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BYRON

He started from sleep at the sound of his name;
One glance to the steep, and he spurned the shame.
The highest he found he went haughtily by,

And no mortal around got the glance of his eye.
Up the wild steep of life he went fearless and far,
Now dark at his strife, and now bright as a star.
Each mystical tree at his presence was bow'd;
And its leaves were let free in a blind streaming cloud.
He caught them in flight, and wrote fast as they came;
And they flew through the night with his letters of flame.
Each bore not the truth, but its brightness was law;
And after the youth follow'd wonder and awe.
Ten thousand stood still his proud footsteps to mark,
As they glow'd on the hill that wax'd silent and dark.
The summit at last,-and the dark steep behind,-
Ere his presence be past he must turn to his kind.
One wave of his hand to his brothers below;
And each heart was at stand for his youth and his wo.
Proud gestures of love to their cry of his name;
And the cloud-spots remove from his forehead of flame.
Oh weep!--And all wept when his glory retired :-
But the leaves never slept with his characters fired.
In each bosom they fell burning sadness or mirth;
And their new glories well re-illumined the earth.

II.

Again in my dream, and the vision was new,
With the terrible gleam of a mountain in view.
A gold burst of heaven smote its summits of wonder,-
All dinted and riven the gateways of thunder.
But brighter each throne was o'er-fretted with fires-
High spirits that shone on its difficult spires ;-
High souls of the mighty, the bards of old name,
How glad and how bright aye encircled with fame!
In his circle each star and high converse they hold;
Or their spirits look far through the visions of old.

A figure of flame! the proud Byron again

To the steep mountain came; and its rocks were in vain. Through each tier-that bright climax-his footsteps aspire, Like the rock-beating ibex, still higher and higher.

One throb in his lip told of peril and toil :

But the smile lighted up, that no passion can spoil,—
Through the tear in his eye of indignant appeal,
That a pinion so high might his spirit reveal!
He saw the bright portals of heaven outspread;
'Midst the highest immortals he sat, and was glad.
To this world amain he bent awful regard-
Till it cried, that no stain his deep beauty had marr'd.

For bright wax'd the sphere of the glorified youth,
And his face shone severe, as a statue of truth.
Now triumph and trance! for his bosom 'gan swell;
And the visions advance to the might of his spell,-
Abrupt, bold, and strange, with fierce energy wing'd :-
Around him the range of bright circles was ring'd,—
Thrill'd spirits that bow'd to the depth of that tone!
Wild sympathies proud, thus to measure their own!
He called his creations, and peopled the air ;-
Bright things of all nations, and beings were there.
The setting sun flush'd on old Greece like a crown;
And the white temples blush'd on her hills of renown.
Another sun blooded the seas of the West;

And the palm-lands were flooded in the moons of the East.
Came on the wild hordes, with their wandering looks,
And the blue gleam of swords from the wilderness brooks.
The Giaour hurried by, with his forehead so pale

Proud Manfred look'd high; but his hell must prevail.

From the bow they stepp'd down, of the heavens when brightest ; From the cataract's crown, where its spray is the lightest :From the bubbles of storms, sun-tinted, their birth ;

Young feminine forms all light on our earth!

But each young bosom breaking, with love, was o'er-drunk :-
All clasping and shrieking, they came, and they sunk.-
Show the foul blots of hell-let the visions increase-
But he dash'd the wild spell with a cry for old Greece-
How started each bard, of her ancient renown!-

And each forehead was scarr'd for her tyrants-that frown!
O'er their harps, then each look bow'd indignant in tears;
And their locks fiercely shook-the dread vintage of years!
And the tempest arose of old war-cries again,
Insulting her foes at each break in the strain.

And they hail'd the young bard in each pause of that flow,
As the battle was heard in the valley below:

As proudly he swell'd in his warrior form;

The red spear he held waving sway to the storm.
And aye his black lyre in moments he took;
And its fence-rows of fire with agony shook.

Wild-thrilling-O Greece! thou lost star of our morn!
That the long cloud may cease, and thy beauty return.
How wish'd! since thy name can yet kindle such strains--
From his dark harp they came like the bursting of chains!
Thou soul of thine age! great warrior bard!
For the free is thy page, and their pride thy reward!
Long pause on thy story, ten thousand shall make ;
And from dreams of thy glory, what soul shall awake?

THOMAS AIRD.

THE ISLAND.*

"Oh had I some sweet little Isle of my own!"-MOORE.

IF the author of the Irish Melodies had ever had a little Isle so much his own as I have possessed, he might not have found it so sweet as the song anticipates. It has been my fortune, like Robinson Crusoe, and Alexander Selkirk, to be thrown on such a desolate spot, and I felt so lonely, though I had a follower, that I wish Moore had been there. I had the honour of being in that tremendous action off Finisterre, which proved an end of the earth to many a brave fellow. I was ordered with a boarding party to forcibly enter the Santissima Trinidada, but in the act of climbing into the quarter-gallery, which, however, gave no quarter, was rebutted by the butt-end of a marine's gun, who remained the quartermaster of the place. I fell senseless into the sea, and should no doubt have perished in the waters of oblivion, but for the kindness of John Monday, who picked me up to go adrift with him in one of the ship's boats. All our oars were carried away, that is to say, we did not carry away any oars, and while shot was raining, our feeble hailing was unheeded. In short, as Shakspeare says, we were drifted off by "the current of a heady fight." As may be supposed, our boat was anything but the jolly-boat, for we had no provisions to spare in the middle of an immense waste. We were, in fact, adrift in the cutter, with nothing to cut. junk for junketing, and nothing but salt-water, even if the wind should blow fresh. Famine indeed seemed to stare each of us in the face; that is, we stared at one another, but if men turn cannibals, a great allowance must he made for a short ditto. We were truly in a very disagreeable pickle, with oceans of brine and no beef, and, like Shylock, I fancy we would have exchanged a pound of gold for a pound of flesh. The more we drifted Nore, the more sharply we inclined to gnaw,-but when we drifted Sow, we found nothing like pork. No bread rose in the east, and in the opposite point we were equally disappointed. . We could not compass a meal anyhow, but got mealy mouthed notwithstanding. We could see the Sea mews to the eastward, flying over what Byron calls the Gardens of Gull. We saw plenty of Grampus, but they were useless to all intents and porpusses, and we had no bait for catching a bottle-nose.

We had not even

Time hung heavily on our hands, for our fast days seemed to pass very slowly, and our strength was rapidly sinking from being

* From The Comic Annual. By Thomas Hood.' 1832.

so much afloat. Still we nourished Hope, though we had nothing to give her. But at last we lost all prospect of land, if one may so say when no land was in sight. The weather got thicker as we were getting thinner; and though we kept a sharp watch, it was a very bad look-out. We could see nothing before us but nothing to eat and drink. At last the fog cleared off, and we saw something like land right a-head, but alas the wind was in our teeth as well as in our stomachs. We could do no nothing but keep her near, and as we could not keep ourselves full, we luckily suited the course of the boat; so that after a tedious beating about-for the wind not only gives blows but takes a great deal of beating-we came incontinently to an island. Here we landed, and our first impulse on coming to dry land was to drink. There was a little brook at hand to which we applied ourselves till it seem'd actually to murmur at our inordinate thirst. Our next care was to look for some food, for though our hearts were full at our escape, the neighbouring region was dreadfully empty. We succeeded in getting some natives out of their bed, and ate them, poor things, as fast as they got up, but with some difficulty in getting them open; a common oyster knife would have been worth the price of a sceptre. Our next concern was to look out for a lodging, and at last we discovered an empty cave, reminding me of an old inscription at Portsmouth, "The hole of this place to let." We took the precaution of rolling some great stones to the entrance, for fear of last lodgers,-that some bear might come home from business, or a tiger to tea. Here, under the rock, we slept without rocking, and when, through the night's failing, the day broke, we saw with the first instalment of light that we were upon a small desert isle, now for the first time an Isle of Man. Accordingly, the birds in this wild solitude were so little wild, that a number of boobies and noddies allowed themselves to be taken by hand, though the asses were not such asses as to be caught. There was an abundance of rabbits, which we chased unremittingly, as Hunt runs Warren; and when coats and trowsers fell short, we clothed our skins with theirs, till, as Monday said, we each represented a burrow. In this work Monday was the tailor, for, like the maker of shadowy rabbits and cocks upon the wall, he could turn his hand to anything. He became a potter, a carpenter, a butcher, and a baker-that is to say, a master butcher, and a mas.. ter baker, for I became merely his journeyman. Reduced to a state of nature, Monday's favourite phrase for our condition, 1 found my being an officer fulfilled no office; to confess the truth, I made a very poor sort of savage, whereas Monday, I am persuaded, would have been made a chief by any tribe whatever. Our situations in life were completely reversed; he became the leader

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and I the follower, or rather, to do justice to his attachment and ability, he became like a strong big brother to a helpless little one.

We remained in a state of nature five years, when at last a whaler of Hull-though the hull was not visible-showed her masts on the horizon, an event which was telegraphed by Monday, who began saying his prayers and dancing the College Hornpipe at the same time with equal fervour. We contrived by lighting a fire, literally a feu-de-joie, to make a sign of distress, and a boat came to our signal deliverance. We had a prosperous passage home, where the reader may anticipate the happiness that awaited us; but not the trouble that was in store for me and Monday. Our parting was out of the question; we would both rather have parted from our sheet anchor. We attempted to return to our relative rank, but we had lived so long in a kind of liberty and equality, that we could never resume our grades. The state of nature remained uppermost with us both, and Monday still watched over and tended me like Dominie Sampson with the boy Harry Bertram; go where I would, he followed with the dogged pertinacity of Tom Pipes; and do what I might, he interfered with the resolute vigour of John Dory in Wild Oats. This disposition involved us daily, nay, hourly, in the most embarrassing circumstances; and how the connexion might have terminated I know not, if it had not been speedily dissolved in a very unexpected manner. One morning poor Monday was found on his bed in a sort of convulsion, which barely enabled him to grasp my hand, and to falter out, "Good-bye, I am go-going -back-to a state of nature."

FANCY IN NUBIBUS,

OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS.

O! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,

To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
Or let the easily persuaded eyes

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould

Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low

And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold

'Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go
From mount to mount through CLOUDLAND, gorgeous land!
Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight,

Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand

By those deep sounds possess'd, with inward light

Beheld the ILIAD and the ODYSSEY

Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

COLERIDGE.

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