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Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast-
Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow-travelling, with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
To rise before merise, O ever rise,
Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God!


LORD BYRON. Born 1788; Died 1824.
An unwise education of the sort most likely to unhinge a

character in which strong passion and most keen sensitiveness
were combined, did much to destroy the balance of Byron's
mind. At the age of eleven he succeeded to a title and large
estates; but this served only to confirm the waywardness of
which his baneful education had laid the foundation.
Unhappiness drove him to excess, and remorse darkened his
life. He died when on the eve of a new career, as a volunteer

in the cause of Greek independence. In 1811, the poems,

“Childe Harold,” « The Giaour," and " The Bride of Abydos,” won for him a rapid and brilliant fame, which his later poems confirmed. His genius was stormy and turbulent; but combines, to a degree unsurpassed, powerful and melodious language with intense feeling, and vivid imagination.

STANZAS FOR MUSIC, THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes

away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's

dull decay; 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone,

which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself

be past.

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 itself

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

tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice


Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth dis

tract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their

former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey


Oh could I feel as I have felt,—or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd My NATIVE LAND—Good Night. ADIEU, adieu! my native shore

scene; As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish

though they be, So, midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would

flow to me.

Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. Yon sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My Native Land-Good Night!

A few short hours and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ;

My dog howls at the gate.

“Come hither, hither, my little page!

Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,

Or tremble at the galu?
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;

Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly

More merrily along."

• Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind :
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;

my father

For I have from

gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone,

But thee,and One above.

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“Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,

Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ?

Or shiver at the gale ?”–
“Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak, But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,

Along the bordering lake,
And when they on their father call,

What answer shall she make?”_
“ Enough, enough, my yeoman good,

Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.”

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