sage:

With him, for years, we search'd the classic page,
And fear'd the master, though we loved the
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat
From learning's labour is the blest retreat.
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;

POMPOSUS governs,—but, my muse, forbear: : (1)
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot;

His name and precepts be alike forgot;

No more his mention shall my verse degrade, —
To him my tribute is already paid.

High, through those elms, with hoary branches crown'd,

Fair IDA's bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue;
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;

Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run,
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray;

(1) To this passage, had Lord Byron published another edition of Hours of Idleness, it was his intention to give the following turn:

Another fills his magisterial chair;

Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care;

Oh! may like honours crown his future name:
If such his virtues, such shall be his fame."-E

While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others, again, a pert and lively crew,

Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:

"'Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance fought,

And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought;
Here have we fled before superior might,

And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight."
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons from her temple's door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall;

There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;

Here mingling view the names of sire and son
The one long graved, the other just begun:
These shall survive alike when son and sire
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire:(1)
Perhaps their last memorial these alone,
Denied in death a monumental stone,

Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave.

(1) During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet prevented the school-room from being burnt down, by pointing out to the boys the names of their fathers and grandfathers on the walls. — E.

And here my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends.
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule the little tyrants of an hour;
Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary winter's eve away -

And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, And thus they dealt the combat side by side; Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled, Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd; (1) Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell, And here he falter'd forth his last farewell; And here one night abroad they dared to roam, While bold POMPOSUS bravely staid at home;”. While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, When names of these, like ours, alone survive: Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

Dear honest race! though now we meet no more, One last long look on what we were before— Our first kind greetings, and our last adieuDrew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd,

(1) Lord Byron elsewhere thus describes his usual course of life while at Harrow" always cricketing, rebelling, rowing, and in all manner of mischiefs." One day, in a fit of defiance, he tore down all the gratings from the window of the hall; and when called upon by Dr. Butler to say

I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hoped was to forget.

Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face,
Some old companion of my early race,

Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of beauty-(for, alas! I've known
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)--
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near :
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danced before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along,
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,

And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love.(1)

why he had committed this violence, answered, with stern coolness, "because they darkened the room."— E.

(1) This description of what the young poet felt in 1806, on encountering in the world any of his former schooltellows, falls far short of the page in which he records an accidental meeting with Lord Clare, on the road between Imola and Bologna in 1821. "This meeting," he says, "annihilated for a moment all the years between the present time and the days of Harrow. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, like rising from the grave, to me. Clare too was much agitated—more in appearance than was myself; for I could feel his heart beat to his fingers' ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own which made me think so. We were but five minutes together, and on the public road; but I hardly recollect an hour of my existence which could be weighed against them."- We may also quote the following interesting sentences of Madame Guiccioli: "In 1822 (says she), a few days before leaving Pisa, we were one evening seated in the garden of the Palazzo Lanfranchi. At this moment a servant announced Mr. Hobhouse. The slight shade of melancholy dif fused over Lord Byron's face gave instant place to the liveliest joy; but it was so great that it almost deprived him of strength. A fearful paleness

Yet, why should I alone with such delight,
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee
A home, a world, a paradise to me.

Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father's (1) care.

came over his cheeks, and his eyes were filled with tears as he embraced his friend his emotion was so great that he was forced to sit down."— E. (1) In all the lives of Lord Byron hitherto published, the character of the poet's father has been alluded to in terms of unmitigated reprobation, for which the ascertained facts of his history afford but a slender pretext. He had, like his son, the misfortune of being brought up by a mother alone, Admiral Byron, his father, being kept at a distance from his family by professional duties. His education was completed at a foreign military academy, not, in those days at least, a very favourable school; and from this, on receiving a commission in the Coldstream guards, he was plunged, while yet a boy, into all the temptations to which a person of singular beauty, and manners of the most captivating grace, can expose the heir of a noble name in our luxurious metropolis. The unfortunate intrigue, which has been gravely talked of as marking his character with something like horror, occurred when he was hardly of age. At all events, as Captain Byron, who died in his thirty-fifth year, could have had no influence in determining the course of his son's education or pursuits, it is difficult to understand on what grounds his personal qualities have been made the theme of discussion, to say nothing of angry vituperation, either in Memoirs of Lord B. or Reviews of those Memoirs.

Some unworthy reflections on the subject were hazarded in a biographical sketch of the noble Poet, prefixed to a French translation of one of his works, which appeared very shortly before he left Genoa for Greece; and the remarks which these drew from the son at the time will probably go far to soften the general impression respecting the father. As the letter which Lord Byron addressed to the gentleman who had forwarded the offensive tract from Paris has not hitherto been printed and was probably the last he wrote before quitting Italy, we make no apology for the length of the following extract: