Mortal! since human grandeur ends in dust, In those blest realms-where nought shall pass away! London Magazine. SERENADE FROM THE SPANISH. BY J. G. LOCKHART, ESQ. WHILE my lady sleepeth, The dark blue heaven is bright, Should ye breathing numbers O'er yon poplar trees, But be your echoes light All the stars are glowing Blow, gentle, gentle breeze, Nor chase from Zara's side E IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE DEATH OF LORD BYRON. BY THE REV. C. C. COLTON. WE mourn thy wreck ;—that mighty mind While wisdom wavered, half inclined Of gods the work-of men the boast, That splendid haven, only to be lost! Lost, even when Greece, with conquest blest, Then sighs from valour's mailed breast, And tears of beauty failed; Oh! hadst thou in the battle died, Triumphant even in death, The patriot's as the poet's pride, While both Minerva's twined thy wreath, Then had thy full career malice and fate defied! What architect, with choice design, -Of Rome or Athens styled- A prouder motto marks thy stone He asked a fulcrum-thou demandedst none, Didst on thyself depend, to shake the world-alone! Thine eye to all extremes and ends And opposites could turn, And, like the congelated lens, Could sparkle, freeze, or burn ; But in thy mind's abyss profound, As in some limbo vast, More shapes and monsters did abound, To set the wondering world aghast, Than wave-worn Noah fed, or starry Tuscan found! Was love thy lay,—Cithæra reined Her car, and owned the spell! Was hate thy theme,—that murky fiend The palaced crown, the cloistered cowl, Thy smile was deadlier than thy scowl, In guise unearthly didst thou roam the earth, Screened in Thalia's mask,-to drug the tragic bowl! Lord of thine own imperial sky, In virgin "pride of place," Thou soared'st where others could not fly, And hardly dared to gaze!— The Condor, thus, his pennoned vane O'er Cotopaxa spreads, But should he ken the prey, or scent the slain,- Like Lucan's, early was thy tomb, And more than Bion's mourned ;- She, but to work thy triumphs, toiled, And, muttering coward curses, fled ; Thee, thine own strength alone-like matchless Milo,-foiled. We prize thee, that thou didst not fear What stoutest hearts might rack, And didst the diamond genius wear, That tempts-yet foils-the attack. We mourn thee, that thou wouldst not find, While prisoned in thy clay, -Since such there were,—some kindred mind,— For friendship lasts through life's long day, And doth, with surer chain than love or beauty, bind! We blame thee, that with baleful light That hid thy God, in evil hour, Or shewed Him only to deride, And, o'er the gifted blaze of thine own brightness, lour! Thy fierce volcanic breast, o'ercast All earth with fire impure could blast, And darken heaven with smoke : O'er ocean, continent, and isle, The conflagration ran;— Thou, from thy throne of ice, the while, Didst the red ruin calmly scan, And tuned Apollo's harp-with Nero's ghastly smile! What now avails that muse of fire,- Thy master hand and matchless lyre, On breath of meanest things,- Ne'er, since the deep-toned Theban sung Hath classic hill or valley rung With harmony like thine! Who now shall wake thy widowed lyre! -There breathes but one, who dares To that Herculean task aspire; But-less than thou-for fame he cares, And scorns both hope and fear-ambition and desire! STANZAS. BY LORD BYRON. I HEARD thy fate without a tear, I know not what hath seared mine eye; The tears refuse to start! But every drop its lids deny Falls dreary on my heart. Yes! deep and heavy-one by one, |