30 JUNE 1832, Page 19

THE NEW EDITION OF BYRON'S WORKS.

THE following verses form the conclusion of a poem written by BrnoN in his youth (in 1807), at a time when, for some reason or other, he was anticipating an early death. They derive con- siderable interest from the decided contrast between the fate he imagined and that which was reserved for him. The piety, tea,' of the feeling which pervades the latter stanzas, proves, what some have been disposed to doubt, a natural and habitual tendency to devotion in the secret soul of this great poet. They are now first published from Mr. MURRAY'S new edition.

Oh Fame! thou goddess of my heart, On him who gams thy praise,

Pointless must fall the Spectre's dart, Consumed in Glory's blaze;

But me she beckons from the earth,

ra-ne obscure, unmark'd my birth, My life a shaft and vulgar dream: i Lost n the dull, ignoble crowd, My hopes recline within a shroud, My lute is Lethe's soma.

When I repose beneath the sod, Unheeded in the clay, Where once my playful footsteps trod, - Where now my head must lay; The meed of Pity will be shed In dew-drops o'er my narrow bed, By nightly skies, and storms alone; No mortal eve will deign to steep With tears the dark sepulchral deep Which hides a name unknown.

Forget this world, my restless sprite, Turn, turn thy thoughts to heaven: There must thou soon direct thy flight, If errors are forgiven.

To bigots and to sects unknown, Bow down beneath the Almighty's throne ; To Him address thy trembling prayer He who is merciful and just, Will not reject a child of dust, Although his meanest care.

Father of Light ! to thee I call, Aly soul is dark within : Thou, who canst mark the sparrow's fall,

Avert the death of sin.

Thou who coast guide the wandering star, Who calm'st the elemental war, Whose mantle is yon boundless sky, My thoughts, my words, my crimes forgive ; And, since I soon must cease to live, Instruct me how to die.

The stanzas to the Oak are very juvenile; and if all the Hours Idleness.had been like these, the Edinburgh Review of them would have been juster than it deserves to be considered : they are, however, well worth preserving, in memory of the planter of the oak ; and the anecdote connected with them induces us to re- print them. They are also now first published in the Seventh Volume of the new edition of BYRON'S Works.

TO AN OAK AT NEWSTEAD. *

Young Oak ! when I planted thee deep in the ground, I hoped that thy days would be longer than mine; That thy dark-waving branches would flourish around, And ivy thy trunk with its mantle entwine. Such, such was my hope, when, in infancy's years, On the land of my fathers I rear'd thee with pride: They are past, and I water thy stem with my tears,— Thy decay not the weeds that surround thee can bide. I left thee, my Oak ; and since that fatal hour A stranger has dwelt in the hall of my sire ;

manhood .sitail crown me-, nor mine Is mejs-rxer, But his, whose neglect may have bade thee expire.

! hardy thou wert—even now little care

• Might revive thy young head, and thy wounds gently heal: But thou wert not fated affection to share—

For who could suppose that a stranger would feel?

Ah, droop not, my Oak ! lift thy head for a while ;

Ere twice round yon Glory this planet shall run,

The hand of thy master will teach thee to smile,

When infancy's years of probation are done.

Oh, live then, my Oak ! tow'r aloft from the weeds,

That clog thy young growth, and assist thy decay, For still in thy bosom are life's early seeds,

And still may thy branches their beauty display.

Oh ! yet, if maturity's years may be thine, Though /shall lie low in the cavern of death, On thy leaves yet the day- beam of ages may shine, Uninjured by time, or the rude winter's breath.

For centuries still may thy boughs lightly wave O'er the corse of thy lord in thy canopy laid ; While the branches thus gratefully shelter his grave, The chief who survives may recline in thy shade.

And as he, with his boys, shall revisit this spot, He will tell them in whispers more softly to tread. Oh! surely, by these I dial ne'er he forgot : Remembrance still hallows the dust of the dead.

And here, will they say, when in life's glowing prime, Perhaps he has poured forth his young simple lay, And here must he sleep, till the moments of time Are lost in the hours of Eternity's day.

It is curious to observe, that these juvenile poems, though dis-

playing scarcely any of Lord BYRON'S power as afterwards exhi- bited, yet display in full force all the weaknesses and passions, or they may be called sometimes only peculiarities, which continued to distinguish him to his latest moment : such as pride of ancestry

—his passion for fame—his sensitiveness to censure or ridicule—

his excessive egotism—his pride of person, and, as a part of it, his constant allusion to his excellence in swimming.