STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

["BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL!"]

I.

BRIGHT be the place of thy soul !
No lovelier spirit than thine

E'er burst from its mortal control,
In the orbs of the blessed to shine.
On earth thou wert all but divine,
As thy soul shall immortally be;
And our sorrow may cease to repine
When we know that thy God is with thee.

II.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!

May its verdure like emeralds be!
There should not be the shadow of gloom,
In aught that reminds us of thee.
Young flowers and an evergreen tree

May spring from the spot of thy rest:

But nor cypress nor yew let us see;

For why should we mourn for the blest?

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

["THEY SAY THAT HOPE IS HAPPINESS."]

I.

They say that Hope is happiness;

But genuine Love must prize the past, And Memory wakes the thoughts that bless: They rose the first—they set the last;

II.

And all that Memory loves the most
Was once our only Hope to be,
And all that Hope adored and lost
Hath melted into Memory.

III.

Alas! it is delusion all:

The future cheats us from afar,

Nor can we be what we recall,

Nor dare we think on what we are.

TO THOMAS MOORE.

I.

My boat is on the shore,

And my bark is on the sea;

But, before I go, Tom Moore,

Here's a double health to thee!

II.

Here's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And, whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.

III.

Though the ocean roar around me,
Yet it still shall bear me on;

Though a desert should surround me,
It hath springs that may be won.

IV.

Were't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,

'Tis to thee that I would drink.

With that water, as this wine,
The libation I would pour

Should be-peace with thine and mine,
And a health to thee, Tom Moore.

SONG FOR THE LUDDITES.

I.

As the Liberty lads o'er the sea

Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood,

So we, boys, we

Will die fighting, or live free,

And down with all kings but King Ludd!

II.

When the web that we weave is complete,
And the shuttle exchanged for the sword,
We will fling the winding sheet
O'er the despot at our feet,

And die it deep in the gore he has pour'd.

III.

Though black as his heart its hue,

Since his veins are corrupted to mud,
Yet this is the dew

Which the tree shall renew

Of Liberty, planted by Ludd!

SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING.

I.

So, we'll go no more a roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

III.

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving

By the light of the moon.

ON THE BUST OF HELEN BY CANOVA. (1)

In this beloved marble view,

Above the works and thoughts of man,
What Nature could, but would not, do,
And Beauty and Canova can!
Beyond imagination's power,
Beyond the Bard's defeated art,
With immortality her dower,

Behold the Helen of the heart!

(1) ["The Helen of Canova (a bust which is in the house of Madame the Countess d'Albrizzi) is," says Lord Byron, "without exception, to my mind, the most perfectly beautiful of human conceptions, and far beyond my ideas of human execution."-E]

END OF THE TENTH VOLUME.

LONDON:

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