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BY BYRON. All these men were my friends; I loved them, they Requited honourably my regards; We served and fought; we smiled and wept in con

cert; We reveld or we sorrow'd side by side ; We made alliances of blood and marriage ; We grew in years and honours fairly, -till Their own desire, not my ambition, made Them choose me for their prince, and then farewell! Farewell all social memory! all thoughts In common! and sweet bonds which link old

friendships, When the survivors of long years and actions, Which now belong to history, soothe the days Which yet remain by treasuring each other, And never meet, but each beholds the mirror Of half a century on his brother's brow, And sees a hundred beings, now on earth Flit round them whispering of the days gone by, And seeming not all dead, as long as two Of the brave, joyous, reckless, glorious band, Which once were one and many, still retain A breath to sigh for them, a tongue to speak

Of deeds that else were silent, save on marbleOime! Oime!-and must I do this deed ?

I blame you not-you act in your vocation; They smote you, and oppress'd you, and despised

you; So have they me: but you ne'er spake with them; You never broke their bread, nor shared their salt; You never had their wine-cup at your lips; You grew not up with them, nor laugh’d, nor wept, Nor held a revel in their company ; Ne'er smiled to see them smile, nor claim'd their

smile In social interchange with yours, nor trusted Nor wore them in your heart of hearts, as I have: These hairs of mine are gray, and so are theirs, The elders of the council : I remember When all our locks were like the raven's wing, As we went forth to take our prey around The isles wrung from the false Mahometan; And can I see them dabbled o'er with blood ? Each stab to them will seem my suicide.

That friendship's raised on sand,
Which every sudden gust of discontent,
Or flowing of our passions, can change
As if it ne'er had been.




I go, sweet friends! yet think of me

When spring's young voice awakes the flowers; For we have wander'd far and free

In those bright hours, the violet's hours. I go, but when you pause to hear,

From distant hills, the sabbath-bell On summer-winds float silvery clear,

Think on me then-I loved it well! Forget me not around your hearth,

When cheerly smiles the ruddy blaze, For dear hath been its evening mirth

To me, sweet friends, in other days. And oh! when music's voice is heard

To melt in strains of parting woe, When hearts to love and grief are stirr’d,

Think of me then!—I go, I go!

Thou art the man in whom my soul delights,
In whom, next Heaven, I trust.


Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
The sister's vows, the hours that we have spent,
When we have chid the hasty-footed time
For parting us—0, and is all forgot ?
All school-day's friendship, childhood innocence ?
We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
Have with our needles created both one flower,
Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
Both warbling of one song, both in one key;
As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds
Had been incorporate, So we grew together,
Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
But yet a union in partition,
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem:
So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.


As we do turn our backs From our companion, thrown into his grave: So his familiars to his buried fortunes Slink all away: leave their false vows with him, Like empty purses pick'd; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his disease of all-shunn'd poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone.



Sweet is the scent of vernal shower,
The bee's collected treasures sweet;
Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
The still small voice of Gratitude.


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