The war, that for a space did fail,
Now trebly thund'ring swell'd the gale-
And-Stanley! was the cry,

A light o'er Marmion's visage spread,
And fir'd his glazing eye :

With dying hand, above his head,
He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted " Victory!

Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on !"
Were the last words of Marmion.

Tradition, legend, tune and song,
Shall many an age that wail prolong:
Still from the sire the son shall hear
Of the stern strife and carnage drear,
Of Flodden's fatal field,

Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear,
And broken was her shield!

1806.

GEORGE GORDON BYRON.

Lord Byron, of variel poetic excellence, had been the unchallenged Prince of modern Poets.

But that the world endorsed th' officials doom-
That barred the sacred aisle to his memorial tomb.

The isle is now all desolate and bare,

Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away,

None but their own and father's grave is there,
And nothing outward tells of human clay,
Ye could not know where lived a thing so fair,
No stone is there to show--no tongue to tell
What was no dirge, except the hollow seas
Mourn o'er the beauty of the Cyglatese.
The sky is chang'd and such a change-O night
And storm and darkness ye are wond'rous strong,
Yes, lovely in your strength as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman--far along,
From peak to peak the rattling craigs among-
Leaps the live thunder-not from one lone cloud,
But ev'ry mountain now has found a tongue;
And Jura answers through her misty cloud,
Back to the joyous Alps who call to her aloud,
And this is in the night, most glorious night
Thou were not sent for slumber, let me be
A sharer in the fierce and far delight;

A portion of thy tempest and of thee,
Now the lit lake shines a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth;
And now again 'tis black, and now the glee

Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,

As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.