Had wandered from its dwelling; and her eyes,
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms impalpable, and unperceived
Of others' sight, familiar were to hers.

And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;

What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality too real!

VIII.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone, as heretofore;
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation-compassed round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mixed
In all which was served up to him; until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons; and they had no power,

But were a kind of nutriment. He lived

Through that which had been death to many men;

And made him friends of mountains. With the stars,

And the quick spirit of the Universe,

He held his dialogues! and they did teach

To him the magic of their mysteries;

To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret-Be it so.

IX.

My dream was past: it had no further change.
It was of a strange order, that the doom

Of these two creatures should be thus traced out
Almost like a reality—the one

To end in madness—both in misery.

LORD BYRON.

Waterloo.

(FROM CHILDE HAROLD.)

TOP!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!

STOP

An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be ;—
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory?

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls,
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo!
How in an hour the power which gave annuls
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too!
In "pride of place" here last the eagle flew,
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain,
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through;
Ambition's life and labors all were vain;

He wears the shattered links of the world's broken chain.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered 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 looked 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 windowed niche of that high hall, Sat 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 deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : He rushed 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 Blushed 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 thronged 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 valor, 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 covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,-friend, foe,-in one red burial blent!

Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine;
Yet one I would select from that proud throng,
Partly because they blend me with his line,
And partly that I did his sire some wrong,

And partly that bright names will hallow song! And his was of the bravest, and when showered The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered, They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard!

There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee,

And mine were nothing, had I such to give ;
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree,
Which, living, waves where thou didst cease to live,
And saw around me the wild field revive

With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive,
With all her reckless birds upon the wing,

I turned from all she brought to those she could not bring!

LORD BYRON.

Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte.
"TIS done-but yesterday a King!

And armed with Kings to strive—

And now thou art a nameless thing ;
So abject-yet alive!.

Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strewed our earth with hostile bones?

And can he thus survive?

Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bowed so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,

Thou taught'st the rest to see.

With might unquestioned-power to save,—
Thine only gift hath been the grave,

To those that worshipped thee;