Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful IDA blest,

It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. (')

IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain !
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,

This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, (2)
To me a silent and a sweet employ,

(1) "To Dr. Drury," observes Moore, Lord Byron has left on record a tribute of affection and respect, which, like the reverential regard of Dryden for Dr. Busby, will long associate together honourably the names of the poet and the master." The above is not, however, the only one. In a note to the fourth Canto of Childe Harold, he says, "My preceptor was the best and worthiest friend I ever possessed, whose warnings I have remembered but too well, though too late- when I have erred, and whose counsels I have but followed when I have done well or wisely. If ever this imperfect record of my feelings towards him should reach his eyes, let it remind him of one who never thinks of him but with gratitude and veneration- of one who would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his instructor." We extract the following from some unpublished letters of Lord Byron :"Harrow, Nov. 2. 1804. There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness and nothing of pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live. He is the best master we ever had, and at the same time respected and feared." "Nov. 11. 1804. I revere Dr. Drury. He is never violent, never outrageous. I dread offending him; - not, however, through fear; but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure." -E

(2) In a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, Lord Byron says:"No one could, or can be more attached to Harrow than I have always

While future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name reverė,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow,
O'er their last scene of happiness below
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,

Whose friends, like autumn leaves. by tempests whirl'd,

Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys)
Recall one scene so much beloved to view,
As those where Youth her garland twined for you?
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age

You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;

been, and with reason; a part of the time passed there was the happiest of my life."-E

Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw,
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;

But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion (1), smiled on youth.

ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." (2)

MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot
Some shall exist beyond the grave.

"Unknown the region of his birth,"

The hero (3) rolls the tide of war ;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.

(1) "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes, a subsequent poem, under this title. - E.]

" is a French proverb. [See

(2) Written by James Montgomery, author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," &c.

(3) No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c. are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.

His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may 'scape the page of fame;
Yet nations now unborn will know
The record of his deathless name.

The patriot's and the poet's frame
Must share the common tomb of all.
Their glory will not sleep the same;
That will arise, though empires fall.

The lustre of a beauty's eye

Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die, And sink the yawning grave beneath.

Once more the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives :
She died, but ne'er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,

And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;

The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;

To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey,

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain.

What, though the sculpture be destroy'd,
From dark oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy'd

By those whose virtues claim reward.

Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave;

Some few who ne'er will be forgot

Shall burst the bondage of the grave.

1806.

TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR
WITH THE VELVET BAND WHICH BOUND
HER TRESSES.

THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair,
Is mine, sweet girl! thy pledge of love;
It claims my warmest, dearest care,

Like relics left of saints above.

Oh! I will wear it next my heart;

"Twill bind my soul in bonds to thee

From me again 'twill ne'er depart,
with me.

But mingle in the grave

The dew I gather from thy lip
Is not so dear to me as this;
That I but for a moment sip,
And banquet on a transient bliss: