LORD BYRON,

Born in London on the 22nd of January, 1788. He died at Missolonghi, in Western Greece, on the 19th of April, 1824, engaged in the glorious attempt to restore that country to her ancient freedom and renown. "He is now at rest;

And praise and blame fall on his ear alike,

Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art gone,

Gone, like a star that thro' the firmament

Shot, and was lost, in its eccentric course

Dazzling, perplexing. Yet thy heart, methinks,
Was generous, noble-noble in its scorn
Of all things low or little; nothing there
Sordid or servile.

If in thy life

Not happy, in thy death thou surely wert,
Thy wish accomplished; dying in the land
Where thy young mind had caught etherial fire,
Dying in GREECE, and in a cause so glorious!"

TO GENEVRA.

THINE eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features-caught
From contemplation—where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's oftness charmed from its despair-
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought-
I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent)
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn—

Such seem'st thou-but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim-nor Virtue scorn.

TO THE SAME.

THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush
Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
My heart would wish away that ruder glow:
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but, oh!

While gazing on them, sterner eyes will gush,
And into mine my mother's weakness rush,
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow.
For, through thy long, dark lashes low depending,
The soul of melancholy gentleness

Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending;
Above all pain, yet pitying all distress;
At once such majesty with sweetness blending,
I worship more, but cannot love thee less.

TO LAKE LEMAN.

ROUSSEAU-VOLTAIRE―our GIBBON-and De Stael,—
Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore,
Thy shore of names like these!-wert thou no more,
Their memory thy remembrance would recall:

To them thy banks were lovely as to all,

But they have made them lovelier, for the lore
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core

Of human hearts the ruin of a wall

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee, How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel,

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea,

The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal,
Which of the heirs of immortality

Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

ON A NUN.

HAD

COMPOSED IN THE NAME OF A FATHER, WHOSE DAUGHTER RECENTLY DIED SHORTLY AFTER HER MARRIAGE; AND ADDRESSED TO THE FATHER OF HER WHO HAD LATELY TAKEN THE VEIL.

"Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte, &c."

Or two fair Virgins, modest, though admired,
Heaven made us happy; and now wretched sires;
Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired

Becomes extinguished, soon-too soon-expires;
But thine, within the closing grate retired,
Eternal captive, to her God aspires.

But thou, at least, from out the jealous door,

Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:

I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

Rush the swollen flood of bitterness I pour,

And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

WILLIAM SOTHEBY,

the eldest son of Colonel Sotheby of the Guards, was born in London, on the 9th of November, 1757. He received his education at Harrow, and afterwards entered the army, which he quitted in 1780, and resided for some time at Beirs Mount, near Southampton, a place which had been celebrated by frequent visits of Pope. Eventually he resided in London, where he died December 30th, 1833. Mr. Sotheby's commencing the translation of Homer, which he lived to complete after he had passed his seventieth year, is a remarkable instance of the energy of his cha

racter.

66

A MOTHER TO HER SLEEPING CHILD.

"Ан, happy child! when hanging o'er thy sleep,
A mother fondly bends, watching the while
Upon thy glowing cheek the dimpled smile
Soft playing, as the breeze that fans the deep

In the mild summer noon: oh! may this sigh,
That will have way, not rudely smite thine ear!
Nor, dropping on thy placid brow, this tear

Wake thee!-at sight of grief, thou knowest not why, Poor babe! thy sympathizing tear might flow.

Sleep on, nor taste before thy time the woe

That racks me, fearful of thy future doom. How bright thy dawn of life!-ah, may thy eve Set thus unclouded by misfortune's gloom! Sleep then in peace, nor hear the sigh I heave."

THE FIRESIDE.

LET others hail the youthful year, when springs
Loveliest on hill and dale the blooming flower;
Or, wandering where deep woods the path embower,
View the warm tints that autumn gradual flings
Upon the foliage of the quivering trees:
Me, nor on hill and dale the flowers that blow,
Nor woods in autumn tints that warmly glow,
So charm, as winter, when the bitter breeze
Mournfully howls along the barren plain;
And falls the flaky snow, and pelting rain

Beats hard the roof: my social hearth around

Then friends long absent meet: now lingering keep

Vigils o'er plaintive tales that lure from sleep;

Now join the festive board where mirth and joy resound.

THE WINTER'S MORN.

ARTIST Unseen! that dipt in frozen dew
Hast on the glittering glass thy pencil laid,
Ere from yon sun the transient visions fade,
Swift let me trace the forms thy fancy drew!
Thy towers and palaces of diamond hue,
Rivers and lakes of lucid crystal made,
And hung in air hoar trees of branching shade,
That liquid pearl distil:-thy scenes renew
Whate'er old bards, or later fictions feign,

Of secret grottos underneath the wave,
Where Nereids roof with spar the amber cave;
Or bowers of bliss, where sport the fairy train,
Who, frequent by the moonlight wanderer seen,
Circle with radiant gems the dewy green.