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!

SONNETS.

SCORN NOT THE SONNET.

SCORN not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet, whence he blew
Soul-animating strains, -alas, too few.

IT IS A BEAUTEOUS EVENING.

Ir is a beauteous evening, calm and free;
The holy time is quiet as a nun
Breathless with adoration; the broad sun
Is sinking down in its tranquillity;
The gentleness of heaven is on the sea;
Listen! the mighty Being is awake,
And doth with his eternal motion make
A sound like thunder-everlastingly.
Dear child! dear girl! that walkest with me here,
If thou appear'st untouch'd by solemn thought,
Thy nature is not, therefore, less divine;
Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year,
And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine,

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US.

THE world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers ;
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn ;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

LONDON, 1802.

MILTON! thou shouldst be living at this hour ;
England hath need of thee; she is a fen
Of stagnant waters; altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men :
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea;
Pure as the naked heavens-majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life's common way
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.

EARTH has not any thing to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky,-
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!

GREAT ΜΕΝ.

GREAT men have been among us; hands that penned
And tongues that uttered wisdom-better none :
The later Sidney, Marvel, Harrington,

Young Vane, and others who called Milton friend.
These moralists could act and comprehend :
They knew how genuine glory was put on;
Taught us how rightfully a nation shone
In splendour; what strength was, that would not bend
But in magnanimous meekness. France, 'tis strange,
Hath brought forth no such souls as we had then.
Perpetual emptiness! unceasing change!
No single volume paramount, no code,
No master spirit, no determined road;
But equally a want of books and men!

TO A SKY-LARK.

ETHEREAL minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will,

To the last point of vision, and beyond,
Mount, daring warbler!-that love-prompted strain
('Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond)
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain :
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing

All independent of the leafy spring.

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood,-
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine :
Type of the wise who soar, but never roam ;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS.

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A maid, whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love :

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

GEORGE GORDON BYRON was born in Holles Street, London, on the 22nd of January, 1788. He was the grandson of the celebrated Admiral, and succeeded his great uncle, William Lord Byron, in 1798. On his elevation to the peerage, he was removed from the care of his mother, and placed at Harrow, by his guardian,-the Earl of Carlisle. In 1805, he was entered at Trinity College, Cambridge; and took up his permanent residence at Newstead Abbey, the family seat. In 1807, he published at Newark, his "Hours of Idleness:" they were attacked with considerable bitterness in the "Edinburgh Review," and his memorable "Satire" followed. His various "Works" succeeded with wonderful rapidity. In 1815, he married the daughter of Sir Ralph Milbank Noel: a separation took place soon afterwards, and the Poet went abroad, residing at Geneva, and in various cities of Italy. In August, 1823, he embarked in the cause of Greece; and died at Missolonghi, on the 19th of April, 1824.

Lord Byron was, thus, a young man when he died. Personal descriptions of the Poet are abundant. In 1823, Lady Blessington was intimately acquainted with him, at Genoa. According to her account, his appearance was highly prepossessing; "his head," she says, "is finely shaped, and the forehead open, high, and noble; his eyes are grey, and full of expression, but one is visibly larger than the other; his mouth is the most remarkable feature in his face-the upper lip of Grecian shortness, and the corners descending; the lips full and finely cut: his chin is large and well shaped; his face is peculiarly pale." She adds, that, "although slightly lame, the deformity of his foot is but little remarkable."

The biographies of Lord Byron are almost as numerous as his Works. The wonderful genius of the Poet procured for him an extent of popularity unparalleled in his age; and the public sought eagerly for every anecdote that could afford the smallest insight into his character. Few men could have borne so searching a test. His biographers, without exception, have arrived at conclusions prejudicial to his character; it is, therefore, impossible for an Editor who would sum up their evidence, to recommend any other verdict, than that which has been given. It is time to discard the old superstition, NIL NISI BONUM, as at once unphilosophical and derogatory to the character of any man, who seeks to live "for aye, in Fame's eternal temple." NIL NISI VERUM, should be the motto of the dead. It may be ungracious to disobey the mandate,

"Lift not thy spear against the Muse's bower;"

but the warning cannot have reference to the spear of Ithuriel. Truth is so precious, that it never costs too much. We protest at the outset of our labours against all reference to PRIVATE character, and comment upon PRIVATE life; but we must always except cases where they are mixed up with published writings which influence, and are designed to influence, the universal mind. Many of the Poems of Lord Byron have a dangerous tendency: they are calculated to remove the hideous features of Vice, and present it, if not in a tempting, at least in a natural and pardonable light. Whether it was a genuine sentiment, or a gross affectation, it matters not; but it was the frequent boast of the Poet, that he scorned and hated human kind; and out of this feeling, or this pretension, grew his labours to corrupt it. It was not alone against THINGS held sacred by society, that his spleen and venom were directed: he strove to render odious some of the best and purest men that have ever lived; and his attacks were not the momentary ebullitions of dislike, but the produce of deep and settled hatred, the more bitter in proportion as the cause was small. To the various circumstances that are said to have warped his mind, we cannot here refer. We perform an imperative duty, in a work which must find its way among the young and enthusiastic, when we warn the reader of his exquisite poetry, that danger lurks under the leaves. The Poems of Byron will live, as he had a right to anticipate they would, "with his land's language." The amazing power he possessed of searching into and pourtraying character,-his prodigious skill in versification, his fine perception of the sublime and beautiful in nature,--his graceful and unforced wit, his deep readings of human passion, -his accurate knowledge of the secret movements of the heart, -were so many keys to his wonderful and universal success..

* Of the many beautiful editions of Byron's works which Mr. Murray has published, the last, in one