STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

["I SPEAK NOT, I TRACE NOT," ETC.]*

I SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name, There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : But the tear which now burns on my cheek may

impart

The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace Were those hours- can their joy or their bitterness cease?

We repent we abjure we will break from our

chain,

We will part, we will fly to unite it again!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt! Forgive me, adored one! - forsake, if thou wilt; But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, And man shall not break it - whatever thou mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be ;

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more

sweet,

With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

* "["Thou hast asked me for a song, and I enclose you an experiment, which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase." - Byron to Moore, May 10, 1814.]

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign -
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

May, 1814.

ADDRESS INTENDED TO BE RECITED AT THE CALEDONIAN MEETING.

WHO hath not glowed above the page where fame
Hath fixed high Caledon's unconquered name;
The mountain-land which spurned the Roman chain,
And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane,

Whose bright claymore and hardihood of hand

No foe could tame

That race is gone

no tyrant could command?

- but still their children breathe, And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, And, England! add their stubborn strength to thine. The blood which flowed with Wallace flows as free, But now 't is only shed for fame and thee! Oh! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, But give support the world hath given him fame!

The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled
While cheerly following where the mighty led-
Who sleep beneath the undistinguished sod
Where happier comrades in their triumph trod,
To us bequeath- 't is all their fate allows
The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse:
20

VOL. I.

She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise
The tearful eye in melancholy gaze,
Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose
The Highland seer's anticipated woes,
The bleeding phantom of each martial form
Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm;
While sad, she chants the solitary song,
The soft lament for him who tarries long-
For him, whose distant relics vainly crave
The Coronach's wild requiem to the brave!

'Tis Heaven- -not man—must charm away the woe
Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow;
Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear
Of half its bitterness for one so dear;
A nation's gratitude perchance may spread
A thornless pillow for the widowed head;
May lighten well her heart's maternal care,
And wean from penury the soldier's heir.

May, 1814.

FRAGMENT OF AN EPISTLE TO THOMAS

MOORE.

"WHAT

I?" say

not a syllable further in prose; I'm your man "of all measures," dear Tom, — so,

here goes!

Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,

On those buoyant supporters, the bladders of rhyme.

If our weight breaks them down, and we sink in the

flood,

We are smothered, at least, in respectable mud, Where the Divers of Bathos lie drowned in a heap, And Southey's last Pæan has pillowed his sleep; That "Felo de se" who, half drunk with his malmsey, Walked out of his depth and was lost in a calm sea, Singing" Glory to God" in a spick and span stanza, The like (since Tom Sternhold was choked) never

man saw.

The papers have told you, no doubt, of the fusses,
The fêtes, and the gapings to get at these Russes,
Of his Majesty's suite, up from coachman to Het-

man,

[man. And what dignity decks the flat face of the great I saw him, last week, at two balls and a party, — For a prince, his demeanor was rather too hearty. You know, we are used to quite different graces,

The Czar's look, I own, was much brighter and brisker,

But then he is sadly deficient in whisker;

And wore but a starless blue coat, and in kersey-mere breeches whisked round, in a waltz with the

Jersey,

Who, lovely as ever, seemed just as delighted

With majesty's presence as those she invited.

June, 1814.

CONDOLATORY ADDRESS TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE.*

WHEN the vain triumph of the imperial lord,
Whom servile Rome obeyed, and yet abhorred,
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust,
That left a likeness of the brave, or just;
What most admired each scrutinizing eye
Of all that decked that passing pageantry?

What spread from face to face that wondering air?
The thought of Brutus for his was not there!

That absence proved his worth,

that absence fixed

His memory on the longing mind, unmixed;
And more decreed his glory to endure,
Than all a gold Colossus could secure.

If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze,
Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness,
Bright though they be, thine own had rendered less;

If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits,
If his corrupted eye, and withered heart,
Could with thy gentle image bear depart;

["The newspapers have got hold (I know not how) of the Condolatory Address to Lady Jersey on the picture-abduction by our Regent, and have published them — with my name, too, smack without even asking leave, or inquiring whether or no! D-n their impudence, and d-n every thing. It has put me out of patience, and so I shall say no more about it." — Byron's Letters.]