Imágenes de páginas

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief;
His feudal realm in other regions lay:
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.

Yes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view ;
Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found,
Or innocence from stern oppression flew.

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,

Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,

Nor raised their pious voices but to pray.

Where now the bats their wavering wings extend
Soon as the gloaming 1 spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary 2 paid.

Years roll on years; to ages, ages yield;
Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed:
Religion's charter their protecting shield
Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed.

One holy HENRY rear'd the gothic walls,
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY3 the kind gift recalls,

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.

Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer;

He drives them exiles from their blest abode, To roam a dreary world in deep despair—

No friend, no home, no refuge, but their God.

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, Shakes with the martial music's novel din! The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,

High crested banners wave thy walls within.

Of changing sentinels the distant hum,

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, Unite in concert with increased alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress 4 now,

Encircled by insulting rebel powers,

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow,
And dart destruction in sulphureous showers.

Ah vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,

Rebellion's recking standards o'er him wave.

As "gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Letters to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. The priory was dedicated to the Virgin.

At the dissolution of the monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron. [See antè, p. 378. note.]

4 Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his parliament.

Lord Byron, and his brother Sir William, held high commands in the royal army. The former was general in chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to

Not unavenged the raging baron yields;
The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields,
And days of glory yet for him remain.

Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.

Trembling, she snatch'd him3 from th' unequal strife, In other fields the torrent to repel;

For nobler combats, here, reserved his life,

To lead the band where godlike FALKLAND 6 fell.
From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given,
While dying groans their painful requiem sound,
Far different incense now ascends to heaven,
Such victims wallow on the gory ground.

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse,
Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod;
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse,
Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod.

Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread,
Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould:
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead,

Raked from repose in search for buried gold.

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.

At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire; the clamour of the fight is o'er ;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,

And sable Horror guards the massy door.

Here Desolation holds her dreary court:
What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort,
To fit their vigils in the hoary fane.
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.
With storns she welcomes his expiring groans;
Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones,
Loathing 7 the offering of so dark a death.

The legal ruler & now resumes the helm,

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state; Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hate.

James, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II.; the latter had a principal share in many actions.

Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry.

7 This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death or interment of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers: both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition; but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave for the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem. Charles il.

The gloomy tenants, Newstead! of thy cells,
Howling, resign their violated nest;
Again the master on his tenure dwells,
Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return; Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the breeze.

Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake:
What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase!
The dying stag seeks refuge in the Lake; 1
Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race.

Ah happy days! too happy to endure!

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure; Their joys were many, as their cares were few.

From these descending, sons to sires succeed;

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart.

Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay!
The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.

Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers;
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep;
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers;
These, these he views, and views them but to

[During the lifetime of the fifth Lord Byron, there was found in this lake-where it is supposed to have been thrown for concealment by the monks a large brass. eagle, in the body of which, on its being sent to be cleaned, was discovered a secret aperture, concealing within it a number of ancient documents connected with the rights and privileges of the foundation. At the sale of the old Lord's effects, in 1776, this eagle was purchased by a watchmaker of Nottingham; and it now forms, through the liberality of Sir Richard Kaye, an appropriate ornament of the fine old church of Southwell.]

2 ["Come what may," wrote Lord Byron to his mother, in March, 1809,"Newstead and I stand or fall together. I have now lived on the spot: I have fixed my heart upon it; and no pressure, present or future, shall induce me to barter the last vestige of our inheritance. I have that pride within me which will enable me to support difficulties. I can endure privations; but could I obtain, in exchange for Newstead Abbey, the first fortune in the country, I would reject the proposition. Set your mind at ease on that score; I feel like a man of honour, and I will not sell Newstead."]

3 ["We cannot," says the Critical Review for September, 1807, but hail, with something of prophetic rapture, the hope conveyed in the closing stanza

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine,' "' &c.] [The reader who turns from this Elegy to the stanzas descriptive of Newstead Abbey and the surrounding scenery, in the thirteenth canto of Don Juan, cannot fail to remark how frequently the leading thoughts in the two pieces are the same or to be delighted and instructed, in comparing the juvenile sketch with the bold touches and mellow colouring of the master's picture.]

5 [These verses were composed while Lord Byron was suffering under severe illness and depression of spirits. "I

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret :

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget, But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow.

Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes

Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great; Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate. 2

Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, Thee to irradiate with meridian ray; 3 Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, And bless thy future as thy former day. +

"I cannot but remember such things were,
And were most dear to me."

WHEN slow Disease, with all her host of pains,
Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins;
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring;
Not to the aching frame alone confined,
Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind:
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe,
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow,
With Resignation wage relentless strife,
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life.
Yet less the pang when, through the tedious hour,
Remembrance sheds around her genial power,
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given,
When love was bliss, and Beauty form'd our heaven;
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene,
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been.
As when through clouds that pour the summer storm
The orb of day unveils his distant form,
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain,
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain;

was laid," he says, " on my back, when that schoolboy thing was written, or rather, dictated-expecting to rise no more, my physician having taken his sixteenth fee." In the private volume the poem opened with the following lines: —

"Hence! thou unvarying song of varied loves,
Which youth commends, maturer age reproves ;
Which every rhyming bard repeats by rote,
By thousands echo'd to the self-same note!
Tired of the dull, unceasing, copious strain,
My soul is panting to be free again.
Farewell! ye nymphs propitious to my verse,
Some other Damon will your charms rehearse;
Some other paint his pangs, in hope of bliss,
Or dwell in rapture on your nectar'd kiss.
Those beauties, grateful to my ardent sight,
No more entrance my senses in delight;
Those bosoms, form'd of animated snow,
Alike are tasteless, and unfeeling now.
These to some happier lover I resign-
The memory of those joys alone is mine.
Censure no more shall brand my humble name,
The child of passion and the fool of fame.
Weary of love, of life, devour'd with spleen,
I rest a perfect Timon, not nineteen.
World! I renounce thee! all my hope 's o'ercast :
One sigh I give thee, but that sigh 's the last.
Friends, foes, and females, now alike adieu!
Would I could add remembrance of you too!
Yet though the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The curse of memory, hovering in my dreams,
Depicts with glowing pencil all those years,
Ere yet my cup, empoison'd, flow'd with tears;
Still rules my senses with tyrannic sway,
The past confounding with the present day.
"Alas! in vain I check the maddening thought;
It still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought:
My soul to Fancy's," &c. &c., as at line 29.]

Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleams,
The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams,
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze,
To scenes far distant points his paler rays;
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway,
The past confounding with the present day.

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought,
Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought;
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields,
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields:
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view,
To which I long have bade a last adieu !
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes;
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams;
Some who in marble prematurely sleep,
Whose forms I now remember but to weep;
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course
Of early science, future fame the source;
Who, still contending in the studious race,
In quick rotation fill the senior place.
These with a thousand visions now unite,

To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight. 1
IDA! blest spot, where Science holds her reign,
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train !
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire,
Again I mingle with thy playful quire;
Our tricks of mischief, every childish game,
Unchanged by time or distance, seem the same;
Through winding paths along the glade, I trace
The social smile of every welcome face;
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe,
Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe,
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past:-
I bless the former, and forgive the last.
Hours of my youth when, nurtured in my breast,
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest;
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth,
When every artless bosom throbs with truth;
Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign,
And check each impulse with prudential rein;
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose
In love to friends, in open hate to foes;
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat,
No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit.
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears.

1 [The next fifty-six lines, to

"Here first remember'd be the joyous band," were added in the first edition of Hours of Idleness.]

2 [Dr. Butler, then head-master of Harrow school. Had Lord Byron published another edition of these poems, it appears, from a loose sheet in his hand-writing, to have been his intention, instead of the passage beginning" Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew," to insert

"If once my muse a harsher portrait drew,
Warm with her wrongs, and deem'd the likeness true,
By cooler judgment taught, her faults she owns,-
With noble minds a fault confess'd, atones."]

3 [When Dr. Drury retired, in 1805, three candidates presented themselves for the vacant chair, Messrs. Drury, Evans, and Butler. "On the first movement to which this contest gave rise in the school, young Wildman,' says Moore, "was at the head of the party for Mark Drury, while Byron held himself aloof from any. Anxious, however, to have him as an ally, one of the Drury faction said to Wildman Byron, I know, will not join, because he does not choose to act second to any one; but, by giving up the leadership to him, you may at once secure him.' This Wildman accordingly did, and Byron took the command.]

[Instead of this couplet, the private volume has the following four lines:

When now the boy is ripen'd into man,
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think;
Still to assent, and never to deny -

A patron's praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although against that word his heart rebel,
And truth indignant all his bosom swell.

Away with themes like this! not mine the task
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting;
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing:
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow,
To hurl defiance on a secret foe;

But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save,
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ;
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew,
POMPOSUS' virtues are but known to few:

I never fear'd the young usurper's nod,

And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod.
If since on Granta's failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again,
Soon must her early song for ever cease,
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace.


Here first remember'd be the joyous band, Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command; Who join'd with me in every boyish sportTheir first adviser, and their last resort; Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, Or all the sable glories of his gown; Who, thus transplanted from his father's schoolUnfit to govern, ignorant of ruleSucceeded him, whom all unite to praise, The dear preceptor of my early days; PROBUS 5, the pride of science, and the boast, TO IDA now, alas! for ever lost.

With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage :

"Careless to soothe the pedant's furious frown, Scarcely respecting his majestic gown;

Adding new terror to his sneering face."


Dr. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired from his situation in March, 1805, after having resided thirtyfive years at Harrow; the last twenty as head-master; office he held with equal honour to himself and advantage to the very extensive school over which he presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous: it would be useless to enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable contest took place between three rival candidates for his vacant chair: of this I can only say,

Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi! Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hæres. [Such was Byron's parting eulogy on Dr. Drury. It may be interesting to see by the side of it the Doctor's own account of his pupil, when first committed to his care:- "I took," says the Doctor, "my young disciple into my study, and endeavoured to bring him forward by inquiries as to his former amusements, employments, and associates, but with little or no effect; and I soon found that a wild mountain colt had been submitted to my management. But there was mind in his eye. His manner and temper soon convinced me, that he might be led by a silken string to a point, rather than by a cable; and on that principle I acted."]

Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat,
From learning's labour is the blest retreat.
POMPOSUS fills his magisterial chair;
POMPOSUS governs, but, my muse, forbear: 1
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot;
His name and precepts be alike forgot!
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, —
To him my tribute is already paid.

High, through those elms, with hoary branches crown'd,

Fair IDA's bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ;
In scatter'd groups each favour'd haunt pursue;
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun,
In rival bands, between the wickets run,
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way,
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray;
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbours shade them from the summer heat:
Others again, a pert and lively crew,


Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view,
With forlic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
""I was here the gather'd swains for vengeance
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought;
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight."
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,
And Learning beckons from her temple's door.
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall,
But ruder records fill the dusky wall;
There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;

Here mingling view the names of sire and son—
The one long graved, the other just begun :
These shall survive alike when son and sire
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire: 2
Perhaps their last memorial these alone,
Denied in death a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave.

1 [To this passage, had Lord Byron published another edition of Hours of Idleness, it was his intention to give the following turn:—

"Another fills his magisterial chair;

Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care;

Oh! may like honours crown his future name: If such his virtues, such shall be his fame."] [During a rebellion at Harrow, the poet prevented the school-room from being burnt down, by pointing out to the boys the names of their fathers and grandfathers on the walls.]

3 [Lord Byron elsewhere thus describes his usual course of life while at Harrow" always cricketing, rebelling, rowing, and in all manner of mischiefs." One day, in a fit of defiance, he tore down all the gratings from the window of the hall; and when called upon by Dr. Butler to say why he had committed this violence, answered, with stern coolness, "because they darkened the room."]

[This description of what the young poet felt in 1806, on encountering in the world any of his former schoolfellows,

And here my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends.
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law;
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power,
To rule the little tyrants of an hour;-
Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day,
They pass the dreary winter's eve away.
"And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide,
And thus they dealt the combat side by side;
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 3
Here PROBUS came, the rising fray to quell,
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And here one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold Poмrosus bravely stay'd at home;'
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive :
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

Dear honest race! though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before-
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu—
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world,
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd,
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hoped was to forget.
Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found:
The smiles of beauty—(for, alas! I've known
What 't is to bend before Love's mighty throne) —
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of IDA danced before my eyes;

I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along,
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 4

Yet, why should I alone with such delight,
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?

falls far short of the page in which he records an accidental meeting with Lord Clare, on the road between Imola and Bologna in 1821. "This meeting," he says, "annihilated for a moment all the years between the present time and the days of Harrow. It was a new and inexplicable feeling, like rising from the grave, to me. Clare too was much agitatedmore in appearance than was myself; for I could feel his heart beat to his fingers' ends, unless, indeed, it was the pulse of my own which made me think so. We were but five minutes together, and on the public road; but I hardly recollect an hour of my existence which could be weighed against them." We may also quote the following interesting sentences of Madame Guiccioli :-"In 1822 (says she), a few days before leaving Pisa, we were one evening seated in the garden of the Palazzo Lanfranchi. At this moment a servant announced Mr. Hobhouse. The slight shade of melancholy diffused over Lord Byron's face gave instant place to the liveliest joy; but it was so great, that it almost deprived him of strength. fearful paleness came over his cheeks, and his eyes were filled with tears as he embraced his friend: his emotion was so great that he was forced to sit down."]


Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear,
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee.
A home, a world, a paradise to me.
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father's care.
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?
For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own? 1
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ?
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties !
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest :
I hear I wake—and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again, but ah! no brother's voice.
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone.
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than IDA's social band.

Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends, Thy name ennobles him who thus commends From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise; The praise is his who now that tribute pays. Oh! in the promise of thy early youth, If hope anticipate the words of truth, Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, To build his own upon thy deathless fame.

[It has been reserved for our own time to produce one distinguished example of the Muse having descended upon a bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre to tell, and we trust to soothe, afflictions of no ordinary description; atllictions originating probably in that singular combination of feeling, which has been called the poetical temperament, and which has so often saddened the days of those on whom it has been conferred. If ever a man could lay claim to that character in all its strength and all its weakness, with its unbounded range of enjoyment, and its exquisite sensibility of pleasure and of pain, it must certainly be granted to Lord Byron. His own tale is partly told in two lines of Lara: "Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, Lord of himself-that heritage of woe!" SIR WALTER SCOTT.]

[The Hon. John Wingfield, of the Coldstream Guards, brother to Richard, fourth Viscount Powerscourt. He died of a fever, in his twentieth year, at Coimbra, May 14th, 1811. -"Of all human beings, says Lord Byron, "I was, perhaps, at one time, the most attached to poor Wingfield. I had known him the better half of his life, and the happiest part of mine." On hearing of the death of his beloved schoolfellow, he added the following stanzas to the first canto of Childe Harold :

"And thou, my friend!- since unavailing woe

Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain-
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low,
Pride might forbid ev'n Friendship to complain :
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain,
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast,
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain,
While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest!
What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest?
"Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the most,
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear!
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost,
In dreams deny me not to see thee here!" &c.]

Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest,
Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore;
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more.
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one :
Together we impell'd the flying ball;
Together waited in our tutor's hall;
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil;
Or, plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore;
In every element, unchanged, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.


Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy! DAVUS, the harbinger of childish joy; For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, The laughing herald of the harmless pun; Yet with a breast of such materials madeAnxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. Still I remember, in the factious strife, The rustic's musket aim'd against my life:1 High poised in air the massy weapon hung, A cry of horror burst from every tongue; Whilst I, in combat with another foe, Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career— Forward you sprung, insensible to fear; Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: An act like this, can simple thanks repay ? 5 Or all the labours of a grateful lay? Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great: Thy milder virtues could my muse relate,

3 [The Rev. John Cecil Tattersall, B.A., of Christ Church, Oxford; who died Dec. 8. 1812, at Hall's Place, Kent, aged twenty-four. "His mind," says a writer in the Gent. Mag., "was comprehensive and perspicuous; his affections warm and sincere. Through extreme aversion to hypocrisy, he was so far from assuming the false appearances of virtue, that much of his real excellence was unseen, whilst he was eager to acknowledge every fault into which he was led. He was an ardent friend, a stranger to feelings of enmity; he lived in good faith towards men, and died with hope in God."]

[The "factious strife" here recorded, was accidentally brought on by the breaking up of school, and the dismissal of some volunteers from drill, both happening at the same hour. On this occasion, it appears, the butt-end of a musket was aimed at Byron's head, and would have felled him to the ground, but for the interposition of Tattersall.]

5 [In the private volume:

"Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize-
A life unworthy such a sacrifice."]

[John Fitzgibbon, second Earl of Clare, born June 2. 1792. His father, whom he succeeded Jan. 28. 1802, was for nearly twelve years Lord Chancellor of Ireland. See antè, p. 406. note. His Lordship is now (1832) Governor of Bombay. "I never," says Lord Byron, in 1821,"hear the word 'Clare, without a beating of the heart even now; and I write it with feelings of 1803-4-5, ad infinitum." Of the tenaciousness with which he clung to all the kindly impressions of his youth, there can be no stronger proof than the interesting fact, that after his death almost all the notes and letters which his principal school favourites had ever addressed to him were found preserved carefully among his papers. The following is the indorsement upon one of them: "This and another letter were written at Harrow, by my then and, I hope, ever beloved friend, Lord Clare, when we were both school-boys; and sent to my study in consequence of some childish misunderstanding, — the only one which

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