STANZAS

To her who best can understand them.

BY THE LATE RIGHT HON. LORD BYRON.

Be it so !-we part for ever!
Let the past as nothing be:-
Had I only loved thee, never
Hadst thou been thus dear to me.

Had I loved, and thus been slighted,
That I better could have borne:-
Love is quelled-when unrequited-
By the rising pulse of scorn.

Pride may cool what passion heated,
Time will tame the wayward will;-
But the heart in friendship cheated
Throbs with woe's most maddening thrill.

Had I loved-I now might hate thee,

In that hatred solace seek,

Might exult to execrate thee,

And, in words, my vengeance wreak.

But there is a silent sorrow,

Which can find no vent in speech,
Which disdains relief to borrow

From the heights that song can reach.

Like a clankless chain enthralling,--
Like the sleepless dreams that mock,-
Like the frigid ice-drops falling
From the surf-surrounded rock ;-

Such the cold and sickening feeling Thou hast caused this heart to know, -Stabbed the deeper, by concealing, From the world, its bitter woe!

Once it fondly-proudly, deemed thee
All that fancy's self could paint;
Once it honoured and esteemed thee,

As its idol and its saint!

More than woman thou wast to me ;-
Not as man I looked on thee;-

Why, like woman, then undo me!
Why heap man's worst curse on me!

Wast thou but a fiend, assuming
Friendship's smile and woman's art,
And, in borrowed beauty blooming,
Trifling with a trusting heart!

By that eye which once could glisten
With opposing glance to me ;-

By that ear which once could listen
To each tale I told to thee ;-

By that lip, its smile bestowing,
Which could soften sorrow's gush ;-
By that cheek, once brightly glowing
With pure friendship's well-feign'd blush ;-

By all those false charms united,-
Thou hast wrought thy wanton will,

And, without compunction, blighted

What thou would'st not kindly kill !

Yet I curse thee not, in sadness,-
Still I feel how dear thou wert;
Oh! I could not-e'en in madness--
Doom thee to thy just desert!

Live!-and, when my life is over,
Should thine own be lengthened long,
Thou may'st then, too late, discover,
By thy feelings-all my wrong!

When thy beauties all are faded,-
When thy flatterers fawn no more,—
Ere the solemn shroud hath shaded
Some regardless reptile's store,—

Ere that hour,-false syren, hear me !—
Thou may'st feel what I do now,
While my spirit, hovering near thee,
Whispers friendship's broken vow!

But 'tis useless to upbraid thee
With thy past or present state ;-
What thou wast-my fancy made thee!
What thou art-I know too late!

TO THE OWL.

The following splendid lines were written in reference to a murder, whose details, somewhat disgustingly, occupied the public mind, two years ago. We regret that we are not at liberty to attach to them the name of the author.

OWL! that lovest the boding sky!

In the murky air,—

What sawest thou there ?

For I heard, through the fog, thy screaming cry!

"The maple's head

Was glowing red,

And red were the wings of the autumn sky;

But a redder gleam

Rose from the stream

That dabbled my feet, as I glided by !”