Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about,
Doth not thy life’s lost hope lift up its head,
And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,—­
  “Look on me, I am dead!”

MARY LOUISE RITTER.

BYRON’S LATEST VERSES.

     “On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year.”
        —­MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824.

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
  Since others it has ceased to move: 
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
    Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf,
  The flowers and fruits of love are gone: 
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
    Are mine alone.

The fire that in my bosom preys
  Is like to some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze,—­
    A funeral pile.

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
  The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
    But wear the chain.

But ’tis not thus,—­and ’tis not here,
  Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero’s bier,
    Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field,
  Glory and Greece about us see;
The Spartan borne upon his shield
    Was not more free.

Awake!—­not Greece,—­she is awake! 
  Awake my spirit! think through whom
Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake,
    And then strike home!

Tread those reviving passions down,
  Unworthy manhood! unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
    Of beauty be.

If thou regrett’st thy youth,—­why live? 
  The land of honorable death
Is here:—­up to the field, and give
    Away thy breath!

Seek out—­less often sought than found—­
  A soldier’s grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
    And take thy rest!

LORD BYRON.

A DOUBTING HEART.

Where are the swallows fled? 
    Frozen and dead
Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. 
    O doubting heart! 
  Far over purple seas
  They wait, in sunny ease,
  The balmy southern breeze
To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die? 
    Prisoned they lie
In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. 
    O doubting heart! 
They only sleep below
  The soft white ermine snow
  While winter winds shall blow,
To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays
    These many days;
Will dreary hours never leave the earth? 
    O doubting heart! 
  The stormy clouds on high
  Veil the same sunny sky
  That soon, for spring is nigh,
Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light
    Is quenched in night;
What sound can break the silence of despair? 
    O doubting heart! 
  The sky is overcast,
  Yet stars shall rise at last,
  Brighter for darkness past;
And angels’ silver voices stir the air.