LORD BYRON.

George Gordon Byron was born in London, January 22, 1788, and died at Missolonghi, April 19, 1824. His grandfather was the celebrated Admiral Byron; his father was Capt. John Byron, of the Guards, and died when the boy was three years of age. His mother, Catharine Gordon, was a Scottish heiress. After paying the debts of her husband but little of her fortune remained, and, for economy's sake, the widow, with her son, moved to Aberdeen, where, in due time, Byron was placed in school, where he remained until ten years of age. By the death of a grand-uncle, in 1798, he became the heir to an English Peerage and removed with his mother to the family seat of Newstead Abbey. Shortly after this he was sent to school at Harrow. In 1805 he entered Trinity College, Cambridge, but left at the end of two years without taking a degree, and standing low in his class. While at Trinity College "his muse began to plume her wings." He printed, privately, a small volume of poems entitled The Hours of Idleness, which was severely criticised by the Edinburgh Review. This criticism stung him to the quick, and he resolved on revenge, and published English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, in 1809; a satire as scathing as he himself could desire. While his name was attracting the attention of all England, he took his seat in the House of

The

Lords. Having spent several years in reckless dissipation, undermining his health, and heavily encumbering his estates, he, in June, 1809, sailed for the Mediterranean. It is on this journey that he met the beautiful Theresa Macri, who became famous as his Maid of Athens. Returning to England in 1812 he published the first two cantos of Childe Harold. The result was "he awoke one morning and found himself famous." In 1813-14 he wrote The Giaour, The Bride of Abydas, The Corsair, Lara, and some smaller poems. On January 2, 1815, without a feeling of affection, he married Anna Isabella Milbanke, the daughter of a baronet. marriage was an unhappy one. In December of the same year a daughter was born, who afterward became the Countess of Lovelace. In January, 1816, Lady Byron returned to her father. Byron never again saw them, but immediately set out for the continent, and never again set foot upon his native land. It wasduring this period that he wrote The Prisoner of Chillon, Manfred, the remaining cantos of Childe Harold, etc. In 1821 the Greek war of independence broke out. Sympathizing with them in their struggle for reedom, he forsook his indolent life of vice, and joined in their struggles. Landingin Greece in 1823, he made much progress in effecting a proper military organization amid the disorder in the patriotic army. The hardships of camp were goon too much for him, weakened as he was by long habits of dissipation, and a cold contracted in a shower, brought on an attack of fever from which he never recovered.

The Prisoner of Chillon.

Chillon is a castle on Lake Geneva. The speaker in this poem is one of three brothers who were imprisoned on account of their 'religious opinions.

HERE are seven pillars of Gothic mold

In Chillon's dungeons deep and old,

And in each pillar there is a ring,
And in each ring there is a chain.
That iron is a cankering thing,

For in these limbs its teeth remain,
With marks that will not wear away,
Till I have done with this new day,
Which now is painful to these eyes,
Which have not seen the sun so rise
For years I can not count them o'er,
I lost their long and heavy score
When my last brother drooped and died,
And I lay living by his side.

They chained us each to a column stone,
And we were three, yet each alone:
We could not move a single pace,

We could not see each other's face,

But with that pale and livid light
That made us strangers in our sight.
And thus together, yet apart,

Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart,
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth
Of the pure elements of earth,
To hearken to each other's speech,
And each turn comforter to each,
With some new hope, or legend old,
Or song heroically bold;

But even these at length grew cold.

Our voices took a dreary tone, An echo of the dungeon stone, A grating sound, not full and free, As they of yore were wont to be; It might be fancy, but to me

They never sounded like our own.

I was the eldest of the three, And to uphold and cheer the rest, I ought to do, and did, my best;

And each did well in his degree. The youngest, whom my father lov'd, Because our mother's brow was given To him, with eyes as blue as heaven, For him my soul was sorely moved: And truly might it be distress'd

To see such bird in such a nest;

For he was beautiful as day,

And in his natural spirit gay,

With tears for naught but others' ills;

And then they flowed like mountain rills,

Unless he could assuage the woe
Which he abhorr'd to view below.

The other was as pure of mind,
But formed to combat with his kind;
Strong in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood,
And perish'd in the foremost rank

With joy; but not in chains to pine;

His spirit wither'd with their clank;

I saw it silently decline,

And so, perchance, in sooth did mine;

But yet I forced it on to cheer
Those relics of a home so dear.

He was a hunter of the hills,

Had followed there the deer and wolf; To him this dungeon was a gulf, And fettered feet the worst of ills.

I said my nearer brother pined,

I said his mighty heart declined,

He loathed and put away his food;

It was not that 'twas coarse and rude,
For we were used to hunters' fare,
And for the like had little care;

The milk drawn from the mountain goat
Was changed for water from the moat;
Our bread was such as captives' tears
Have moisten'd many a thousand years,