e bosom to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
"Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!"

When fate shall chill, at length, this fever'd breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying hour--
If aught may soothe when life resigns her power--
To know some humble grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell.
With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet to die--
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose;
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
Forever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade,
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood play'd;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I loved,
Mix'd with the earth o'er which my footsteps moved;
Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youthful ear,
Mourn'd by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplored by those in early days allied,
And unremember'd by the world beside.

"But although he may for a time," says Moore, "have experienced this
kind of moral atomy, it was not in his nature to be long without
attaching himself to somebody, and the friendship which he conceived for
Eddleston--a man younger than himself, and not at all of his rank in
society--even surpassed in ardor all the other attachments of his
youth."

EDDLESTON

was one of the choristers at Cambridge. His talent for music attracted
Byron's attention. When he lost the society of Long, who had been his
sole comfort at Cambridge, he took very much to the company of young
Eddleston. One feels how much he was attached to him, on reading those
lines in which he thanks Eddleston for a cornelian heart he had sent
him:--

THE CORNELIAN.

No specious splendor of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,
And blushes modest as the giver.

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have for my weakness oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,
For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offer'd it with downcast look,
As fearful that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,
My only fear should be to lose it.

When Eddleston left college, Lord Byron wrote to Miss Pigott a letter
full of regret at having lost his youthful friend, and thanking her for
having taken an interest in him.

"During the whole time we were at Cambridge to