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Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair,
Thou throneless Homicide?
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, 'Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem !
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
That element may meet thy smile-
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison'd rage?
But one-"The world was mine!" Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
That spirit pour'd so widely forth—
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
There was a day-there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thineWhen that immeasurable power
Unsated to resign
Had been an act of purer fame
Through the long twilight of all time,
But thou forsooth must be a king,
Where may the wearied eye repose
Yes-one-the first-the last—the best—
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one!
ODE ON WATERLO0.
WE do not curse thee, Waterloo !
Never yet was heard such thunder
As then shall shake the world with wonderNever yet was seen such lightning
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,
Show'ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.
The Chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo !
POETRY OF BYRON.
Thanks for that lesson-it will teach
Than high Philosophy can preach,
That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre sway,
The triumph, and the vanity,
All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The Desolator desolate ?
The Victor overthrown!
A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
To die a prince—or live a slave—
He who of old would rend the oak,
Thou in the sternness of thy strength
The Roman, when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger-dared depart, In savage grandeur, home.
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
A strict accountant of his beads,
Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung
Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart
To see thine own unstrung;
To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean;