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PERSONAL, LYRIC, AND ELEGIAC.

POETRY OF BYRON.

LOCH NA GARR.

AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove;

Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war; Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd;
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade:
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story,

Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

"Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?"

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Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale. Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car:

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

“Illstarr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar; The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you,

Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar: Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic! The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr !

WELL! THOU ART HAPPY.

WELL! thou art happy, and I feel
That I should thus be happy too;
For still my heart regards thy weal
Warmly, as it was wont to do.

Thy husband's blest

and 't will impart

Some pangs to view his happier lot: But let them pass-Oh! how my heart Would hate him, if he loved thee not!

When late I saw thy favorite child,

I thought my jealous heart would break; But when the unconscious infant smiled, I kiss'd it for its mother's sake.

I kiss'd it,

and repressed my sighs

Its father in its face to see;
But then it had its mother's eyes,
And they were all to love and me.

Mary, adieu! I must away:

While thou art blest I'll not repine; But near thee I can never stay;

My heart would soon again be thine.

I deem'd that time, I deem'd that pride Had quench'd at length my boyish flame: Nor knew, till seated by thy side,

save hope, the same.

Yet was I calm: I knew the time

My breast would thrill before thy look;

But now to tremble were a crime

and not a nerve was shook.

I saw thee gaze upon my face,

Yet met with no confusion there: One only feeling could'st thou trace; The sullen calmness of despair.