Oh! early in the balance weigh'd,
And ever light of word and worth,
Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd,
And left thee but a mass of earth.
To see thee moves the scorner's mirth:
But tears in Hope's averted eye
Lament that even thou hadst birth –
Unfit to govern, live, or die.

February 12, 1815. [First published, 1831.]

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix in imo qui scatentem
Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.
GRAY'S Poemata.

[These verses were given by Byron to Mr. Power of the Strand, who published them with music by Sir John Stevenson. In a letter (March 8, 1815) he states that 'the death of poor Dorset' set him into the mood for writing them. In another letter (March, 1816) he calls them 'the truest, though the most melancholy,' he ever wrote.]

THERE's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay;

'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess:

The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down;

It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own;

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears,

And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice appears.

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest;

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose; When 't is full 't will burst asunderNever yet was heard such thunder

As then shall shake the world with wonder,
Never yet was seen such lightning

As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,
Show'ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.

The Chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!
When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men,
Save in deeds that led them on
Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son —
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell: - so perish all

Who would men by man enthrall !

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb;
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing

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On thy war-horse through the ranks Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shiver'd fast around thee Of the fate at last which found thee: Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow? Once as the Moon sways o'er the tide, It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide; Through the smoke-created night Of the black and sulphurous fight, The soldier raised his seeking eye To catch that crest's ascendency, And, as it onward rolling rose, So moved his heart upon our foes. There, where death's brief pang was quickest, And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner Of the eagle's burning crest

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(There with thunder-clouds to fan her Who could then her wing arrest

Victory beaming from her breast ?) — While the broken line enlarging

Fell, or fled along the plain; There be sure was Murat charging!

There he ne'er shall charge again!

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch
But let Freedom rejoice,

With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword,

Doubly shall she be adored;

France hath twice too well been taught

The moral lesson' dearly bought —
Her safety sits not on a throne,

With Capet or Napoleon!

But in equal rights and laws,

Hearts and hands in one great cause
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,

With their breath, and from their birth,

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Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;

With a fierce and lavish hand

Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion-

And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued ·
Man may die the soul 's renew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er should want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her forever bounding spirit:

When once more her hosts assemble, Tyrants shall believe and tremble

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[Both Jeffrey and Walter Scott animadvert on the intense gloom of this poem, which was originally called The Dream. Kölbing has traced many of the images to the novel The Last Man, or Omegarus and Syderia, published in 1806.]

I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars

Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;

Morn came and went and came, and

All earth was but one thought - and that was death,

Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails men
Died, and their bones were tombless as
their flesh;

The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save