I am ashes where once I was fire, And the bard in my bosom is dead; What I loved I _now_ merely admire, And my heart is as grey as my head. My Life is not dated by years-- There are _moments_ which act as a plough, And there is not a furrow appears But is deep in my soul as my brow. Let the young and brilliant aspire To sing what I gaze on in vain; For sorrow has torn from my lyre The string which was worthy the strain. [2] Though Lord Byron, like most other persons, in writing to different friends, was some times led to repeat the same circumstances and thoughts, there is, from the ever ready fertility of his mind, much less repetition in his correspondence than in that, perhaps, of any other multifarious letter-writer; and, in the instance before us, where the same facts and reflections are, for the second time, introduced, it is with such new touches, both of thought and expression, as render them, even a second time, interesting; what is wanting in the novelty of the matter being made up by the new aspect given to it. * * * * * DISCOURSE ON THE STUDY OF NATURAL PHILOSOPHY. (_Cabinet Cyclopaedia_. Vol. xiv.) The arrangement of Dr. Lardner's Cyclopaedia, as it becomes more and more developed, will be proportionally appreciated. Its _system_ is a marked contrast with the heterogeneous lists of the Family and National Libraries, which, as books of reference and authority, are little worth.