Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown ;
This child I to myself will take ;

She shall be mine, and I will make
A Lady of my own.

"Myself will, to my darling, be

Both law and impulse: and with me
The girl, on rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power,

To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn,
That, wild with glee, across the lawn,
Or up the mountain springs;

And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence, and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend ;

Nor shall she fail to see,

Even in the motions of the storm,

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear,

In many a secret place,

Where rivulets dance their wayward round; And beauty, born of murmuring sound,

Shall pass into her face.

“And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts, to Lucy I will give,

While she and I together live,

Here in this happy dell."

Thus Nature spake-The work was done.
How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ;
The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

BYRON.

LORD BYRON was born in 1788, and died in 1824. He wrote largely during his short life-his works being chiefly lyrical, dramatic, and lyrico-epic. He possesses great passion, pathos, and power of language; but the moral character of many of his works is generally unworthy of a mind otherwise so great.

TO HESPERUS.(Don Juan, Canto III.)

O HESPERUS! thou bringest all good things-
Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer,
To the young bird the parent's brooding wings,

The welcome stall to the o'er-laboured steer;
Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings,

Whate'er our household gods protect of dear,
Are gathered round us by thy look of rest ;
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast.

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day

When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;

Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies, but something mourns!

THE SEA.-(Childe Harold.)

ROLL on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ;

Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,

When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groanWithout a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime-
The image of Eternity-the throne

Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

THE SHIPWRECK.—(Don Juan.)

THEN rose from sea to sky the wild farewell—
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave-
Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;

And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell,

And down she suck'd with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. And first one universal shriek there rush'd, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash Of billows; but at intervals there gush'd, Accompanied with a convulsive splash,

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry

Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO.-(Childe Harold.)

THERE was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then

Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage-bell :—

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !
Did ye
not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street-
On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat,
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm!-It is, it is the cannon's opening roar.

Within a window'd niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amid the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deem'd it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated. Who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ;

While throng'd the citizens, with terror dumb,

Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! they come! they come!"

And wild and high the "Cameron's Gathering” rose,

The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard—and heard, too, have her Saxon foes.
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,
Grieving-if aught inanimate e'er grieves-
Over the unreturning brave; alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass

Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valour rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope shall moulder cold and low !
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,

Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay;

The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
The morn the marshalling in arms; the day
Battle's magnificently stern array !

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent,
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover-heap'd and pent,
Rider and horse-friend, foe-in one red burial blent!

THUNDER-STORM AMONG THE ALPS.-(Childe Harold.)
THE sky is changed!-and such a change! Oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along