body of the immortal bard had been hid. Those idle trappings in which rank seeks to mark its altitude I above the vulgar belonged to the state of the ¦ peer rather than to the state of the poet; genius required no such attractions, and all this magnificence served only to distract our regard from the | man whose inspired tongue was now silenced for lever. Who cared for Lord Byron the peer and the privy councillor, with his coronet and his long descent from princes on one side, and from heroes on both? and who did not care for George Gordon Byron the poet, who has charmed us, and will charm our descendants with his deep and impassioned verse? The homage was rendered to genius, not surely to rank-for lord can be stamped on any clay, but inspiration can only be impressed on the finest metal.

A few select friends and admirers followed Lord Byron to the grave his coronet was borne before him, and there were many indications of his rank; but, save the assembled multitude, no ndications of his genius. In conformity with a singular practice of the great, a long train of their empty carriages followed the mourning coaches-mocking the dead with idle state, and impeding with barren pageantry the honester sympathy of the crowd. Where were the owners of those machines of sloth and luxury - where were the men of rank among whose dark pedigrees Lord Byron threw the light of his genius, and lent the brows of nobility a halo to which they were strangers? Where were the great whigs' where were the illustrious tories? could a mere difference in matters of human belief keep those fastidious persons away? But, above all, where were the friends with whom wedlock had

united him? On his desolate corpse no wife Loked, no child shed a tear. We have no wish to set ourselves up as judges in domestic infelicities, and we are willing to believe they were separated in such a way as rendered conciliation hopeless; but who could stand and look on his pale manly face, and his dark locks which early sorrows were making thin and Grey, without feeling that, gifted as he was, with a soul above the mark of other men, his domestic misfortunes called for our pity as surely as his geBias called for our admira ion?

As the cavalcade proceeded through the streets of London, a fine-looking honest tar was observed to walk near the hearse uncovered throughout the morning, and on being asked by a stranger whether he formed part of the funeral cortege, he replied he came there to pay his respects to the deceased, with whom he had served in the Levant, when he made the tour of the Grecian islands. This poor fellow was kindly offered a place by wame of the servants who were behind the car

riage; but he said he was strong, and had rather walk near the hearse.

It was not till Friday, July 16th, that the interment took place. Lord Byron was buried in the family vault, at the village of Hucknel, eight miles beyond Nottingham, and within two miles of the venerable Abbey of Newstead. He was accompanied to the grave by crowds of persons eager to show this last testimony of respect to his memory. In one of his earlier poems he had expressed a wish, that his dust might mingle with his mother's, and in compliance with this wish, his coffin was placed in the vault next to hers. It was twenty minutes past four o'clock on Friday, July 16th, 1824, when the ceremony was concluded, when the tomb closed for ever on Byron, and when his friends were relieved from every care concerning him, save that of doing justice to his memory, and of cherishing his fame.

The following inscription was placed on the coffin:

«George Gordon Noel Byron,
Lord Byron,

of Rochdale.

Born in London,' Jan. 22, 1788, died at Missolonghi, in Western Greece, April 19th, 1824. "

An urn accompanied the coffin, and on it was inscribed:

. Within this urn are deposited the heart,
brain, etc.,

of the deceased Lord Byron.»

An elegant Grecian tablet of white marble, has been placed in the chancel of the Hucknall We subjoin a copy of the inscription The words are in Roman capitals, and divided

church.

into lines as under:

IN THE VAULT BENEATH, WHERE MANY OF HIS ANCESTORS AND HIS MOTHER ARE BURIED,

LIE THE REMAINS OF

GEORGE GORDON NOEL BYRON,

LORD BYRON, OF KOCHDALE,

IN THE COUNTY OF LANCASTER;

THE AUTHOR OF « CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. » HE WAS BORN IN LONDON, ON THE 22D OF JANUARY, 1789.

HE DIED AT MISSOLONGHI, IN WESTERN GREECE, ON THE 19TH OF APRIL, 1824,

ENGAGED IN THE GLORIOUS ATTEMPT TO RESTORE THAT COUNTRY TO HER ANCIENT FREEDOM AND RENOWN.

HIS SISTER, THE HONOURABLE

AUGUSTA MARIA LEIGH,

PLACED THIS TABLET TO HIS MEMORY.

Mr Dallas says Dover, which is undoubtedly correct.

OF

HOMER. Iliad, 10.

DRYDEN.

THE AUTHOR.

Tacos thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistle;

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay;

In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle

Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way.

Of the mail-cover d barons, who proudly, to battle
Lesi their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain,
The escutcheon and shield, which with every blast rattle,
Are the only sad vestiges now that remain.

Ne more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers,
hase a flame in the breast, for the war-laurel'd wreath;
Near Askalon's Towers John of Horistan' slumbers,
Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death.
Paul and Hubert too sleep, in the valley of Cressy;
For the safety of Edward and England they fell;
My fathers the tears of your country redress ye;
How you fought! how you died! still her annals can

tell.

On Marston, with Rupert3 'gainst traitors contending, Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak field; 'Baristas Castle, in Derbyshire, an ancient seat of the Byron

* The herdle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. wine tefex el

* fan af the Elector Palatine, and related to Charles 1. He after vana commanded the feet, in the reign of Charles II.

For the rights of a monarch, their country defending,
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd.
Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant departing
From the seat of his ancestors bids you adieu!
Abroad or at home, your remembrance imparting
New courage,
he'll think upon glory and you.
Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation,
'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret;
Far distant he goes, with the same emulation,
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget.

That fame, and that memory, still will he cherish,
He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown;
Like you
will he live, or like you will he perish;
When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own
1803.

EPITAPH ON A FRIEND.

Αστηρ πριν μεν έλαμπες ενι ζωοισιν έως. LAERTIUS.

OH, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath,
While thou wast struggling in the pangs of death!
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course;
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force;
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey;
Thou still had'st lived, to bless my aching sight,
Thy comrade's honour, and thy friend's delight.

If, yet, thy gentle spirit hover nigh

The spot, where now thy mouldering ashes lie,
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart,
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art.
No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep,
But living statues there, are seen to weep;
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb,
Afiliction's self deplores thy youthful doom.
What though thy sire lament his failing line,
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine!
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will cheer,
Yet, other offspring soothe his anguish here:
But who with me shall hold thy former place?
Thine image, what new friendship can efface?
Ah, none! a father's tears will cease to flow,
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe;
To all, save one, is consolation known,
While solitary Friendship sighs alone.

A FRAGMENT.

1803.

WHEN, to their airy hall, my Fathers' voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no scuptured urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns:
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:

If that with honour fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay;
That, only that, shall single out the spot,
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

THE TEAR.

O lachrymarum fons, tepero sacros Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater Felis in imio qui scatentem Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit,

WHEN Friendship or Love

Our sympathies move;

1803.

When Truth in a glance should appear;

The lips may beguile,

With a dimple or smile,

But the test of affection 's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile

But the hypocrite's wile,

To mask detestation or fear;
Give me the soft sigh,

Whilst the soul-telling eye

Is dimm'd, for a time, with a Tear.

Mild Charity's glow,

To us mortals below,

Shows the soul from barbarity clear; Compassion will melt,

Where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail
With the blast of the gale,
Through billows Atlantic to steer;

GRAY.

The

As he bends o'er the wave,

Which may soon be his grave,

green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death,

For a fanciful wreath, In Glory's romantic career; But he raises the foe,

When in battle laid low,

And bathes every wound with a Tear.
If, with high-bounding pride,
Hle return to his bride,
Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear;
All his toils are repaid,

When, embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear.
Sweet scene of my youth,

Seat of Friendship and Truth,
Where love chased each fast-fleeting year;
Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd,

For a last look I turn'd,

Tut thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Though my vows I can pour,

To my Mary no more,

My Mary, to Love once so dear;
In the shade of her bower,

I remember the hour,

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest,

May she live ever blest,

Her name still my heart must revere; With a sigh I resign,

What I once thought was mine,

And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart,

Ere from you I depart,

This hope to my breast is most near;

If again we shall meet,

In this rural retreat,

May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.

When my soul wings her flight,
To the regions of night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier;

As ye pass by the tomb,

Where my ashes consume,

Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.

May no marble bestow

The splendour of woe,

Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name,

All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.

:

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE.

1806.

Delivered previous to the performance of « The Wheel of Fortune,» at a private theatre.

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace ou all an author writ;

Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
To let the modest Muse some pity claim,

And meet indulgence though she find not fame
Sull, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect;
To-night, no Veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No CooL, DO KEMBLE, can salute you here,
No Smoss draw the sympathetic tear;
To-might, you throng to witness the debut,
Of embryo Actors, to the drama new.

Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Gip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly;
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas we fall to rise no more.

Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise,
But all our Dramatis Personæ wait,
la fond suspense, this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze:
Surely the last will some protection find,
None, to the softer sex, can prove unkind;
What Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest Censor to the fair must yield.
Ye: should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Salt, after all, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX.

The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a Morning Paper.

On Nation's foes lament, on Fox's death,

But bless the hour when PITT resign'd his breath;
Tse feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
We give the palm where Justice points it due.

To which the Author of these Pieces sent the following
Reply.

On factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth
Weald man, le still the dead, perverting truth;
What though our nation's foes» lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great;
all dastard tongues essay to blast the name
of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
Men PITT expired, in plenitude of power,
Theng ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pry her dewy wings before him spread,
For noe spirits « war not with the dead.»
this friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
I sank an Athis, bending 'neath the weight
of cares sera helming our conflicting state;
When it' a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd;
"ly for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear'd;
Teton is falin who Britain's loss supplied;
him our fast reviving hopes have died:
Vone great people only raise his urn,
**Europes far extended regions mourn.
The foxlings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,
e the palm where Justice points it due,"

Yet let not canker'd calumny assail,

Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep,
For whom, at last, c'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own.
Fox shall, in Britain's future annals, shine,
Nor e'en to PITT the patriot's palm resign,
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask.

STANZAS TO A LADY.
With the Poems of Camoens.
This votive pledge of fond esteem,
Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize;
It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
A theme we never can despise.
Who blames it but the envious fool,
The old and disappointed maid?
Or pupil of the prudish school,

In single sorrow doom'd to fade.
Then read, dear girl, with feeling read,
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those;
To thee in vain I shall not plead,
In pity for the Poet's woes.
He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;
His was no faint fictitious flame;
Like his, may love be thy reward,

But not thy hapless fate the same.

ΤΟ Μ

On! did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright, but mild affection shine;
Though they might kindle less desire,

Love, more than mortal would be thine.
For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair:
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,

The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all,

But who can dare thine ardent gaze!

"T is said, that Berenice's hair

In stars adorn the vault of heaven;
But, they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For, did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister lights would scarce appear:
Een suns, which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
1806