IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme, This parting song, the dearest and the last; IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, tude and veneration of one who would more gladly boast of having been his pupil, if, by more closely following his injunctions, he could reflect any honour upon his instructor." We extract the following from some unpublished letters of Lord Byron :"Harrow, Nov. 2. 1804. There is so much of the gentleman, so much mildness, and nothing of pedantry in his character, that I cannot help liking him, and will remember his instructions with gratitude as long as I live. He is the best master we ever had, and at the same time respected and feared." "Nov. 11. 1804. I revere Dr. Drury. He is never violent, never outrageous. I dread offending him; - not, however, through fear; but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure."] [In a note to the fourth canto of Childe Harold, Lord Byron says: "No one could, or can be more attached to Harrow than I have always been, and with reason; — a part of the time passed there was the happiest of my life."] Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd, When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth, "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes," is a French proverb. [See, p. 151., a poem under this title.] ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT." 1 MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave; "Unknown the region of his birth," His joy or grief, his weal or woe, The patriot's and the poet's frame The lustre of a beauty's eye Assumes the ghastly stare of death; And sink the yawning grave beneath. 1 Written by James Montgomery, author of "The Wanderer in Switzerland," &c. 2 No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times, the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c. are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers. Once more the speaking eye revives, The rolling seasons pass away, And Time, untiring, waves his wing; All, all must sleep in grim repose, The old and young, with friends and foes, The mouldering marble lasts its day, The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain. What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, By those whose virtues claim reward. Then do not say the common lot Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; Some few who ne'er will be forgot Shall burst the bondage of the grave. 1806. TO A LADY WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE VELVET THIS Band, which bound thy yellow hair, Like relics left of saints above. Oh! I will wear it next my heart; The dew I gather from thy lip Is not so dear to me as this; And banquet on a transient bliss: This will recall each youthful scene, E'en when our lives are on the wane; Oh little lock of golden hue, In gently waving ringlet curl'd, Not though a thousand more adorn The polish'd brow where once you shone, Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. BAND 1806. [First published, 1833.] |