In his Diary, Jan. 21, 1821, Lord Byron writes: "To-morrow is my birthday—that is to say, at twelve o' the clock, midnight, i.e. in twelve minutes, I shall have completed thirty-and-three years of age!!!-and I go to my bed with a heaviness of heart at having lived so long and to so little purpose. * * * It is three minutes past twelve-it is the middle of the night by the castle clock, and I am now thirty-three! "ON MY THIRTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. What have these years left to me? He had by this time bitterly experienced, like so many other reckless sons of rank and fortune, the gloomy change described so picturesquely by Gray— Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey. Byron's last verses were written three months before his untimely death in Greece, on the day when he attained his thirty-sixth year. "This morning," Count Gamba relates, "Lord Byron came from his bedroom into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile-You were complaining the other day that I never write any poetry now. This is my birthday, and I have just finished something, which I think is better than what I usually write.' He then produced these noble and affecting verses." Lord Byron's biographer, Thomas Moore, observes" Taking into consideration everything connected with these verses-the last tender aspirations of a loving spirit which they breathe, the self-devotion to a noble cause which they so nobly express, and that consciousness of a near grave glimmering sadly through the whole there is perhaps no production within the range of mere human composition round which the circumstances and feelings under which it was written cast so touching an interest.” ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR. MISSOLONGHI, JAN. 22, 1824. 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; The hope, the fear, the zealous care, And But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus-and 'tis not here Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. L The sword, the banner, and the field, Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!) Tread those reviving passions down, If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? Seek out-less often sought than found— I know not where a more interesting birthday memorial is to be found than this : SONNET ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK, JAN. 25TH, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ROBERT BURNS, AGED 34. Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough! Sits meek Content, with light, unanxious heart, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. I thank Thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies! Riches denied, Thy boon was purer joys, What wealth could never give, nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. Burns died at thirty-seven years and six months, in 1796; he was not to reach even that age of five-and-forty, which his verses describe as the boundary of middle life :— The magic wand then let us wield, Wi' wrinkled face Come hastin, hirplin awre the field When ance life's day draws near the gloamin', On the 25th of January, 1759, the 100th anniversary of the birth of Scotia's glorious peasant bard, a prize poem by Isa Craig was publicly read, from which we take a portion: We hail, this morn, A century's noblest birth; A poet, peasant-born, Who more of Fame's immortal dower Unto his country brings Than all her kings! Upon some earthly eminence And to the gazer brighter thence Than the sphere-lights they flout- So, through the past's far-reaching night * * The God-made king Of every living thing * (For his great heart in love could hold them all), The dumb eyes meeting his by hearth and stall, Gifted to understand! Knew it and sought his hand; And the most timorous creature had not fled, Which fain all feeble things had bless'd and shelter'd. To Nature's feast Who knew her noblest guest, And entertain'd him best Kingly he came. Her chambers of the east For him her anthem roll'd, From the storm-wind among the winter pines, Down to the slenderest note Of a love-warble from the linnet's throat. But when begins The array for battle, and the trumpet blows, Grim gathering hosts of sorrows and of sins- |