et stands an old church, beneath which
is the burial-place of the Byrons. The building is ancient and gray, but
dreary rather than venerable. Standing in its comfortless interior, we
remembered that Byron once asked to be buried under the green, grassy
floor of the roofless church at Newstead Abbey, with his faithful dog at
his feet. The poet, whose rapid glance seized every glory and beauty of
Nature, whose memory, wax to receive, and marble to retain, transferred
the vision through the medium of his rare command of language, should
have had a grave over which winds sweep, birds sing, and stars watch.
Not so. A white marble tablet let into the wall above the family-vault
was erected to Byron's memory by his sister. Perhaps the simplicity of
the monument was suggested by these lines, written at the early age of
nineteen years:--

"When to his airy hall my father's voice
Shall call my spirit, happy in the choice,
When poised upon the gale my form shall ride,
Or dark in mist descend the mountain-side,
Oh, may my shade behold no sculptured urns
To mark the spot where dust to dust returns,
No lengthened scroll, no praise-encumbered stone!
My epitaph shall be my name alone.
If that with honor fail to crown my clay,
Oh, may no other fame my deeds repay!
That, only that, shall single out the spot
By that remembered, or by that forgot."

The inscription upon the tablet, after his name and title, designates
him as the Author of "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage," who died while aiding
the cause of Liberty in Greece: thus striking the noblest notes in a
powerful, eccentric, blotted score, as the fundamental chord of Byron's
requiem.

* * * * *

THE LAST CHARGE.

Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife
For country, for freedom, for honor, for life?
The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,--
One blow on his forehead will settle the fight!

Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel,
And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal upon peal!
Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair,
As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare!

Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake!
Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint-hearted shake!
Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll,
Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll!

Trust not the false herald that painted your shield:
True honor _to-day_