In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

DARKNESS.

I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went—and came, and brought no day.
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:

eye

And they did live by watch-fires-and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings-the huts,
The habitations,of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face:
Happy were those who dwelt within the
Of the volcanos and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd ;
Forests were set on fire-but hour by hour
They fell and faded-and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash-and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon 'hem; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and she did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,

up

Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things

For an unholy usage; they raked up,

And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath

Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each others' aspects-saw, and shriek’d, and died—
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written fiend. The world was void,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless—
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
A lump of death-a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean, all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,

And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd,
They slept on the abyss without a surge-

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expired before ;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them-she was the universe.

CHURCHILL'S GRAVE.

shriek'd,

And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,

And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Caine tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless-they were slain for food:
And war, which for a moment was no more.
Did glut himself again—a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart,
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left ;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails-men

Diea, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Fill hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
W nich answer'd not with a caress-he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,'
And they were enemies; they met beside
The dving embers of an altar-place,

And thus he answer'd-"Well, I do not know.
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so;
He died before my day of sextonship,
And I had not the digging of this grave."
And is this all? I thought,-and do we rip
The veil of immortality, and crave

I know not what of honour and of light
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight?
So soon and so successless? As I said,
The architect of all on which we tread,
For earth is but a tombstone, did essay
To extricate remembrance from the clay,
Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thougnt
Were it not that all life must end in one,
Of which we are but dreamers;-as he caugh:
As 't were the twilight of a former sun,
Thus spoke he,-"I believe the man of whom
You wot, who lies in this selected tomb,
Was a most famous writer in his day,
And therefore travellers step from out their way
To pay him honour,-and myself whate'er
Your honour pleases"-then most pleased I shook
From out my pocket's avaricious neck
Some certain coms of silver, which as 't were
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare
So much but inconveniently ;-ye smile,
I see ye, ye profane ones! all the while,

Because my homely phrase the truth would tell.
You are the fools, not I-for I did dwell
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye,
On that old sexton's natural homily,
In which there was obscurity and fame,
lue glory and the nothing of a name.

And a firm will, and a deep sense, Which even in torture can descry Its own concentred recompense, Triumphant where it dares defy, And making death a victory.

PROMETHEUS.

TITAN! to whose immortal eyes
The sufferings of mortality,
Seen in their sad reality,
Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show,
The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless.

Titan! to thee the strife was given
Between the suffering and the will,
Which torture where they cannot kill
And the inexorable heaven,

And the deaf tyranny of fate,

The ruling principle of hate,

Which for its pleasure doth create
The things it may annihilate,
Refused thee even the boon to die:
The wretched gift eternity

Was thine-and thou hast borne it well.
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee
Was but the menace which flung back
On him the torments of thy rack;
The fate thou didst so well foresee,

But would not to appease him tell: And in thy silence was his sentence, And in his soul a vain repentance, And evil dread so ill dissembled

That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

Thy godlike crime was to be kind,

To render with thy precepts less
The sum of human wretchedness,
And strengthen man with his own mind;
But baffled as thou wert from high,

Still in thy patient energy,

In the endurance, and repulse

Of thine impenetrable spirit,

Which earth and heaven could not convulse,

A mighty lesson we inherit:

Thou art a symbol and a sign

To mortals of their late and force ;

Like thee, man is in part divine,

A troubled stream from a pure source;

And man in portions can foresee
His own funereal destiny;

His wretchedness, and his resistance,

And his sad unallied existence:

To which his spirit may oppose

Itself an equal to all woes,

ODE.

Oн shame to thee, land of the Gaul! Oh shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be! Derision snall strike thee forlorn,

A mockery that never shall die; The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, Shall burden the winds of thy sky; And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world ! Oh, where is thy spirit of yore,

The spirit that breathed in thy dead, When gallantry's star was the beacon before, And honour the passion that led? Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep, They groan from the place of their rest, And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep, To see the foul stain on thy breast ; For where is the glory they left thee in trust? "Tis scatter'd in darkness, 't is trampled in dust!

Go, look to the kingdoms of earth,

From Indus all round to the pole,

And something of goodness, of honour, and worth,
Shall brighten the sins of the soul.
But thou art alone in thy shame,

The world cannot liken thee there; Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name Beyond the low reach of compare; Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through time A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime!

While conquest illumined his sword, While yet in his prowess he stood, Thy praises still follow'd the steps of the lord And welcomed the torrent of blood: Though tyranny sat on his crown,

And wither'd the nations afar,

Yet bright in thy view was that despot's renown, Till fortune deserted his car;

Then back from the chieftain thou slunkest away, The foremost to insult, the first to betray!

Forgot were the feats he had done,

The toils he had borne in thy cause;
Thou turned'st to worship a new rising sun,
And waft other songs of applause.
But the storm was beginning to lour,
Adversity clouded his beam;

And honour and faith were the brag of an hour,
And loyalty's self but a dream :

To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows were restored, And the first that had scoff'd were the first that ac red.

What tumult thus burthens the air?

What throng thus encircles his throne?

His sceptre shall rule them alone. Reverses shall brighten their zeal,

Misfortune shall hallow his name,

And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel
How quenchless the spirit and flame
That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts
are on fire,

And from its wages only to be guess'd-
Raised from the toilet to the table, where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair :
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd,
She dines from off the plate she lately was .
| Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie,
The genial confidante and general spy;

Their hero has rush'd to the field;

His laurels are cover'd with shade

But where is the spirit that never should yield,

The loyalty never to fade?

In a moment desertion and guile

Abandon'd him up to the foe

;

An only infant's earliest governess!

She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
That she herself, by teaching, learn'd to spe.
An adept next in penmanship she grows,
As many a nameless slander deftly shows:
What she had made the pupil of her art,

Forsook and renounced him in woe;

And the millions that swore they would perish to save, Beheid him a fugitive, captive, and slave!

The savage, all wild in his glen,

Is nobler and better than thou ;

'Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men,
Such perfidy blackens thy brow!
If thou wert the place of my birth,
At once from thy arms would I sever;
I'd fly to the uttermost parts of the earth,
And quit thee for ever and ever ;
And thinking of thee in my long after-years,
Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears.

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul!

Oh, shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be! Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

And mockery that never shall die; The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn, Shall burthen the winds of thy sky; And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!

WINDSOR POETICS.

Lines composed on the occasion of H. R. H. the Pe
R-g-t being seen standing betwixt the coffins of Henry
VIII. and Charles I. in the royal vault at Windsor,
FAMFD for contemptuous breach of sacred ties,
By headless Charles, see heartless Henry lies;
Between them stands another sceptred thing-
It moves, it reigns-in all but name, a king:
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife-
In him the double tyrant starts to life:
Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain,
Each royal vampyre wakes to life again:
Ah! what can tombs avail-since these disgorge
The blood and dust of both—to mould a G...ge.

1813.

A SKETCH FROM PRIVATE LIFE.
Honest-honest Iago!

If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee!
SHAKSPEARE.

BORN in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;

And panted for the truth it could not hear,
With longing breast and undeluded ear.

Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind,
Which flattery fool'd not, baseness could not blind,
Deceit infect not, near contagion soil,
Indulgence weaken, nor example spoil,
Nor master'd science tempt. her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown,
Nor genius swell, nor beauty render vain,
Nor envy ruffle to retaliate pain,

Nor fortune change, pride raise, nor passion bow,
Nor virtue teach austerity-till now.
Serenely purest of her sex that live,

But wanting one sweet weakness-to forgive;
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know,
She deems that all could be like her below:
Foe to all vice, yet hardly virtue's friend-
For virtue pardons those she would amend.

But to the theme-now laid aside too long,
The baleful burthen of this honest song-
Though all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she served before.

If mothers-none know why—before her quake,
If daughters dread her for the mother's sake
If early habits-those false links which bind,
At times, the loftiest to the meanest mind-
Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;
If like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the verom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,

To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells!

Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints,
While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smilcs,
With all the kind mendacity of hints,
A thread of candour with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden'd scheming;
A lip of lies, a face form'd to conceal,
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel;
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown,
A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone.
Mark how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud

Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale,
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face).

Look on her features! and behold her mind,
As in the mirror of itself defined:

Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged-
There is no trait which might not be enlarged;
Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade,-
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now;
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain,
And turn thee howling in unpitied pain.
May the strong curse of crush'd affections light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee, in thy leprosy of mind,
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind!
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate,
Black as thy will for others would create:
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust.
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed,
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast spread!
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims-and despair!
Down to the dust!--and, as thou rott'st away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
lo her thy malice from all ties would tear,
Thy name-thy human name-to every eye
The climax of all scorn, should hang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers,
And festering in the infamy of years.
March 30, 1816.

CARMINA BYRONIS IN C. ELGIN. ASPICE, quos Scoto Pallas concedit honores, Subter stat nomen, facta superque vide. Scote miser! quamvis nocuisti Palladis ædi, Infandum facinus vindicat ipsa Venus. Pygmalion statuam pro sponsa arsisse refertur ; In statuam rapias, Scote, sed uxor abest.

LINES TO MR. MOORE.

1 he following lines were addressed extempore by Lord Byron to his friend Mr. Moore, on the latter's last visit to Italy.]

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.

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.

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.

Wer't the last drop in the wel',

And I gasping on the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell,

"T is to thee that I would drink.

In that water, as this wine,

The libation I would pour Should be-Peace to thine and mine, And a health to thee, Toм MOORE!

"ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTYSIXTH YEAR.’

January 22, 1824, Missolonghe. 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move; Yet though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze-
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

)

But 't is not thus, and 't is not here
Such thoughts should shake my soul; no nos
Where glory decks the hero's bier,

Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece, she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! Unto thee,
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.

If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death

Is here-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out, less often sought than found,
A soldier's grave-for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground
And take thy rest.