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Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
LORD BYRON. Born 1788; Died 1824.
character in which strong passion and most keen sensitiveness
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
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
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;
But not my mother earth.
Its hearth is desolate;
My dog howls at the gate.
“Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail ?
Or tremble at the galu?
Our ship is swift and strong:
More merrily along."
• Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind :
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from
gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee,and One above.
“Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?
Or shiver at the gale ?”–
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,
What answer shall she make?”_
Thy grief let none gainsay; But I, who am of lighter mood,
Will laugh to flee away.”