In Canada, where all are free,
And none can e'er be call'd a slave,
Let Scotia's sons remember thee,
And weave a garland for thy grave.
In fancy, let them grace thy brows
With wreathes of fadeless asphodel,
And let them yearly plight their vows
Unto the bard they love so well.
BYRON.
While genius endows the sons of men
With eloquence, or with poetic pen,
It leaves them still the frailties of our frame,
It does not curb, but fans th' unrighteous flame.
It gives a wider, nobler range of thought,
But such advantage, oft, is dearly bought.
Man's lower nature troubles scarce the low,
But, like a fiend, at natures high doth go.
Of such a nature, now, these lines shall tell,
Who wrote full many a line, and wrote them well.
Byron, the noble, sensitive and high,
Whose bosom hath not heav'd for thee a sigh?
Whose breast hath not full often given room
To mournful thoughts, for thy untimely doom?
Thy genius soar'd to regions bright and fair,
And thou, such times, were with thy genius there.
And then thy lofty mind, 'neath passion's sway,
Left its high throne, and wander'd far astray.
'Twas strange and sad, that one so richly bless'd,
Should find within the world, so much unrest;
But we can in thy life and nature see
The means, to some extent, that fell'd the tree.
Thy shining youth, men much too freely prais'd,
And then the cry of blame, too loudly rais'd.
The fickle crowd, thy person loudly curs'd,
And then thou fled, and dar'd them do their worst.
Unfortunate in love, thy youthful heart
Was pain'd, and likewise with the burning smart
Thy vanity receiv'd from critic's pen,
Which often makes sarcastic, stronger men.
Let us be fair with thee, thy fate deplore,
And grieve thy youthful death, if nothing more.
Let us in mercy judge, for thus we can,
E'en with thy faults, thou wert a noble man.
MEMORIES OF SCHOOLDAYS.
There are mem'ries glad of the old school-house,
Which throng around me still;
And voices spoke in my youthful days,
My ears with music fill.
Those youthful voices I seem to hear,
With their gladsome, joyous tone,
And joy and hope they bring to me,
When I am all alone.
I think of the joys of that time long past,
Of its boyish hopes and fears,
And 'tis partly joy, and partly pain,
That wets my eyes with tears.
For 'tis joy I feel, when I seem to stand,
Where I stood long years ago,
And when I think that cannot be,
My heart is fill'd with woe.
My old school mates are scatter'd far,
And some are with the dead,
And my old class mates have wander'd, too,
To seek for fame, or bread.