Her lover sinks-she sheds no ill-timed tear;
Her chief is slain-she filis his fatal post.

"Childe Harold," canto i., 56.

0

POEMS.

BY LORD BYRON.

Like an archangel exiled for dark crimes,
His spirit walk'd the earth in scorn and gloom,
And where it smote, it smote like the simoom,
Deadly though beautiful. Yet there were times
When his great soul shone out upon the world
In all the primal glory of her light.

His songs were then remembrances of Heaven,
Dash'd with a scoffing spirit at that Earth

In which he seem'd constrain'd to live. Yet even

In his most mocking moments you could trace

The fire of genius, and, unconscious, bow

To the bright halo which it cast around him."-ANON.

With Eight Illustrations,

BY BIRKET FOSTER, JOHN GILBERT, ETC.

A New Edition.

LONDON:

GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,

BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL;

NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.

1866.