What force, what aid, what stratagem essay,
Back to redeein the Latian spoiler's prey?
His life a votive ransom nobly give,
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live?
Poising with strength his lifted lance on
high,
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye: -
Goddess serene, transcending every star!
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar!
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the
grove,

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Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all!' Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew, And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, Forth, forth, he starts, and all his love reveals; Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies: Me, me, your vengeance hurl on me alone;

Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your Ye starry spheres! thou conscious Heaven! attest!

His fault was friendship, all his crime was love.'

He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored;

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Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest,
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast.
As some young rose, whose blossom scents
the air,
Languid in death, expires beneath the share;
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower,
Declining gently, falls a fading flower;
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely
head,

And lingering beauty hovers round the dead.

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, Revenge his leader, and despair his guide; Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost;

Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe; Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow; In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds,

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Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is
Ages on ages shall your fate admire,
No future day shall see your names expire,
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome!
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress,
Rome!

Have I not heard the exile's sigh?
And seen the exile's silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,
A pensive, weary wanderer here?

Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the

laid;

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Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,

When Self and Church demand a bigot

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER
SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, 'I love,' but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke.
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels;
Deceit the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,

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Spurn such restraint and scorn disguise. 20 As thus our glances oft conversed, And all our bosoms felt, rehearsed, No spirit, from within, reproved us, Say rather, ''t was the spirit moved us." Though what they utter'd I repress, Yet I conceive thou 'lt partly guess; For as on thee my memory ponders, Perchance to me thine also wanders. This for myself, at least, I'll say, Thy form appears through night, through day:

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Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight
Which make me wish for endless night:
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:
'May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh, may the happy mortal, fated
To be by dearest ties related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair bosom never know
What 't is to feel the restless woe
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!'

August, 1806.

THE CORNELIAN

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[This prologue was written by Byron, between stages, on his way from Harrowgate to Southwell, in 1806, where he took part in private theatricals.]

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 on all an author writ;

Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek; Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim, And meet indulgence, though she find not

fame.

Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For noble spirits 'war not with the dead:' His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,

As all his errors slumber'd in the grave. He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight

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Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state:
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd.
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have
died;

Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
These feelings wide, let sense and truth
unclue,

To give the palm where Justice points its
due;'
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy

veil.

Он factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;

WHEN Friendship or Love our sympathies

move,

When Truth in a glance should appear, The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,

But the test of affection 's a Tear.

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