156. TO THE MEMORY OF KIRKE WHITE

UNHAPPY White! while life was in its spring,
And thy young muse just waved her joyous wing,
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away,
Which else had sounded an immortal lay.
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone,
When Science' self destroyed her favourite son!
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit,
She sowed the seeds, but death has reaped the fruit.
'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,
And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low:
So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart;
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursed the pinion which impelled the steel;
While the same plumage that had warmed his nest
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast.

LORD BYRON

(English Bards and Scotch Reviewers).

157. WHEN WE TWO PARTED

WHEN we two parted

In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss ;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow-
It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame :
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me-
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well :—
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met

In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee ?-
With silence and tears.

LORD BYRON.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

161.

FROMMEN OF ENGLAND'

MEN of England! who inherit

T. CAMPBELL.

Rights that cost your sires their blood!

Men whose undegenerate spirit

Has been proved on land and flood
By the foes ye've fought, uncounted,
By the glorious deeds ye've done.
Trophies captured-breaches mounted,
Navies conquered-kingdoms won!

Yet, remember, England gathers
Hence but fruitless wreaths of fame,
If the freedom of your fathers

Glow not in your hearts the same.
What are monuments of bravery,
Where no public virtues bloom?
What avail in lands of slavery
Trophied temples, arch, and tomb?

T. CAMPBELL.

162. SONG OF HYBRIAS THE CRETAN

My wealth's a burly spear and brand,
And a right good shield of hides untanned
Which on my arm I buckle :

With these I plough, I reap, I sow,

With these I make the sweet vintage flow,
And all around me truckle.

But your wights that take no pride to wield
A massy spear and well-made shield,

Nor joy to draw the sword

Oh, I bring those heartless, hapless drones,
Down in a trice on their marrow-bones
To call me King and Lord.

T. CAMPBELL.

163. THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

OF Nelson and the North
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's

crown,

And her arms along the deep

proudly shone,—

By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold determined hand;
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat
Lay their bulwarks on the brine,
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :

It was ten of April morn by the
chime :

As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death,
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.
Hearts of oak!' our captain
cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the
ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back :
Their shots along the deep slowly
boom;

Then ceased-and all is wail
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale
Light the gloom.

164. HOHENLINDEN

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight

When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.