No words suffice the secret soul to show, So feeble now-his mother's softness crept Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. XXIII. His heart was form'd for softness-warp'd to wrong; XXIV. "Tis morn-to venture on his lonely hour Few dare; though now Anselmo sought his tower. And Conrad comes not-came not since that day: Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair! Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside; And fair the monument they gave his bride : For him they raise not the recording stone- Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. WINDSOR POETICS. Lines composed on the occasion of his Royal Highness the Prince Regent being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles I., in the royal vault at Windsor. FAMED for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, Ah, what can tombs avail !-since these disgorge POEMS ON NAPOLEON. ODE TO NAPOLEON. "Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo "The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues and military talents were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an emperor and an exile, till."-GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 290. "TIS done-but yesterday a King! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind With might unquestion'd-power to save,-- Thanks for that lesson-it will teach Than high Philosophy can preach, Those Pagod things of sabre sway, The triumph, and the vanity, The sword, the sceptre, and that sway All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be The Desolator desolate ! The Victor overthrown! That with such change can calmly cope? To die a prince-or live a slave- He who of old would rend the oak,+ Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke- Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, He fell, the forest prowler's prey; The Roman, when his burning heart He dared depart in utter scorn His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandon'd power. The Spaniard, § when the lust of sway A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. "Certaminis gadia"-the expression of Attila in his harangue to his army, previous to the battle of Consal, given in Cassiodorus. + Milo Crotoniensis, caught in the tree he had split. 1 Sylla. Charles V. Byron forgets to tell us how he consoled himself with good eating. But thou-from thy reluctant hand Too late thou leav'st the high command To think that God's fair world hath been And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, If thou hadst died as honour dies, Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Thy scales, Mortality! are just To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay; Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these the Conquerors of the earth. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride; How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she, too, bend,-must she, too, share, Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem; "Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, That element may meet thy smile- |