The falling stars leave a stream of splendour behind them for a moment; then utter darkness follows, and not a spark is left to show where they fell.
* * * * * *
It is said that Byron is not to have a monument in Westminster Abbey. To him it is no injury. Time is his monument, on whose scroll the name of Byron shall be legible when the walls and tombs of Westminster Abbey shall have mingled with the refuse of ruins, and the sun, as in scorn, be left free again to smile upon the earth so long darkened with the pompous shadows of bigotry and intolerance.
OLD SONGS AND BALLADS
Respecting these compositions Clare says:—
"I commenced sometime ago with an intention of making a collection of Old Ballads, but when I had sought after them in places where I expected to find them, namely, the hayfield and the shepherd's hut on the pasture, I found that nearly all those old and beautiful recollections had vanished as so many old fashions, and those who knew fragments seemed ashamed to acknowledge it, as old people who sung old songs only sung to be laughed at; and those who were proud of their knowledge in such things knew nothing but the senseless balderdash that is bawled over and sung at country feasts, statutes and fairs, where the most senseless jargon passes for the greatest excellence, and rudest indecency for the finest wit. So the matter was thrown by, and forgotten, until last winter, when I used to spend the long evenings with my father and mother, and heard them by accident hum over scraps of the following old melodies, which I have collected and put into their present form."
Two of the collection are omitted from this volume: the well-known ballad of "Lord Randall," and a second the subject of which appeared to render its inclusion inexpedient.
ADIEU TO MY FALSE LOVE FOREVER
The week before Easter, the days long and clear,
So bright shone the sun and so cool blew the air,
I went in the meadow some flowers to find there,
But the meadow would yield me no posies.
The weather, like love, did deceitful appear,
And I wandered alone when my sorrow was near,
For the thorn that wounds deeply doth bide the whole year,
When the bush it is naked of roses.