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And when, beneath the evening star,

She mingles in the gay Bolero,
Or sings to her attuned guitar,

Of Christian knight or Moorish hero,
Or counts her beads with fairy hand

Beneath the twinkling rays of Hesper,
Or joins devotions choral band,

To chaunt the sweet and hallow'd Vesper ;

In each her charms the heart must move,

Of all who venture to behold her;
Then let not maids less fair reprove

Because her bosom is not colder :
Through many a clime 'tis mine to roam

Where many a soft and melting maid is,
But none abroad, and few at home,

May match the dark-eyed girl of Cadiz.

[“ The girl of Cadiz” was found in the original MS. of the first Canto of Childe Harold, in place of the song "To Inez."]

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

LORD BYRON.

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes :
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the ess,

Had half impair’d the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face ;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent !

{From the Hebrew Melodies. These stanzas," says the Editor of Byron's Works, vo 10, p. 75, “ were written by Lord Byron, on returning from a ball-room, where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) Wilmot Horton, the wife of his relation the present Governor of Ceylon. On this occasion, Mrs. W. H. had appeared in mourning, with numerous spangles on her dress.”]

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB.

LORD BYRON.

The Assyrian came down like the wolf in the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen :
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heav'd and for ever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolld not the breath of his pride :
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord !

(From the Hebrew Melodies.)

KNOW YE THE LAND?

LORD BYRON.

Know ye the land wbere the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,

Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine

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VOL. I.

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Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with per

fume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom ;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute:
Where the tints of the earth and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ?
'Tis the clime of the East, 'tis the land of the sun-
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lover's farewell,
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which

they tell.

(From the Bride of Abydos.]

ON PARTING.

LORD BYRON.

The kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left,

Shall never part from mine,
Till happier hours restore the gift

Untainted back to thine.
Thy parting glance, which fondly beans,

An equal love may see :
The tear that from thine eyelid strearns

Can weep no change in me.

I ask no pledge to make me blest

In gazing when alone;
Nor one memorial for a breast,

Whose thoughts are all thine own.
Nor need I write-to tell the tale

My pen were doubly weak :
Oh! what can idle words avail,

Unless the heart could speak?

By day or night, in weal or woe,

That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,

And silent ache for thee.

I SPEAK NOT, I TRACE NOT!

LORD BYRON.

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name,
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame :
But the tear which now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.

Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Were those hours-can their joy or their bitterness

cease? We repent-we abjure we will break from our chain,-We will part, -we will fly to-unite it again!

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