LORD BYRON.

"Not length of life, not an illustrious birth,
Rich with the noblest blood of all the earth;
Nought can avail, save deeds of high emprize,
Our mortal being to immortalize.

Sweet child of song! thou sleepest; ne'er again
Shall swell the notes of thy melodious strain :

Yet with thy country, wailing o'er thy urn,

Pallas, the Muse, Mars, Greece, and Freedom mourn."

H. H. JOY.

I.

GENIUS of Song! who ever lov'st to fill

The impassion'd hours of boyhood with the soul
Of thine own presence, and whose sacred will
Bows its high feelings as they fast unrol,
And lulls their hot turmoilings to be still;
Who fondly thus as sadd'ning vespers toll

Hast oft the "Childe" of poesy embrac'd

In Harrow's lonely churchyard, and his raptures trac'd

B

II.

Breathing thine opiate Inspiration round,
Wafting sweet solace to endear the gloom
That solemnized the melancholy ground,
And gather'd midnight o'er his favourite tomb1;
Whose courted aid his stirring spirit bound

To hail each aspiration that would come,
To prompt the bright forebodings of a fame
That hallowed with fresh glory and enhanc'd thy name,—

III.

Tune thou my lay-and be thyself my muse;
Blended in essence as in name with him,

The mighty Son of verse, whom thou didst choose
To wake the strings thy envied praise to hymn;
Oh! let my touch his kindling warmth infuse!
These strains resound like voice of Cherubim!
And vivid Fancy paint her pictured dream,
To suit the eye of frenzy and the minstrel's theme.

IV.

Nor vain the prayer; for oh! if secret glow
Of ardent love can aught avail my song,
From mind's pure fountains, mantling
fountains, mantling as they flow,
Will streams of thought poetic depths among
Ciush rapid forward, scarce suppress'd till now;
And as in joyance and in pride, along
The channel of the breast they float with glee,

The powers of verse would guide their welcom'd revelry.

V.

For shall it, in this land of song, be told
Of human heart, that wanting sympathy,
Has never flush'd mute communing to hold
With every fated son of poetry?

If such there be, so chill'd, so deadly cold,
As not to boast continuous unity,

It never yet hath felt, nor e'er hath known

The viewless chain that binds eternal soul in one.

VI.

Such senseless spirit,-wearied by the load
Of mortal clay,-has ventured not to rove
Along the mental, meditative road

That travels on to universal Love;

It ne'er hath owned the stirrings of its God!

Nor heav'd the emotions that quick bosoms prove When breaking from the prison where they dwell!— Such worthless soul, indeed, endures its proper hell.

VII.

It is a sweet enjoyment to aspire

Above the beaten tracks of real life,
And, goaded on, to grasp a prize far higher
Than what is offer'd for a common strife;

To feel the quick'ning ray of holy fire,
With immortality's own sparklings rife,
Circle with kindling influence thro' the frame,

And then confess its birth in all mankind the same.

VIII.

It is a cordial to the thoughtful mind
To fix the essence of the inspiring breath
Pervading every being, tho' combin'd

With sinful matter that must end in death;
And then to trace affections thus inclin'd,

As glows the warm heat in the spirit's sheath, And muse alone, while vision's vistas shine,

Is bliss ev'n saints might crave, with theirs to entertwine!

IX.

And in such mood, as Fancy's glance will dart
Across the fairy realms of poetry,

Wishful to speak a tributary part,—

What worthier name can fix the poet's eye
Than “his,” whose verse is 'grav'd upon his heart;
Than "his," to whom affection would ally

All that is pure, unearthly, and divine!

None, none, all-injur`d bard, than deathless Byron! thine.

X.

I know not why, but yet there is a charm
That centres in the sound of Byron's name,
And bids the current of my blood run warm,
As shoots the lightning of his mighty fame;
My every purpose can the spell disarm,

And at its pleasure all sensation claim,
Stamping intensity of interest, fraught

With all the siren-influence that his pen hath wrought.