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Think, when home returning,
Once so loved by thee;
When, around thee dying
Oh, then remember me.
Oh, still remember me.
Draw one tear from thee;
INSTABILITY OF AFFECTION.
ALAS! how light a cause may move
That stood the storm, when waves were rough,
Like ships that have gone down at sea,
A word unkind or wrongly taken—
O love that tempests never shook,
A breath, a touch like this hath shaken.
As though its waters ne'er could sever,
Breaks into floods that part for ever.
BORN in Holles Street, London, and received his early education at various schools in Aberdeen, whither his mother had retired on separating from her husband, Captain Byron. When ten years old he succeeded to his uncle's title and estates, and Mrs. Byron and the young peer immediately removed to the family seat, Newstead Abbey, Nottinghamshire. Byron's education was further carried on at Harrow and Trinity College, Cambridge. Two years were spent in foreign travel, and on his return he took his seat as a peer in the House of Lords. In 1815 married Miss Millbanke, but the union proved an unhappy one, and in twelvemonths it was dissolved. In 1816 Byron left England, and never returned to it. He led a restless and wandering life for several years, and, in 1823, threw himself with much enthusiasm into the Greek war of independence against the Turks. He helped the Greeks with his money and advice; and was looking forward with much eagerness to an attack on Lepanto when he was seized by fever, of which he died at Missolonghi, in 1824. The poet's body was brought to England, and interred at Hucknall, near Newstead.
Byron's chief works are:-Hours of Idleness; The Giaour; The Bride of Abydos; English Bards and Scotch Reviewers; The Prisoner of Chillon; Hebrew Melodies; Childe Harold's Pilgrimage; Don Juan, etc.
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen: Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.
STOP !-for thy tread is on an empire's dust!
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so:
There was a sound of revelry by night,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising
Did ye not hear it ?—No; 'twas but the wind,
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near,— His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise? And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed, The mustering squadron and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips-"The foe! They come!" And wild and high the "Camerons' gathering" rose! The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills Have heard—and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers With the fierce native daring, which instils The stirring memory of a thousand years; And Evan's, Donald's fame, rings in each clansman's
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and