ted intrigues and plans and selfishnesses which lay in the
way." His efforts cost him his life. He contracted fever, and, after
restlessly battling with the disease, said quietly, one April morning
in 1824, "Now I shall go to sleep." His relatives asked in vain for
permission to inter him in Westminster Abbey. He was buried in the
family vault at Hucknall, Notthinghamshire, not far from Newstead
Abbey.

[Illustration: NEWSTEAD ABBEY, BYRON'S HOME.]

Early Works.--The poems that Byron wrote during his brilliant
sojourn in London, amid the whirl of social gayeties, are _The Giaour,
The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, Parisina, Lara_, and _The Siege of
Corinth_. These narrative poems are romantic tales of oriental passion
and coloring, which show the influence of Scott. They are told with a
dash and a fine-sounding rhetoric well fitted to attract immediate
attention; but they lack the qualities of sincere feeling, lofty
thought, and subtle beauty, which give lasting fame.

His next publication, _The Prisoner of Chillon_ (1816), is a much
worthier poem. The pathetic story is feelingly told in language that
often displays remarkable energy and mastery of expression and
versification. His picture of the oppressive vacancy which the
Prisoner felt is a well-executed piece of very difficult word
painting:--

"There were no stars, no earth, no time,
No check, no change, no good, no crime--
But silence, and a stirless breath
Which neither was of life nor death;
A sea of stagnant idleness,
Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless!"

[Illustration: CASTLE OF CHILLON.]

Dramas.--Byron wrote a number of dramas, the best of which are
_Manfred_ (1817) and _Cain_ (1821). His spirit of defiance and his
insatiable thirst for power are the subjects of these dramas. Manfred
is a man of guilt who is at war with humanity, and who seeks refuge on
the mountain tops and by the wild cataract. He is fearless and untamed
in all his misery, and even in the hour of death does not quail before
the spirits of darkness, but defies them with the cry:--

"Back to thy hell!
Thou hast no power upon me, _that_ I feel!
Thou never shall possess me, _that_ I know;
What I have done is done; I bear within
A torture which could nothing gain from thine;
* * * * *
Back, ye baffled fiends!
The hand of death is on me--but not yours!"

Cain, while suffering remorse for the slay