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IRREGULAR ODE, ON THE DEATH OF

LORD BYRON.

BY THE REV. C. C. COLTON.

We mourn thy wreck;—that mighty mind

Did whirlwind passions whelm, While wisdom wavered, half inclined

To quit the dangerous helm ;-
Thou wast an argosy of cost,

Equipped, enriched in vain,
Of gods the work-of men the boast,
Glory thy port,--and doomed to gain
That splendid haven, only to be lost !

Lost, even when Greece, with conquest blest,

Thy gallant bearing hailed ;-
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-
Ere left a monument like thine!

And all from ruins piled!
A prouder motto marks thy stone

Than Archimedes' tomb;
He asked a fulcrum--thou demandedst none,
But—reckless of past, present, and to come
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;

53

L

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

Thou didst astound the world,
-A comet, plunging from its height,

And into chaos hurled!
Accorded king of anarch power,

And talent misapplied; 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

With Hecla’s frosty cloak,
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,–

Her nothing of a name !
Thy master hand and matchless lyre,

What have they gained—but fame!
Fame-Fancy's child—by Folly fed,

On breath of meanest things,-
A phantom, wooed in virtue's stead,
That envy to the living brings,
And silent, solemn mockery to the dead !

Ne'er, since the deep-toned Theban sung

Unto the listening Nine,

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,

Thy loss with scarce a sigh;
And yet thou wert surpassing dear

Too loved of all to die.
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,

They sink, and turn to care;
As caverned waters wear the stone,

Yet dropping, harden there. —
They cannot petrify more fast

Than feelings sunk remain,
Which, coldly fixed, regard the past,

But never melt again.

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

Thou didst astound the world,
-A comet, plunging from its height,

And into chaos hurled !
Accorded king of anarch power,

And talent misapplied; 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

With Hecla's frosty cloak,
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,—

Her nothing of a name!
Thy master hand and matchless lyre,

What have they gained—but fame!
Fame-Fancy's child—by Folly fed,

On breath of meanest things,-
A phantom, wooed in virtue's stead,
That envy to the living brings,
And silent, solemn mockery to the dead !

Ne'er, since the deep-toned Theban sung

Unto the listening Nine,

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