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falsehoods and the mischievous influence of some person, whose name it is not worth while to inquire into.

This is the person whom his lordship had in view in the following satire :

• Honest-honest Iago!
If that thou bo'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.'

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred,
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head;
Next--for some gracious service unexprest,
And from its wages only to be guessed
Raised from the toilet to the table, where
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair.
With eye onmoved, and forehead unabashed,
She dines from off the plate she lately washed.
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie-
The genial confidante, and general spy-
Who could, ye gods! her next employment guess ?
An ouly infant's earliest governess !
She taught the child to read, and taught so well,
That she herself, by teaching, learned to spell.
An adept next in penmanship she grows,
As many a nameless slander deftly shows :
What she had made the pupil of her art
None know-but that high Soul secured the heart,
And panted for the truth it could not hear
With longing breast and undeluded ear.

Foiled was perversion by that youthsul mind,
Which Flattery fooled not-Baseness could not blind
Deceit insect not-nor Contagion soil-
Indulgence weaken—nor Example spoil-
Nor mastered Science tempt her to look down
On humbler talents with a pitying frown-
Nor Genius swell- nor Beauty render vain-
Nor Euvy ruffle to retaliate pain
Nor Fortune change-Pride raise-nor Passion bow,
Nor virtue teach austerity--till now.
Serenely purest of her sex that live,
But wanting one sweet weakness—to forgive :

Too shocked at faults her soul can never know,
She deems that all could be like her below :
Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend,
For Virtue pardons those she would amend.

But to the theme: now laid aside too long
The baleful burden of this honest song-
Though all her former functions are no more,
She rules the circle which she served before.
If mothers-none know why-before her quake;
If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake;
If early habits—those false links, which bind
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind
Have given her power too deeply to instil
The angry essence of her deadly will;
If like a snake she steal within your walls,
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls;
lí like a viper to the heart she wind,
And leave the venom there she did not find;
What marvel that this hag of hatred works
Eternal evil latent as she lurks,
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells,
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ?
Skilled by a touch to deepen scandal's tints
With all the kind mendacity of hints
While mingling truth with falsehood-sneers with smiles-
A thread of candour with a web of wiles ;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-hardened scheming ;
A lip of lies—a face formed to conceal ;
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel :
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown;
A cheek of parchment and an eye of stone.
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud,
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail,
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale-
(For drawn from reptiles only may we trace
Congenial colours in that soul or face)
Look on her features! and behold her mind
As in a mirror of itself defined :

Look on the picture! deem it not o'ercharged-
There is no trait which might not be enlarged :
Yet true to · Nature's journeymen,' who made
This monster when their mistress left off trade,
This female dog-star of her little sky,
Where all beneath her influence droop or die.

Oh! wretch without a tear-without a thought,
Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought-
The time shall come, nor long remote, when thoa
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now:
Feel for thy vile self-lo ving self in vain,
And turn thee bowling in unpitied pain.
May the strong curse of crushed affectious light
Back on thy bosom with reflected blight!
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind !
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into bate,
Black-as thy will for others would create :
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust,
And thy soul welter in its bideous crust !
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed
The widowed couch of fire-that thou hast spread !
Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with prayer,
Look on thine earthly victims--and despair!
Down to the dust!-and, as thou rott'st away,
E'en worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
But for the love I bore, and still must bear,
To her thy malice from all ties would tear,
Thy name-thy buman name—to every eye
The climax of all scorn, should lang on high,
Exalted o'er thy less abhorred compeers,

And festering in the infamy of years. Some of the newspapers took a very unwarrantable and indecent part in this domestic quarrel, and, without knowing any thing of the affair, presumed to censure one or the other party as their caprice dictated. The editor of The Morning Chronicle,' among others, took up the cudgels for Lord Byron, and seemed to think that he served the nobleman whom he condescended to patronise by obscurely hinting that Lady Byron was chiefly, if not alone, to be blamed in the dispute. If Lord Byron had really disclosed any of his domestic secrets to Mr. Perry, it was very indiscreet and unjustifiable: if he had not done so, Mr. Perry's interference was insolent; in any event, it was impertinent; and, whether he had or not, the public ought not to have known, as they did not care, where the blame lay.

We are as warm admirers of Lord Byron as Mr. Perry, or any other the best friend le ever had, could be; but it is too much to believe that he was blameless. Upon his own way of stating the case he confessed that he had committed faults against his wife ; but he thought she would, and he hinted that she ought to have forgiven them. She thought otherwise : she was at least able to judge of the conduct which it became her to pursue, consistent with her reputation and her rank; and she could hardly stand in need of the counsel of a newspaper editor; his censure, of course, she could only despise.

Lord Byron wrote a poetical farewell to his wife, the only fault in which (and a grievous one it is) seems to us the laborious effort which it displays throughout to make his lordship appear more sinned against than sinning:

• Alas! they had been friends in youth.;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above :

And life is thorny; and youth is vain :
And to be wroth with one we love

Doth work like madness in the brain:

But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,

Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder ;
A dreary sea now flows between

“But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
Shall wholly do away,


The marks of that which once hath been.'

COLERRIDGE's Christabel.
Fare thee well! and, if for ever,

Still, for ever, fare thee well!
Even though unforgiving, never

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee

Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee

Which thou ne'er canst know again!

Would that breast, by thee glanced over,

Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover

'Twas not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee

Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee,

Founded on another's woe.
Though my many faults defaced me,

Could no other arm be found
Than the one which once embraced me

To inflict a cureless wound ?
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive vot;

Love may sink by slow decay, But, by sudden wrench, believe not

Hearts can thus be torn away : Still thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; And the undying thought which paineth

Is-that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead; Both shall live,


every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather,

When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say · Father !'

Though his care she must forego ? When her little hands shall press thee,

When her lip to thine is prest, Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,

Think of him thy love had blessed ! Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st sec,
Then thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest,

All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,

Wither, yet with thee they go.

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