ON BYRON'S DEATH

Translated and adapted from Madame Ackermann (on Musset). When the dear nightingale, in every season bright Of love and flowers, 'neath trembling branches in moonlight. Long perches, swift to sing his wild and secret grief, Naught stops the sympathetic flow of his complaint, And from his frail throat frequent thrills of music quaint Arise, and through the wood sound gay with many a leaf. The strain melodious all enchants, both far and near, All suddenly is mute, the traveller in fear The quiv'ring sees'neath green leaves, in the trees so gay, Of the poor bird, which too great rapture had misled, From the dear songster, with fond notes, the soul had fled. Alas ! to sing thus was to wish to die that day ! Amongst us many a poet with melodious tongue From noblest feelings had already grandly sung. Yes, bards had lavished on us strains which never pall ; But that cry which the heart thrills and to it appeals. Those accents sad which from some poet's heart, who feels, Reach each one's soul — ah ! he alone has voiced them all . « Far o'er all bards, dear Byron, thy name ever towers Thy glory wanted nought, thou wanting wert to ours ^ ! »