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 roll'd 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 where 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;

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 sunCan 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 beams,
An equal love may see:

The tear that from thine eyelid streams
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!

Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! Forgive me, adored one!-forsake if thou wilt ;But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, And man shall not break it-whatever thou mayst.

And stern to the haughty but humble to thee,
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;

And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,

With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign-
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

["Thou hast asked me for a song," Lord Byron wrote to Mr. Moore, "and I enclose you an experiment which has cost me something more than trouble, and is, therefore, less likely to be worth your taking any in your proposed setting. Now, if it be so, throw it into the fire without phrase." Letter, May 10, 1814.]

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve!
In beauty's light you glide along:
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your voice as seraph's song.
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives
This heart with passions soft to glow:
Within your soul a voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of woe.

When sinking low the sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretcht to save,
Fair as the bosom of the swan
That rises graceful o'er the wave,
I've seen your breast with pity heave
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!

CATHERINE ORKNEY.

CHARLES LAMB.

Canadia! boast no more the toils
Of hunters for the furry spoils;
Your whitest ermines are but foils

To brighter Catherine Orkney.

That such a flower should ever burst
From climes with rigorous winter curst!-
We bless you, that so kindly nurst
This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

We envy not your proud display
Of lake—wood—vast Niagara :

Your greatest pride we've borne away,
How spared you Catherine Orkney?

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell,
To your reproach no more we tell :
Canadia, you repaid us well

With rearing Catherine Orkney.