THE FATE OF THE FRIENDLESS.

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"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call, what answer shall she make?"
Enough, enough, my yeoman good! thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, that am of lighter mood, will laugh to flee away.

And now I'm in the world alone, upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan, when none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, till fed by stranger-hands;
But, long ere I come back again, he 'd tear me where he stands.
With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, so not again to mine!
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! and when you fail my
sight,

Welcome, ye deserts and ye caves! My native land, good-night!

BYRON.

LXXIV. THE FATE OF THE FRIENDLESS.

My life is like the summer rose,
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground-
- to die;
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept such waste to see →→→
But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf

That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,

Restless, and soon to pass away;
Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade;
The winds bewail the leafless tree-
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand :
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

All trace will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea
But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

R. H. WILDE.

LXXV. — LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM.

FROM life without freedom, say, who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, O! who would not die?
Hark! hark! 't is the trumpet! the call of the brave
The death-song of tyrants, the dirge of the slave.
Our country lies bleeding-O! fly to her aid;
One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade.
From life without freedom, O! who would not fly?
For one day of freedom, O! who would not die?

In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!
On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed
For virtue, for mankind, are heroes indeed.
And, O! even if Freedom from this world be driven,
Despair not-at least we shall find her in heaven.
In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains,
The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains!

HARK! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? Saw ye not whom the reeking saber smote,

Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?—The fires of death, The bale-fires flash on high :- from rock to rock,

Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock!

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, and now anon
Flashing afar, and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers to mark what deeds are done; For, on this morn, three potent nations meet

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;

BELIEF IN A FUTURE STATE.

Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond al-ly

That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,

Are met
To feed the crow on Tal-a-ve'ra's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

as if at home they could not die.

There shall they rot- Ambition's honored fools!
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay!
Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools,
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away

By myriads, when they dare to pave their way
With human hearts-to what?· -a dream alone.

Can despots compass aught that hails their sway?
Or call with truth one span of earth their own,
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone?

383

BYRON.

LXXVII. BELIEF IN A FUTURE STATE.

O! LIVES there, Heaven, beneath thy dread expanse,
One hapless, dark idolater of Chance,

Content to feed, with pleasures unrefined,

The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;

Who, mouldering earthward 'reft of every trust,
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this barren world sufficient bliss?
There live, alas! of heaven-directed mien,
Of cultured soul and sapient eye serene,
Who hail thee, man, the pilgrim of a day,
Spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay,
Frail as the leaf in Autumn's yellow bower,
Dust in the wind, or dew upon the flower;
A friendless slave, a child without a sire,
Whose mortal life and momentary fire
Light to the grave his chance-created form,
As ocean-wrecks illuminate the storm;
And when the gun's tremendous flash is o'er,
To night and silence sink for evermore!
Are these the pompous tidings ye proclaim,
Lights of the world, and demigods of Fame?

Is this your triumph, this your proud applause,
Children of Truth and champions of her cause?
For this hath Science searched, on weary wing,
By shore and sea, each mute and living thing?
Launched with Iberia's pilot from the steep,
To worlds unknown and isles beyond the deep?
Or round the cope her living chariot driven,
And wheeled in triumph through the signs of heaven?
O! star-eyed Science, hast thou wandered there
To waft us home the message of despair?
Then bind the palm, thy sage's brow to suit,
Of blasted leaf and death-distilling fruit!

Ah me! the laureled leaf that Murder rears,
Blood nursed, and watered by the widow's tears,
Seems not so foul, so tainted, and so dread,
As waves the night-shade round the skeptic's head.
What is the bigot's torch, the tyrant's chain?
I smile on death, if heavenward HOPE remain !
But if the warring winds of Nature's strife
Be all the faithless charter of my life, -
If Chance awaked, inexorable power,
This frail and feverish being of an hour,
Doomed o'er the world's precarious scene to sweep,
Swift as the tempest travels on the deep,
To know Delight but by her parting smile,
And toil, and wish, and weep, a little while;
Then melt, ye elements, that formed in vain
This troubled pulse and visionary brain!
Fade, ye wild flowers, memorials of my doom!
And sink, ye stars, that light me to the tomb !

Truth, ever lovely, since the world began,
The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man,-
How can thy words from balmy slumber start
Reposing Virtue pillowed on the heart!
Yet, if thy voice the note of thunder rolled,
And that were true which Nature never told,
Let Wisdom smile not on her conquered field,
No rapture dawns, no treasure is revealed!
O! let her read, nor loudly, nor elate,
The doom that bars us from a better fate;
But, sad as angels for the good man's sin,
Weep to record, and blush to give it in!

CAMPBELL.

MODULATION IN SPEAKING.

LXXVIII. - MODULATION IN SPEAKING.

'Tis not enough the voice be sound and clear;
'Tis modulation that must charm the ear.

When desperate heroines grieve with tedious moan
And whine their sorrows in a see-saw tone,
The same soft sounds of unimpassioned woes
Can only make the yawning hearers doze.
The voice all modes of passion can express,
That marks the proper word with proper stress.
But none emphatic can that actor call,
Who lays an equal emphasis on all.

Some o'er the tongue the labored measures roll,
Slow and deliberate as the parting toll:
Point every step, mark every pause so strong,
Their words, like stage processions, stalk along.
All affectation but creates disgust,

And e'en in speaking we may seem too just.
In vain for them the pleasing measure flows,
Whose recitation runs it all to prose;
Repeating what the poet sets not down,
The verb disjoining from its friendly noun,
While pause, and break, and repetition, join
To make a discord in each tuneful line.

Some placid natures fill the allotted scene
With lifeless drone, insipid, and serene;
While others thunder every couplet o'er,
And almost crack your ears with rant and roar.
More nature oft and finer strokes are shown
In the low whisper, than tempestuous tone;
And Hamlet's hollow voice and fixed amaze
More powerful terror to the mind conveys,
Than he who, swollen with big, impetuous rage,
Bullies the bulky phantom off the stage.

He who in earnest studies o'er his part
Will find true nature cling about his heart.
The modes of grief are not included all
In the white handkerchief and mournful drawl;
A single look more marks the internal woe
Than all the windings of the lengthened O!
Up to the face the quick sensation flies,
And darts its meaning from the speaking eyes:
Love, transport, madness, anger, scorn, despair,
And all the passions, all the soul, is there.

385

LLOYD.