Snatch'd from us ere thine intellectual bloom
Had pour'd forth half its treasures to our sight,
Thy bright meridian splendour quench'd in gloom,
For ever quench'd, alas! in death's dark night.

Enough, enough; let erring man submit ;
'Tis not for him t'arrest the hand Divine.
That hand, however mov'd, is ever right;
The power that gave hath ta'en away again
The precious pearl which pharisaic pride
Ungrateful spurn'd-unworthy of the gift.

Rest to thy bones, Byron !-"mad wag" thou wert,
Thy Hudibrastic wantonness of rhyme-

Thy mockeries of verse-poetry run mad-
Methinks thou dost unmercifully lash

The writhing back of some poor scribbling wight;
Some self-dubb'd poet, with no other dub
Than his own self-conceit. Or was't that tir'd
Of soaring 'midst thine own sublimities

On eagle pinions through th' etherial height,

Thou play'd'st the tumbler pigeon, and came down,

And down, and down, till thou had'st reach'd the earth, Then fell asleep, and dream'd of thy Don Juan.

I beg thy pardon, Byron-'twas but now

My fancy mounted thee on Pegasus,

And now I've made a pigeon of thee. What?

"Not to be pluck'd!" Why? Hast thou not pluck'd others,

Like the fierce eagle I compar'd thee to,

And left them not a single plume to fly with?

A pretty joke, i'faith! that thou should'st maul,
And tear, and pluck the hearts out of thy fellows,

And they not peck at thee! Not e'en in sport!
Do'st rail at kings, and would'st thyself be king?
Boast o'er, and trample on thy kindred clay?
What, though thy star were brightest in the heaven
Of human intellect, thou'rt not alone,

Sole monarch of that heav'n-a galaxy

Of glittering golden points make up the scene
Of beauty and magnificence. Each far
Diminish'd orb that darts his tiny ray

Through the dark blue, immeasurable height,
(Passing amid the crowd, perchance, unmark'd
By superficial gazers), still doth join

His cheerful, modest, social beam, to deck
The glorious whole with splendour unapproach'd,
Hymning the silent praise of Nature's God!

So doth thy fellows, whose poetic fire,
Though less intense, yet bears a friendly part
To light up human nature's darkling sons,
Who, unendow'd, or planted in a soil
Too barren to develope one poor ray
Of native brightness (planet-like), depend
On borrow'd beams to fructify the cold,
Dull clod, else profitless; or (what is worse),
A prey to superstition's deadly gripe,
That, paralysing every human good,

Changes th'intended happy seat of man
Into one dark, interminable hell,

Where scenes of blood and death are conjur'd up
To fright the timid and enslave the weak.
The hideous hag curses the fruitful ground,
Threatens to mar the flowery path with thorns,
Crown every transient joy with endless pain,
And, while each gift of Heav'n she would deform,

Like a foul demon, glories in a lie,

And turns e'en wholesome labour to a curse !!

A plague on this digression, how it warps
The mind from its intent, wand'ring away
Like truant urchins from the road to school,
To clamber over rocks, or scamper through
Each verdant lane, o'er hill, or bosky dell,
That tempts, on either hand, the curious elf
To hunt the gaudy fly, pluck flow'rs, or peep
Into the sylvan dwelling of the bird,

Whose patient, sedentary care, they joy

1 "Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life."

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread till thou return unto the ground, etc., etc.'

"Thorns also, and thistles shall it bring forth unto thee."-Genesis iii. 17, 18, 19.

There is no greater fallacy than to represent labour as a curse. Without labour we should be a burden to ourselves. Both body and mind require exercise to preserve them in health and activity. This is so plain a truth that it wants no enforcing. Labour only becomes a "curse" when so much of it is exacted of the labourer by his mercenary employer in return for the bare necessaries of life, that no time is left for recreation and proper rest. If the do-nothing classes were obliged to perform their proper share of labour in the hive of human society, this evil would not exist. The natural division of our daily life is into three portions of eight hours each, namely, one for labour, one for instruction and recreation, and the remaining third for rest-sleep," the death of each day's life," which ought to be held sacred by all, in order to fit us for the duties of the following day. What would become of us if the labours of agriculture, for instance, were neglected because, forsooth, labour is a curse? The ground will not yield us food without labour, and labour is "a curse!" "Thorns also and thistles" the earth brings forth, certainly, if left to itself; but we soon get rid of the accursed thorns and thistles by proper tillage and labour, and the blessed results are plenty, with health, and happiness, both to body and mind.

Those who labour mentally, for some useful purpose in science or art, require, and deserve, their eight hours of recreation and bodily exercise, and their portion of sleep, as much as any class. Those only are wretched and accursed who live so entirely for themselves that their life is one continued round of amusement and recreation, as many do who live at the fashionable club-houses. A large fortune is often insufficient for their self-indulgence. The most useful part of their study is, perhaps, to qualify themselves for brilliancy in conversation at a luxurious dinner party, or for fascinating and seducing female innocence. Cards, dice, chess, and billiards, their employment; hunting and horse-racing their exercise-all these beginning and ending in self, self, self! Such are the truly * ** and * * * Let them fill up the blanks with what epithets they think most expressive of their useless lives. They sometimes terminate in a very cutting manner, or in a cold bath, when they do not prefer "rope or gun," poison or pistol. Fulwar Craven thought the latter was the most appropriate mode for the adverse end of a horse-race.

To interrupt, and shout with wild delight,
When from her nest the fugitive escapes,
With plaintive, twittering cry, as if to beg
For mercy from the merciless young brats,
In whom the spirit of despoil is e'en

So early ripe. Ah! vain is thy appeal,

Poor bird, bereft! Thou and thy mate may mourn
This first sad lesson of might over right.

Thine unborn offspring they have torn away,
The germ of thy fond hope, thine only wealth,
Ransack'd to lengthen the unhallow'd chain;
Sad trophy of young cruelty, "which not
Enriches them, but makes thee poor, indeed."

Ah, well! This "maudlin sentiment," no doubt,
Is spurn'd, and scoff'd at by ill-tutor❜d minds;
But, ne'ertheless, the thoughtless infant.act
Of uncheck'd cruelty, is but the germ,
The spring, the fountain of the future crime,
Th'oppressive wrong, till each succeeding act
(Like whelming billows in the rising storm),
O'ertops its predecessor, and becomes
The fell destroyer of man's social peace!

Whence, else, the cause of all those horrid deeds
Of blood, of rapine, of relentless rage,
That spar'd not youth, nor beauty, age infirm,
Nor pregnant female, nor the sucking babe ;
Dash'd out the brains of this, and ripp'd up that?
Then said 'twas done by the command of God!

Whence was it that of old the Hebrew hordes,
In the great name of God heap'd crime on crime,
Murder on murder ?1-Mercy and remorse,

1 See Appendix to Canto I., Note C.

Alike were strangers to their cruel race,
Except to their own predatory tribes,
Who impiously assumed a holy name
To perpetrate their most unholy deeds,
'Till the just vengeance of th' insulted world
Rose like a rushing torrent o'er their heads
And swept them from their ill-got lands away,
To wander on for ever through the earth,
Detested and despis'd, and spit upon,

Pursu'd and driven out from realm to realm,
While still the odour of their matchless crimes
Stunk in the nostrils of the human race,
Themselves unworthy of the human name.

For ages this hath been their self-wrought doom, 'Till modern lenity and modern laws

At length remit their heavy punishment.

No more he cries "old clothes "—the Jew obtains
An honourable station in the land,
Acquires learning, and amasses wealth
Enough to buy the favour of the State;
Becomes apostate from his people's faith,
Admitted to our councils-now caress'd
By honourable men. First of his race
For eighteen hundred years who is allow'd
In law to lift his voice, and represent (?)
A people not his own!-What does he do?
Hostile to liberty, he aims to sting
The rising freedom of his native land
To death, and rob the people of their food;
Joins with the stable-bred to overthrow
Whate'er of good the people hope to win.
Blow after blow he aims with deadly thrust
To strike the advocate of freedom down;
And, though despairing, still he perseveres,