CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO ENGLAND LORD BYRON DIEU, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, Yon sun that sets upon the sea, A few short hours and he will rise Its hearth is desolate; Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; "Come hither, hither, my little page! But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; "Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, I fear not wave nor wind: Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I Am sorrowful in mind; For I have from my father gone, A mother whom I love, And have no friend, save thee alone, "My father bless'd me fervently, THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO LORD BYRON HERE was a sound of revelry by night, a And Belgium's capital had gather'd then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? - No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! Arm! arm!- it is it is the cannon's opening roar! Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell; Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, AUTUMN: A DIRGE PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY HE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead Is lying. Come, Months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array; Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling. And make her grave green with tear on tear. |