“Me too the dark Fates call;

Their sway is over all,
Captor and captive, prison-house and throne;

I tell of others' lot;

They hear me, heed me not!
Hide, angry Phoebus, hide from me mine own.”

SONNET TO ADA.

THE touching pathos of thy low sweet voice
Fell on my heart, like dew on wither'd flowers,
And brought such memory of departed hours
As made me weep—yet in my tears rejoice.
For one I loved—now lost to me for ever-
Breathed even so the soul of melody,
And—since that voice has perish'd—never, never,
Till I heard thine, such sounds had greeted me.
E’en now thy tones, recall’d by night and day,
Linger in Memory's echo-haunted cell,
Thrilling sweet agony: nor know I well
Whether to chide them, or to bid them stay.
At times I scarce can bear the pain’d regret
Which they excite—then cry, Oh do not leave me yet!
The soldier's silence, and the matron's tear,-
These are the trappings of the sable bier,
Which time corrupts not, falsehood cannot hide,
Nor folly scorn, nor calumny deride.
And what is writ, is writ!—the guilt and shame,
All eyes have seen them, and all lips may blame;
Where is the record of the wrong that stung,
The charm that tempted, and the grief that wrung?
Let feeble hands, iniquitously just
Rake up the reliques of the sinful dust,
Let ignorance mock the pang it cannot feel,
And Malice brand, what Mercy would conceal ;
It matters not! he died as all would die;
Greece had his earliest song, his latest sigh;
And o'er the shrine, in which that cold heart sleeps,
Glory looks dim, and joyous conquest weeps.
The maids of Athens to the spot shall bring
The freshest roses of the new-born spring,
The Spartan boys their first-won wreath shall bear,
To bloom round Byron's urn, or droop in sadness there!

Farewell, sweet ATHENS ! thou shalt be again
The sceptred Queen of all thine old domain,
Again be blest in all thy varied charms
Of loveliness and valor, arts and arms.
Forget not then, that in thine hour of dread,
While the weak battled, and the guiltless bled,
Though Kings and Courts stood gazing on thy fate,
The bad, to scoff—the better, to debate,

13

Here, where the soul of youth remembers yet
The smiles and tears which manhood must forget,
In a far land, the honest and the free
Had lips to pray, and hearts to feel, for thee !

OP

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