Combats!-But were that strife for evermore
'Gainst outward foes, 'twere well, and if the mind,
In strength exulting, rose, as heretofore,

Triumphant o'er the weakness of mankind ;-
But what if all the hopes that bloom'd of yore,
Now fade, like leaves before November's wind,
And with himself at war, he marks the light
Of his own soul fast yielding unto night ?--

Enough of this;-at length he died.-And why
Thus waste the fleeting hour on themes like these?--
The towns and churches too have revelry ;

And, better 'twere a blooming wreath to seize
From Pleasure's garden-wisely reason'd-ay!
Even in this hour, full many a heart, at ease,
In indolence or mirth, the time enjoys,
Heedless of all that humbler life annoys.

Ye worldlings then,-" admit me of your crew,"
And from your brimming goblets I shall drain
Fit inspiration, and ere long renew,

With pomp and energy, the minstrel strain,
Till even your jocund spirits I subdue,

And Folly's crown with acclamation gain ;Her cap and bells.-Oh, rare !-far nobler meed, Than deathless honours to the bard decreed !

Ay-this is life!-Who, but a madman, so

Had linger'd in the forest's fading bower ?-
How sweetly through this vaulted gallery flow
The notes of gentlest music!-What a shower
Of roseate light the lofty argands throw

On the fair groups that wander here below!-
In every heart is joyance; every eye
Gleams as it mirrors the rich pageantry.-

Not so.-Mark yonder youth, whose deep dark eyes
Disdainful glances cast on all around ;-

His are no feelings now to harmonize

With those who tread in Pleasure's giddy round;
For he hath learn'd her witchery to despise :

The transient spells are broken and unbound,
And sternly there in his abstracted mood,
He frowns on his own changeless solitude.

Yet earlier days have been, when on that brow
No darkness linger'd, but, even as the morn
In spring-tide, when gay blossoms deck the bough,
He seem'd all wintry grief to hold in scorn.-
Blossoms are bright, but fade ere long, and now,

Of earlier joys stands Harold all forlorn ;
Ay, Harold! for that youth must have a name,
And I have crown'd him thus with deathless fame.

No!-like the faint moan of th' autumnal wind,
These words will pass away unheeded all;
But never may that name oblivion find!

And while, of lot obscure, the reckless thrall,
No blooming wreath have I for Harold twined,

I glean the wither'd leaves that round me fall, And, fall'n like them, yet shrink not to impart The homage of a life-worn, wither'd heart.

While with a stern and scornful aspect there,
He marks the laughing forms that round him float,
And may no longer in their pastime share,

His "mind's eye" dwells on scenery far remote,-
On woods and wilds, (where through the fragrant air
Steals many a gentle and inspiring note,)

Lakes, mountains, heaths, and rivers known of yore,-
But now, their soothing influence rules no more.

All pleasures he hath tried, and transiently
Their solace might the wasting fire subdue,
That in his ardent soul could never die ;-

In eager haste, from clime to clime he flew,
And ofttimes, with a reckless energy,

A master's hand across the harp-strings threw, Not for himself alone, (that pilgrim lorn,)

His numbers breath'd, but through the world were borne.

Ay,-like the billows of the stormy sea,

From shore to shore the spreading echoes broke, And in his native land, with homage free, Applauding multitudes their wonder spoke. Proudly he mark'd his own supremacy,

And conscious triumph in his heart awoke.
Such pleasures were, alas! like all the rest ;-
When sought they fly, and perish when possess'd.

For though, with influence undenied, he wields
His magic sceptre o'er the realms of mind,-
Brief are the joys that even such victory yields:
What boots it thus to triumph o'er mankind,
If yet no spell his inward spirit shields

From wasting thoughts, that are with life entwin'd,
And Truth, relentless, thus his ardour cools-
"Thou reign'st but o'er a world of knaves and fools."

"All is delusion !" next, in wrath, he said,
And many a strain in mockery he sung,
Whereat the wise man frowning shook his head,-
Bas-bleus and saints ere long their gauntlets flung ;-
Nay, more,-from wife and child has Harold fled,
Though his weak heart was then by suffering wrung:
Not so the wife ;-what was her parting strain?
"Dearest of Ducks, we may not meet again."

Ye saints and wise men,-in your pomp and pride,
Bas-bleus and bishops,-'tis all one-the crew
That fills the moon, 'twere bootless to divide,—
Lunarians all-fools, knaves—one word with you!
Ere on the deeds of Harold you decide,

Say what yourselves have done, or yet may do?
This much we know,-his fame will never die ;
The tomb, ere long, will hide your infamy.

Ye saints and wise men! what is here your claim
To favour and regard, and wherefore so
Heap obloquy on Harold's deathless name?
If, like a sluggish stream, with motion slow,
Ye crept along, without or praise or blame,
Through varied scenes of mortal weal and woe,-
Should then the cataract's rage,-the spirit wild,
Be judged by you, and fearlessly reviled ?

Yet whilom ruled a critic, who perchance
Deserved applause,-who like a poisonous fly,
When Harold did in early days advance,

Chanting a prelude to high minstrelsy,

Came on blue wings with yellow tiny lance,

Struck him, and deem'd the youth would prostrate lie.Bravo, poor wasp! thou did'st the lion wake, And gad-flies shall be honour'd for thy sake.

"Of all who flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued,"
Might one be found, of whom could Harold say,
"Here stands the friend, immutable of mood,

Dauntless and true, beneath even Sorrow's sway,
When dark'ning thoughts on life's dark evils brood?"-
No!-bas-bleus are by bailiffs driven away:
Uncles and aunts give counsel sage and civil,
And, in their hearts, would give him to the devil.

Enough of this. If life be wearisome,

If pleasures are out-worn, and friends are few,-
These few but soi-disants; if spring-tide's bloom
Is past, and only bitter fruits ensue,-
One refuge yet is left,-the friendly tomb:

But to the goal, what path shall he pursue?
What better, than on battle-field to die,
With sword in hand, for Truth and Liberty?—

In vain-in vain! Truth, I have said, erewhite
Is but a name, or spectral shape that none
Dares now behold; and, for the radiant smile
Of Liberty, the glance that she has thrown
Of inspiration on her votaries' toil,-

Scarce have we mark'd her beauty ere 'tis gone!—
A grinning fiend supplies her presence then,-
Vassals or kings-alas! all are but men.

These words did Harold prove. Mark how the cloud
Now steals along the moon's yet radiant sphere,

As if in darkness fittingly to shroud

Those isles that lured him to his last career.
There waxed the voice of Insurrection loud,

And Liberty was blazon'd far and near ;-
He bore her standard, too, but all was nought :-
Even here, alas! he found not what he sought.

Death came at last: No matter how. The veil
Of mystery rests on those dread lonely hours;
Perchance, too late he did the breath inhale

That steals on man from amaranthine bowers?.
Not so; his heavenward hopes might never fail,
Whose earthly path was rarely strewn with flowers.
Beware, ye judges grave, ye saintly crew,
Doom, sterner far, may be reserv'd for you.

A shower of wither'd foliage through the wood
Comes rushing on. How wildering are the dreams
That haunt the wanderer in his "idlesse mood,"
Like shadows flickering in the moon's pale gleams!
Little he recks if he were understood,

Who speaks but to the winds and dashing streams:
The storm is up amain by land and sea ;—
Careless, he joins the desperate revelry,

And chants, to while a midnight hour away,

A song unmeet, I ween, for critic's ear,

Where wayward thoughts the faltering numbers sway,
Changeful as now the woodland scenes appear,
For black'ning clouds obscure the moonlight ray,
And all is dark. I'll muse no longer here,
But since the transient visions thus are gone,
Return to punch and P*****k R*******n.

M. M.

BYRON.

MY DEAR SIR,

Eskgrove, August 22, 1825.

AMONG a number of letters which I have been lately looking over from Lord Byron, the inclosed, I think, may be published without violating the proprieties of private life, or betraying the confidence of friendship. It is not only interesting on account of the matter it contains, but shows his spirit in a more amiable and kinder character than the invidious part of the world has been willing to allow to it. With all his peculiarities of temper, (faults they may perhaps have been,) there was without question a vast fund of good feeling and of true generosity in his disposition.-It is of no consequence to the public what was the circumstance which gave occasion to the inclosed, but the work referred to is the Bride of Abydos.

TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, Esq. Pray, omit the paragraph respecting

MY DEAR GALT, THERE was no offence-there could be none. I thought it by no means impossible that we might have hit on something similar, particularly as you are a dramatist, and was anxious to assure you of the truth, viz. that I had not willingly seized upon plot, sentiment, or incident; and I am very glad that I have not, in any respect, trenched upon your subjects. Something still more singular is, that the first part, where you have found a coincidence in some event within your observations on life, was drawn from observations of mine also! And I meant to have gone on with the story, but, on second thoughts, I thought myself two centuries at least too late for the subject, which, though admitting of very powerful feeling and description, yet is not adapted for this age, at least this country, though the finest works of the Greeks, one of Schiller's, and one of Alfieri's, in modern times, besides several of our old (and best) dramatists, have been grounded on incidents of a similar

cast.

I therefore altered it, as you

R

Yours truly,

J. G.

perceive, and in so doing have weakened the whole, by interrupting the train of thought; and in composition I do not think second thoughts are the best, though second expressions may improve the first ideas.

*

I do not know how other men feel towards those they have met abroad, but to me there seems a kind of tie established between all who have met together in a foreign country, as if we had met in a state of pre-existence, and were talking over a life that has ceased. But I always look forward to renewing my travels; and though you, I think, are now stationary, if I can at all forward your pursuits there as well as here, I shall be truly glad in the opportunity.

Ever yours, very sincerely.
December 11, 1813.

B.

P. S. I believe I leave town for a day or two on Monday; but after that I am always at home, and happy to see you, till half past two.

LETTERS ON THE PRESENT STATE OF INDIA.

No. V.