) For the safety of Edward and England they fell: My fathers! the tears of your country redress ye; How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell.

On Marston, (6) with Rupert, (7) 'gainst traitors contending,

Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field;

For the rights of a monarch their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd. (8)
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing
From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu!
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage, he'll think upon glory and you.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,

The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

the Byrons were engaged, if they were put up by the Byrons at all. They were probably placed in their present situation while the building was in possession of the churchmen. One of the groups, consisting of a female and two Saracens with eyes earnestly fixed upon her, may have been the old favourite ecclesiastical story of Susanna and the Elders. The other, which represents a Saracen, with a European female between him and a christian soldier, is perhaps an ecclesiastical allegory, descriptive of the Saracen and the christian warrior contending for the liberation of the church. These sort of allegorical stories were common among monastic ornaments, and the famous legend of St. George and the Dragon is one of them.”—P. E.

(4) "In the park of Horseley," says Thoroton, "there was a castle, some of the ruins of which are yet visible, calleri Horistan Castle, which was the chief mansion of Ralph de Burun's successors."

(5) Two of the family of Byron are enumerated as serving with distinction in the siege of Calais, under Edward III. and as among the knights who fell on the glorious field of Cressy.-L. E.

(6) The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. were defeated.

(7) Son of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles I. He afterwards commanded the fleet in the reign of Charles II. (8) Sir Nicholas Byron served with distinction in the Low Countries; and, in the Great Rebellion, he was one of the first to take up arms in the royal cause. After the battle. of Edgehill, he was made colonel-general of Cheshire and Shropshire, and governor of Chester. "He was," says Clarendon, "a person of great affability and dexterity, as well as martial knowledge, which gave great life to the designs of the well-affected; and, with the encouragement of some gentlemen of North Wales, he raised such a power of horse and foot, as made frequent skirmishes with the enemy, sometimes with notable advantage, never with signal loss."

In 1643, Sir John Byron was created Baron Byron of Rochdale in the county of Lancaster; and seldom has a title been bestowed for such high and honourable services as those

1

WHEN, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone: (1)
If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot;
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.(2)

1803.

“Αστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἑνὶ ζωοῖσιν έφος.”-LARATIUS.
OH, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrades' honour and thy friend's delight.

by which he deserved the gratitude of his royal master, Through almost every page of the History of the Civil Wars, we trace his name in connection with the varying fortunes of the king, and find him faithful, persevering, and disinterested to the last. "Sir John Biron," says Mrs. Hutchinson, "afterwards Lord Biron, and all his brothers, bred up in arms, and valiant men in their own persons, were all pas sionately the king's." We find also, in the reply of Colonel Hutchinson, when governor of Nottingham, to his cousin german Sir Richard Byron, a noble tribute to the chivalrous fidelity of the race. Sir Richard, having sent to prevail on his relative to surrender the castle, received for answer, that "except he found his own heart prone to such treachery, he might consider there was, if nothing else, so much of a Byron's blood in him, that he should very much scorn to betray or quit a trust he had undertaken."

On the monument of Richard, the second Lord Byron, who lies buried in the chancel of Hucknal-Tokard church, there is the following inscription :--" Beneath, in a vault, is interred the body of Richard Lord Byron, who, with the rest of his family, being seven brothers, faithfully served King Charles the First in the civil wars, who suffered much for their loyalty, and lost all their present fortunes: yet it pleased God so to bless the humble endeavours of the said Richard Lord Byron, that he re-purchased part of their ancient inheritance, which he left to his posterity, with a laudable memory for his great piety and charity."-L. E. (1) of the sincerity of this youthful aspiration, the poet has left repeated proofs. By his will, drawn up in 1811, he directed that "no inscription, save his name and age, should be written on his tomb;" and, in 1819, he wrote thus to Mr. ! Murray:-"Some of the epitaphs at the Certosa cemetery, at Ferrara, pleased me more than the more splendid monuments at Bologna; for instance

• Martini Luigi Implora pace.'

Can any thing be more full of pathos? I hope whoever may survive me will see those two words, and no more, put over me."-L. E.

(2) This poem appears to have been, in its original state,

If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep; Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. What though thy sire lament his failing line? A father's sorrows cannot equal mine! Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer, Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here: But who, with me, shall hold thy former place? Thine image what new friendship can efface? Ah, none!-a father's tears will cease to flow, Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; To all, save one, is consolation known, While solitary friendship sighs alone.

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS
Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts,

From which thou 'dst guard frail female hearts,
Exist but in imagination,—

Mere phantoms of thine own creation;

intended to commemorate the death of the same lowly-bora youth, to whom the affectionate verses, given in page 2, were addressed:

"Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born," etc. sage, but every other containing an allusion to the low rank But, in the altered form of the Epitaph, not only this pasof his young companion, is omitted; while, in the added parts, the introduction of such language as

"What though thy sire lament his failing line?" seems calculated to give an idea of the youth's station in life, wholly different from that which the whole tenour of the original Epitaph warrants That he grew more conscious

of his high station, as he approached to manhood, is not improbable, and this wish to sink his early friendship with the young cottager may have been a result of that feeling. -Moore.

The following is a copy of the lines, as they first appeared in the private volume:

"Oh, Boy for ever loved, for ever dear!

What fruftless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,
While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey,
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrades' honour and thy friend's delight.
Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born,
No titles did thy humble name adorn:
To me far dearer was thy artiess love,
Than all the joys wealth, fame, and friends could prove,
For thee alone I lived, or wish'd to live;
Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive!
Heart-broken now, I wait an equal doom,
Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
Where, this frail form composed in endless rest,
I'll make my last cold pillow on thy breast;
That breast where oft in life I've laid my head,
Will yet receive me mouldering with the dead:
This life resign'd, without one parting sigh, .
Together in one bed of earth we 'll lie!
Together share the fate to mortals given;
Together mix our dust, and hope for heaven."—L. E.

EQUAL to Jove that youth must be-
Greater than Jove he seems to me-
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms,
Securely views thy matchless charms.
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows,
That mouth, from whence such music flows,
To him, alike, are always known,
Reserved for him, and him alone.
Ah! Lesbia! though 'tis death to me,
I cannot choose but look on thee;
But, at the sight, my senses fly;
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die;
Whilst trembling with a thousand fears,
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres,

My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves short,
My limbs deny their slight support,
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread,
With deadly languor droops my head,
My ears with tingling echoes ring,
And life itself is on the wing;
My eyes refuse the cheering light,
Their orbs are veiled in starless night:
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath,
And feels a temporary death.

IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.
"Sulpicia ad Cerinthum."- Lib. 4.

CRUEL Cerinthus! does the fell disease
Which racks my breast your fickle bosom please?
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain,
That I might live for love and you again:
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate:

By death alone I can avoid your hate.

(1) This and several little pieces that follow appear to be fragments of school exercises done at Harrow.-L. E.

TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS.

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS.

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, And he who struck the softer lyre of love, By Death's (2) unequal hand alike controll'd, Fit comrades in Elysian regions move!

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
[Lugete, Veneres, Cupidinesque, etc.]
YE Cupids, droop each little head!
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead,

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved:
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,

No fear, no wild alarm, he knew,
But lightly o'er her bosom moved:
And, softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care,

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne
From whence he never can return,
His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn,

Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,

For thou hast ta'en the bird away: From thee my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; Thou art the cause of all her woe, Receptacle of life's decay.

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.
[Justum et tenacem propositi virum, etc.]
THE man of firm and noble soul
No factious clamours can control;
No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow
Can swerve him from his just intent:
Gales the warring waves which plough,
By Auster on the billows spent

To curb the Adriatic main,

Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain.

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove,
Hurtling his lightnings from above,
With all his terrors there unfurl'd,

He would, unmoved, unawed, behold.
The flames of an expiring world,
Again in crashing chaos roll'd,
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd,
Might light his glorious funeral pile:

Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd smile.

IMITATED FROM CATULLUS.

TO ELLEN.

On! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;

(2) The hand of Death is said to be most unjust or unequal, as Virgil was considerably older than Tibullus at his decease.

FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ESCHYLUS.

[Μηδάμ' ὁ πάντα νέμων, κ. τ. λ.]

GREAT Jove, to whose almighty throne
Both gods and mortals homage pay,
Ne'er may my soul thy power disown,
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey.
Oft shall the sacred victim fall
In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall;

My voice shall raise no impious strain

'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main.

How different now thy joyless fate,
Since first Hesione thy bride,
When placed aloft in godlike state,

The blushing beauty/by thy side,

Thou satt'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, And mirthful strains the hours beguiled! The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd. (1)

Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804.

'Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Bootes, only, seem'd to roll

His arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep:
At this lone hour, the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force.
My visions fled, alarm'd I rose,—
"What stranger breaks my blest repose?"
"Alas!" replies the wily child,
In faltering accents sweetly mild,
"A hapless infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The uightly storm is pouring fast;
No prowling robber lingers here,
A wandering baby who can fear?"
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity's foe,
But felt for all the baby's woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung

(1) Lord Byron in one of his diaries says, "My first Har row verses (that is, English, as exercises), a translation of a chorus from the Prometheus of Eschylus, were received by

(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring:
His shivering limbs the embers warm.
And now, reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:-
*I fain would know, my gentle host,"
He cried, "if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax'd with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse."
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortured heart it lies;
Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :-
"My bow can still impel the shaft:
'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?"

I WISH to tune my quivering lyre To deeds of fame and notes of fire; To echo, from its rising swell, How heroes fought and nations fell, When Atreus' sons advanced to war, Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; But still, to martial strains unknown, My lyre recurs to love alone. Fired with the hope of future fame, I seek some nobler hero's name; The dying chords are strung anew, To war, to war, my harp is due: With glowing strings, the epic strain To Jove's great son I raise again; Alcides and his glorious deeds, Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds; All, all in vain! my wayward lyre Wakes silver notes of soft desire. Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms! Adieu the clang of war's alarms! To other deeds my soul is strung, And sweeter notes shall now be sung; My harp shall all its powers reveal To tell the tale my heart must feel; Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, In songs of bliss and sighs of flame.

TO EMMA.

SINCE now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
One pang, my girl, and all is over.
Alas! that pang will be severe,

Which bids us part to meet no more;
Which tears me far from one so dear,
Departing for a distant shore.

Well! we have pass'd some happy hours,
And joy will mingle with our tears

Dr. Drury, my grand patron (our head master) but coolly. No one had. at that time, the least notion that I should subside into poesy."-- L. E.