In this low vale, the promise of the year, Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of life she rears her head, While every bleaching breeze that on her blows And hardens her to bear KIRKE WHITE. THE COLISEUM. ARCHES on arches! as it were that Rome, Should be the light which streams here, to illume Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow man. And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure.—Wherefore not? What matters where we fall, to fill the maws Of worms-on battle-plains or listed spot? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. I see before me the Gladiator lie: Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam; Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise My voice sounds much-and fall the stars faint rays On the arena void-seats crushed-walls bowedAnd galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud. A ruin-yet what ruin! from its mass Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared; And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. When the colossal fabric's form is neared: It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away. But when the rising moon begins to climb BYRON. DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. HARK! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Death hushed that pang for ever with thee fled Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy. Peasants bring forth in safety.-Can it be, Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard Her many griefs for ONE; for she had poured Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head Beheld her Iris.-Thou, too, lonely lord, And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead! Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; The fair-haired daughter of the isles is laid, Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed Our children should obey her child, and blessed Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed Like stars to shepherds' eyes:-'twas but a meteor beamed. BYRON. SUN-SET. How dear to me the hour when day-light dies, And, as I watch the line of light, that plays Along the smooth wave toward the burning west, I long to tread that golden path of rays, And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest! MOORE. |