with the hate then burning against Napoleon in

every British bosom.

"'Tis done-but yesterday a king!
And arm'd with kings to strive;
And now, thou art a nameless thing,
So abject, yet alive!

Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?

Since He, miscall'd the Morning Star,
Nor man, nor fiend hath fallen so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind,
Who bowed so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind
Thou taught'st the rest to see!

With might unquestion'd-power to save,—
Thine only gift hath been the grave
To those that worshipp'd thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!

Thanks to that lesson-it will teach
To after-warriors more

Than high philosophy can preach,
And vainly preached before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks, never to unite again,

That led them to adore

Those Pagod things of sabre sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay."

Notwithstanding Byron's success, although the world's homage, rank, youth, a fine person, resplendent genius, were his, he was still unhappy: a painful, but wholesome proof, that if the bliss sought is unlawful, however great and delicious

may be the draught, it yet turns to bitterness in the soul. Byron's experience may teach us the lesson, that while the humble man is often content, and therefore happy, the one who soars as superior to other men, as the eagle is above the owl, is often the victim of wasting disquietude and unappeasable sorrow. It teaches us that genius abused is a curse to its possessor, like a fire given to shed light and warmth, which, however, turns back its blaze, to scorch the hand that holds it.

During his fits of gloom, Byron frequently shut himself up at Newstead. By his profligacy, he had incurred heavy debts, which, though his income was large, weighed heavily upon his spirits. He appears to have had a false shame at the idea of earning money, and so gave away the proceeds of his poems. He now cast about for extrication from his embarrassments, by marriage; and accordingly offered his hand to Miss Millbank, a great heiress in prospect, but of no ready money. Though twice refused, he was at last accepted, and was married October, 1814.

He rather increased than mitigated his difficulties by this step; his door was beset by duns, and in the first year of his marriage, he had nine executions in his house. He became irritable and unreasonable; and his wife, being a person of cold heart and manners, did little to soften him. She bore him a child, afterwards named Ada, and now Lady King; but this could not unite the hearts of the parents. Difficulties grew up between them, and in January, 1816, she, with her child, left her husband's house, and he saw them no more. Out of humor with himself, the

world, and especially his own country,-which had offered him rank and wealth and showered down upon him a flood of honors, he took his leave, with the determination never to return to England,—a resolution which he sternly kept. In parting from his native shore, he poured out his feelings in the following verses, constituting the opening of the third Canto of Childe Harold:

"Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child?

Ada, sole daughter of my house and heart;
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they smiled,
And then we parted-not as now we part,
But with a hope.-

The waters heave around me, and on high The winds lift up their voices; I depart,

Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by,

When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine

eye.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider. Welcome to the roar !

Swift be their guidance, wheresce'er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed,
And the rent canvass, fluttering, strew the gale,
Still must I on; for I am as a weed

Flung from the rock, on ocean's foam to sail

Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail."

The poet took his course to Belgium, which had just been the scene of the most stirring events. The battle of Waterloo had recently been fought, and Napoleon was overthrown. The night previous to this

dreadful conflict, there was a famous ball in the city of Brussels. Wellington himself, with all the chivalry of his army, was there, not yet apprized that danger was so near. Bonaparte, according to his custom, had pressed on with astonishing rapidity, and having defeated the allied forces in two engagements, now wheeling upon the British army, surprised them with his approach, while their officers were engaged in the revelry of the dance. Byron describes the scene in the following stanzas, which are among the finest ever penned :

"There was a sound of revelry by night,

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; A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spoke 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; 't was 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-the cannon's opening roar!

Oh! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears and tremblings of distress;
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet, such awful morn should rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb,

Or whispering with white lips-'The foe! they come! they come!'"

The poet passed down the Rhine, of which he has afforded us the following enchanting picture :

"The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns on the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine;
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,

And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,

Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I could see
With double joy, wert thou with me.

And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray,
And many a rock which steeply lowers,
And noble arch in proud decay,

Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine-
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!