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POEMS 
 
 BY LORD BYRON. 
 
 Like an archangel exiled for dark crimes. 
 
 His spirit walk'd the earth in scorn and gloom. 
 
 And where it smote, it smote like the simoom. 
 
 Deadly though beautiful. Yet there were times 
 
 When his great soul shone out upou the world 
 
 In all the primal glory of her light. 
 
 His songs were then remembrances of Heaven, 
 
 Dash'd with a scoffing spirit at that Earth 
 
 In which he seem'd constrain'd to live. Yet even 
 
 In his most mocking moments you could trace 
 
 The lire of genius, and, unconscious, bow 
 
 To the bright halo which it cast around him."— A >*. 
 
 TiAiih (Eight Jllnsf rations, 
 
 BY BIRKET FOSTER, JOHN GILBERT, ETC. 
 
 LONDON: 
 GEORGE EOUTLEDGE AND SONS, 
 
 THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE; 
 NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET. 
 
TV Y.MAN AND CONS, 
 w : -ART, CLASSICAL, AND GENERAL PRINTEPw 
 CHEAT (jlJEEN STREET, LONDON, W.^. 
 
• 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 KK3T£AD of an excuse, the Publishers have to ofTdr a congralcj* 
 tioa to the Public upon being enabled, by the lapse of copyrights, 
 to add most of the Poetical Works of Byron to their cheap, but 
 •elegant series of our most esteemed poets. This volume contains 
 all Lord Byron's Poems of which the copyright is free, with the 
 exception of Don Juan, from which extraordinary work, as it ia 
 their wish that their books should bo welcomed in every family 
 circle, they have only presented carefully-selected beautiful 
 passages, with which English readers are so well acqiiainted, tbj».t 
 ihrty would naturally look for them. 
 
 0 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 5ours op Idleness :— 
 
 Preface Fa-js \ 
 
 611 j C ^ath of a Young Lady — " Hush'd are the winds " . . . . 6 
 
 To E " Let folly smile " 3 
 
 To D " In thee I fondly hoped " 4 
 
 Epitaph on a Friend — u Oh, friend ! for ever " 4 
 
 A Fragment — " When to tlieir airy hall " 5 
 
 On leaving Newstead Abbey — (i Through thy battlements ". . 5 
 Answer to Lines written in u Letters to an Italian Nun and 
 
 an English Gentleman," &c. — " Dear simplo girl " 6 
 
 Adrian's Address to his Soul when Dying — " Ah ! gentle " . . 7 
 
 Translation from Catullus — " Equal to Jove " 7 
 
 Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil and Tibullus — " Ho who 
 
 sublime" 8 
 
 Imitation of Tibullus— " Cruel Cerinthus" 8 
 
 Translation from Catullus — " Ye Cupids" 8 
 
 Imitated from Catullus. To Ellen—" Oh ! might I kiss " . . 9 
 Translation from Horace — " The man of firm and noble soul " 9 
 From Anacreon — " I wish to tune " 9 
 
 „ „ — " Twas now the hour " 10 
 
 „ the Prometheus Vinctus, &c. — u Great Jove" 10 
 
 To Emma — " Since now the hour" 11 
 
 „ M. S. G.— " Whene'er I view those lips" 12 
 
 ,, Caroline — " Think'st thou I saw" 13 
 
 ,, — " When I hear you express " 14 
 
 ,, — "Oh! when shall the gravo" 14 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady, with the Poems of Camocns— " This 
 
 votive pledge " 15 
 
 The First Kiss of Love — Away with your fictions " 15 
 
 On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School — u Whore 
 
 are those honours " ] 6 
 
 To the Duke of Dorset — " Dorset ! whose early steps " 17 
 
 Fragment, written shortly after the Marriage of Miss Cha- 
 
 worth— " Hills of Annesley " 19 
 
 Granta. A Medley--" Oh ! could Lo Sage's " 19 
 
 On a Distant View of the Village and School of Harrow-on- 
 
 thc-LIill— " Ye scenes of my childhood" 22 
 
 To M " Oh ! did those eyes " 23 
 
 Woman — "Woman! experience might " 23 
 
 „ M. S. G.— " When I dream that you love me" 24 
 
 9 , Mary, on receiving her Picture — " This fai^t " 24 
 
VI CONTESTS 
 
 Hours of Idleness — continued. 
 
 To Lesbia — " Lesbia ! since far from you" Pag* 25 
 
 Lines addressed to a Young Lady, alarmed by a bullet hiaa- 
 
 ing near her — " Doubtless, sweet girl" 
 
 Love's last Adieu — " The roses of love " 27 
 
 Uamaetas — " In law an infant " -3 
 
 To Marion — " Marion 1 why that pensive brow M 28 
 
 To a Lady who presented to the Author a Lock of Hair 
 
 braided with his own — " These locks " 30 
 
 Oscar of Alva. A Tale — " How sweetly shines " 31 
 
 The Episode of Nisus and Eu^alus — " Nisus, the guardian" 38 
 
 Translation from the Medea of Euripides — " When fierce" 46 
 Thoughts suggested by a College Examination — " High in 
 
 the midst" 47 
 
 To a beautiful Quaker — " Sweet girl ! though only once " . . 49 
 
 The Cornelian — " No specious splendour" 50 
 
 An Occasional Prologue to " The Wheel of Fortune — 
 
 " Since the refinement " 50 
 
 On the Death of Mr. Fox, with the Author's Reply—" Oh 
 
 factious viper " 51 
 
 The Tear—" When Friendship or Love " 52 
 
 Reply to some Verses of J. M. B. Pigot, Esq., on the Cruelty 
 
 of his Mistress — " Why, Pigot, complain" 53 
 
 To the sighing Strephon — " Your pardon, my friend " . . . . 54 
 
 To Eliza — " Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect " . . . . 55 
 
 Lachin y Gair — " Away, ye gay landscapes " 55 
 
 To Romance — " Parent of golden dreams" 56 
 
 Answer to some elegant Verses sent by a Friend to the 
 
 Author — " Candour compels me " 58 
 
 Elegy on Newstead Abbey — " Newstead ! fast-falling" .... 59 
 
 Childish Recollections — " When slow disease" 63 
 
 Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled " The Common Lot " 
 
 — " Montgomery! true, the common lot" 71 
 
 Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. Becher, on his advising 
 
 the Author to mix more with Society — " Dear Becher, 
 
 you tell me" 72 
 
 The Death of Calmar and Orla — " Dear are tho days" 73 
 
 To Edward Noel Long, Esq. — " Dear Long, in this " 76 
 
 To a Lady—" Oh ! had my fate " , 78 
 
 " I would I were a careless child " , . * » 79 
 
 " When I roved a young Highlander " 80 
 
 To George, Earl Delawar — " Oh ! yes, I will own " 81 
 
 To the Earl of Clare—" Friend of my youth " 82 
 
 Lines written beneath an Elm in the Churchyard of Harrow 
 
 — " Spot of my youth " 84 
 
 Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed from a Skull — " .Start 
 
 not — nor deem 85 
 
 On revisiting Harrow — " Here once engaged " 86 
 
 English Bards and Scotch Reviewers 87 
 
 Postscript to the Second Edition 114 
 
 Lines written in an Album at Malta — " As o'er the cold" 115 
 
 To Florence—" Oh Lady ! when I left " 1 15 
 
 Stanzas composed during a Thunder-storm — " Chill and mirk " lid 
 
Stanzas written on passing the Ambracian Gulf — u Through 
 
 cloudless skies" Page 114 
 
 " The spell is broke, the charm is flown" 118 
 
 Reply to Lines written in the Travellers' Book at Orchomenus 
 
 —"The modest bard" 119 
 
 " Maid of Athens, ere we part " Ill 
 
 Written after Swimming from Sestos to Abydos— " If, in the 
 
 month" 120 
 
 Lines written beneath a Picture — " Dear object " 120 
 
 Translation of the famous Greek War Song — " Sors of the 
 
 Greeks" 121 
 
 Translation of the Romaic Song — " I enter thy garden" .... 122 
 
 The Curse of Minerva 123 
 
 On Parting—" The kiss, dear maid" 129 
 
 ToThyrza— " Without a stone" 130 
 
 " Away, away, ye notes of woo " 131 
 
 "One struggle more, and I am free " 132 
 
 Euthanasia — " When Time, or soon or late" 133 
 
 " And thou art dead, as young as fair " 134 
 
 n If sometimes in the haunts of men " 136 
 
 On a Cornelian Heart—" Ill-fated heart " 137 
 
 Lines to & Lady Weeping — u Weep, daughter " 137 
 
 " The chain I gave was fair to view " 137 
 
 To Samuel Rogers, Esq. — " Absent or present " 138 
 
 Address, spoken at the opening of Drury Lane Theatre, Satur- 
 day, October 10, 1812— " In one Jread night " 138 
 
 Verses found in a Summer-house at Ilales-Owon — " When 
 
 Dryden's fool" 140 
 
 The Waltz • an Apostrophic Hymn 1 41 
 
 To Time — u Timo ! on whose arbitrary wing" 148 
 
 " Thou art not false, but thou art fickle " 149 
 
 " Remember him, whom passion's power" 150 
 
 The Giaour : A Fragment of a Turkish Tale 152 
 
 Impromptu, in Reply to a Friend — " When, from the heart " 182 
 
 The Bride of Abydos : A Turkish Tale 183 
 
 To Gonevra — " Thine eyes' blue tenderness" 210 
 
 The Corsair 212 
 
 Windsor Poetics — " Famed for contemptuous" 252 
 
 Poems on Napoleon 253 
 
 Stanzas for Music — " I speak not, I traco not*' 262 
 
 " Fill the goblet again ! for I never before" 262 
 
 Address intended to have been spoken at the Caledonian Meet- 
 ing, 1814—" Who hath not glow'd " 263 
 
 Lara : A Tale 265 
 
 Condolatory Address to Sarah, Countess of Jersey — " When 
 
 the vain triumph " 291 
 
 Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir Peter Parker, Eart. — 
 
 "There is a tear" 292 
 
 To Belshazzar — " Belshazzar ! from the banquet " 223 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Hebrew Melodies — 
 
 " She walks in beauty " , Page 294 
 
 u The harp the monarch minstrel swept" . 294 
 
 "If that high world" 295 
 
 " The wild gazelle " 295 
 
 "Oh! weep for those " 296 
 
 " On Jordan's banks" 296 
 
 Jephtha's Daughter — " Since our Country" . . 296 
 
 ' 1 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom " 297 
 
 " My soul is dark " 297 
 
 " I saw thee weep " 298 
 
 "Thy days are done" 298 
 
 Song of Saul before his last battle — " Warriors and chiefs" 299 
 
 Saul— " Thou whose spell " 299 
 
 All is Vanity — " Fame, wisdom, love " 300 
 
 " When coldness wraps this suffering clay" 300 
 
 Vision of Belshazzar — " The King was on his throne" .... 301 
 
 "Sun of the sleepless" 302 
 
 " Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be " 302 
 
 Herod's Lament for Mariamne — " Oh ! Mariamne " 303 
 
 On the day of the Destruction of Jerusalem — u From the 
 
 last hill" 303 
 
 By the Elvers of Babylon — " We sate down and wept " . . . . 304 
 
 Destruction of Sennacherib — " The Assyrian came 304 
 
 " A spirit pass'd before me" , 305 
 
 Stanzas for Music — " There be none " 305 
 
 The Siege of Corinth 306 
 
 Stanzas for Music — " There's not a joy " 328 
 
 Parisina 330 
 
 " Fare thee well ! and if for ever" 343 
 
 A Sketch—" Born in the garret " 344 
 
 Stanzas to Augusta — " When all around " 34^ 
 
 The Prisoner op Chillon ( 34& 
 
 Monody on the Death of Sheridan — " When the last sunshine" 358 
 
 Stanzas to Augusta — " Though the day" 361 
 
 Epistle to Augusta — " My sister ! my sweet sister" 362 
 
 The Dream 365 
 
 Darkness — " I had a dream " 369 
 
 Churchill's Grave — " I stood beside the grave " 371 
 
 Prometheus — " Titan ! to whose immortal eyes" 372 
 
 A Fragment — " Could I remount " 373 
 
 To Lake Leman — " Rousseau — Voltaire, &c." 374 
 
 Lines on hearing that Lady Byron was ill — ** And thou wert 
 
 sad" 374 
 
 Manfred : A Dramatic Poem 376 
 
 " Bright be the place of thy soul " 406 
 
 Stanzas for Music — " They say that hope " 407 
 
 The Lament of Tasso 408 
 
 Cain : A Mystery 414 
 
 The Vision of Judgment 
 
rroNTENTS. ix 
 
 Heaven and Earth: A Mystery t . Page 481 
 
 Ohilde Harold's Pilgrimage . . 507 
 
 Canto 1 510 
 
 Canto II 63i5 
 
 Canto III 555 
 
 Canto IV 683 
 
 ^Beppo , 624 
 
 Mazeppa 643 
 
 Miscellaneous — 
 
 Epitaph on John Adams, ot Southwell 661 
 
 ''Farewell! if ever fondest prayer" 661 
 
 u When we two parted" 661 
 
 To a youthful Friend 6ti'i 
 
 " Well ! thou art happy" , 004 
 
 Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog .... 665 
 
 To a Lady 666 
 
 u Remind me not, remind mo not" 666 
 
 " There was a time, I need not name" 667 
 
 " And wilt thou weep when I am low?" 667 
 
 Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving England 668 
 
 u Remember him, whom passion's power" 669 
 
 A very mournful Ballad 671 
 
 To Thomas Moore 673 
 
 Translation of a Romaic Love Song 674 
 
 Extracts from Don Juan — 
 
 "The Isles of Greece" 675 
 
 Fame — " What is the end of fame". . . 6/7 
 
 The shipwreck— " The wind increased . 677 
 
 First Love—" 'Tis sweet to hear" 690 
 
 Evening — " Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour" 692 
 
 Haidee— " They carpeted their feet" 693 
 
 Vain Regrets — " But now at tbirtar" 695 
 
 The Slave-market — " 'Twas a raw day" 696 
 
 The Lovers — "The heart — which may be broken" 697 
 
 The Assassination — " The other evening" 698 
 
 Auld Lang Syne—" And all our little feuds" 699 
 
 A Dream — " She dream'd of being alone" 700 
 
 Fame — "Of Poets who come down" 701 
 
 Love and Glory—" O Love ! O Glory I" 702 
 
 The Maniac— "A vein had burst" 703 
 
 The Black Friar— " Beware ! beware" 705 
 
 Norman or Newstead Abbey — " To Norman Abbey whirl'd 
 
 the noble pair" 706 
 
 Julia's Portrait — " Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes") 708 
 
 Juan in Love—" Young Juan wander'd" 709 
 
 A Scene in Greece — "And further on a troop" 710 
 
 Twilight—" Sweet hour of twilight !" 711 
 
 A Group of Beauties — " Of those who had most genius" . . 711 
 
 A Picture — " She stood a moment as a Pythoness" 712 
 
 War — " All was prepared" 713 
 
 Contemporary Poets — " Sir Walter reign'd before me" .... 714 
 
Worldly Wealth — u Why call the miser miserable". . 71& 
 
 Match-making — " How all the needy" 71^ 
 
 Quixotism — " Rough Johnson, the great moralist" 717 
 
 Human Motives — " I hate a motive" 718 
 
 Truth— "'Tis strange, but true" 718 
 
 Departed Pleasures--" The evaporation of a joyous day" . . 719 
 
LIFE OP LORD BYRON. 
 
 " He Is now at rest ! 
 And praise and blame fall on his ears alike, 
 Now dull in death. Yes, Byron, thou art {rons 1 
 Gone like a star that through the firmament 
 Shot and was lost, In its eccentric course, 
 Dazzling, perplexing;." 
 
 Rogers. 
 
 Is tho time yet come for a just and reliable life of Byron to be 
 written ? May the veil bo lifted from the brow of truth without 
 making revealments that would annoy, if not injure, still living 
 actors in his short but eventful drama? Not yet. The principal 
 heroine of that drama still exists, and, amidst contumely, harsh 
 interpretations, and doubts, contending with a nation's partiality 
 for one of its greatest geniuses, she has borne her faculties so 
 meekly, and her wrongs so unobtrusively, that the respect of 
 silence is due to the repose of the sunset of a life whoso meridian 
 was so disturbed by storms. 
 
 The first thing that strikes a writer who would prodv.ee a life of 
 Byron, Lowever short, is his universally-acknowledged genius — a 
 genius so exalted, so various, and, in every view, so extraordinary, 
 that we say with his friend, the poet whoso linos I have adopted as 
 my motto, it is dazzling, perplexing I Genius is that aptitude for 
 a particular object of tho human mind which, liko tho rays con- 
 centrated in the focus of the burning glass, produces intenso effect 
 where it is directed. Mankind vary in this faculty as wonderfully 
 as they do in their features, and wisely has Providence so ordered 
 it, for thus this divine emanation becomes universally beneficial. 
 But as, whilst acknowledging gratefully tho common and least 
 showy blessings that surround us on tho earth, our love and admi- 
 ration are principally given to its sublime sunsets, its mildly 
 ooautiful moonlights, its glittering stars, its more near and dear 
 av?eet flowers, so have tho efforts of genius, which have been- 
 
LIFE OF BYRON. 
 
 principally directed to the enjoyments of life, ever engrossed tha 
 warmest of our sympathies. Among these, as if by general accord, 
 Poetry stands highest; it is considered to contain more divine 
 inspiration than any other faculty of the mind, and the great 
 Poets of the world are more glorified by it than its warriors, its 
 statesmen, or its philosophers : it is not my business either to 
 question or admit the justice of this, but so it is. 
 
 Byron was, then, a man of extraordinary genius, and was a 
 Poet ; this was the talent intrusted to him ; let us see how, in a 
 short but fitful career, he employed it. As it never, for a moment, 
 was absent from his own thoughts, and as he never allows his 
 millions of readers to forget it, ho was not only of God's nobility, 
 but man's ; his family, both by father and mother, was of high 
 rank. He is said to be descended from one of the Norman ad- 
 venturers who camo over with William ; some ancestors dis- 
 tinguished themselves in the Crusades, others in the Wars of the 
 Roses. Sir John Byron had the good fortune to be a favourite of 
 that capricious tyrant, Henry VIII., at a time when the dissolution 
 of the monasteries placed rich gifts in the hands of the monarch, 
 and to him the family owed the possession of Newstead Abbe} T , 
 which the poet's fame has converted into a shrine sacred to genius. 
 In the troubles of the reign of Charles I., the Byrons were con- 
 spicuous for their loyalty, there having been no less than eight 
 brothers of the family in the field at once. The monarch's grati- 
 tude raised them from a knightly to a nob)e house, and they 
 became Barons Byron, of Rochdale. They were moderately 
 wealthy, but Charles could bestow honours more easily than 
 •estates, and the extravagances and eccentricities of several of tho 
 poet's ancestors did not leave him a very rich inheritance. His 
 descent was no less noble on the mother's side ; indeed, she said 
 more so, as she boasted she was of the old stock of the Gordons, 
 which claimed priortty even over the branch now holding the ducat 
 title in that family. His mother was an heiress, which appears to 
 have been her only attraction in the eyes of the gay Captain Byron, 
 for theirs proved a most unhappy marriage, embittered and em- 
 broiled by the debts and extravagance of the husband, and the. 
 violent, passionate disposition of the wife. It was one of those 
 strange circumstances upon which Lord Byron delighted to dwoll, 
 as denoting him of a peculiar racr.. that his fathor, his great-unclo 
 whom he succeeded, and himself, were all separated from their 
 wives : all, indeed, were eccentric, and under the dominion of their 
 passions. Sometimes living together, sometimes apart, Byron's 
 parents never afforded him the remembrance of a happy, peaceful 
 home ; and the death of his father, when he was only in the third 
 year of his age, left him under the control of a mother as little 
 
LIFE OF BYUON. 
 
 xiii 
 
 qualified to bring up a boy of a wayward and spirited disposition 
 as she possibly could be. It is so completely an established f.tct, 
 that all superior men have had superior mothers, that even to 
 remark upon it is trite ; but it is no less true, that mothers who aro 
 not remarkable for capacities or virtues, have a great influence 
 upon their sons, particularly when circumstances make the son an 
 object of more than common interest. Now, George Byron was 
 an only child, and there was, moreover, only one life between him 
 and a baronial title and estates, and this, with a proud woman like 
 Mrs. Byron, led to injudicious indulgences and vauntings which 
 the furies of her violent temper could not counteract. Amidst, 
 quarrels, beatings, the flight of all sorts of missiles, and the most 
 coarse intemperate language, ho was never allowed to forget ho 
 was of the old stock of the Gordons of Gight, and of that of tho 
 Barons of Newstead. There can be no doubt that tho disposition 
 which was the foundation of most of his aberrations was due to 
 the misfortune of his having a mother whose conduct made her the 
 object of his ridicule, and who never commanded his respect. 
 
 George Gordon Byron was born in Holies Street, London, on the 
 22nd of January, 1788. In 1790, his mother took him to Aberdeen, 
 where ho was brought up as injudiciously as was to be expected 
 from such a mother in straitened circumstances. Owing, as he 
 afterwards used to declare, to the temper of his motber, he received 
 an injury at his birth, by which one of his feet became deformed, 
 and rendered him lame for life. We have no space for any account 
 of the little anecdotes related of his early boyhood, nor, indeed, do 
 we attach much consequence to such ; for, although there may bo 
 some foundation for them, whenever tho man proves remarkable, 
 all related of the boy is so highly coloured, that wo have no regret 
 in consigning his verses to the Old Woman and the Moon, to the 
 same apochryphal chapter as Johnson's Epitaph to tho Duck. All 
 that is told makes him appear exactly what he afterwards proved 
 to bo — passionate, self-willed, spirited, shrewd, with occasional but 
 rare glimpses of feeling — indeed, he had nothing to bestow feeling 
 or affection upon. Ho became quite a Scotch boy, in maimers and 
 language, receiving no notice or encouragement from his great- 
 uncle, oven when tho death of tho relation who stood between him 
 and the title, had made him the presumptive heir : the old baron 
 only spoke oi him as " tho little boy at Aberdeen." In 1798, when 
 he was in his eleventh year, his great-uncle died, and he succeeded 
 to the family titles and estates, upon which he was made a ward of 
 Chancery, and removed from Aberdeen to Newstead Abbey. His 
 accession of rank made his lameness a matter of increased con- 
 sequence, and he was placed in the hands oi an empiric at Notting- 
 ham, who only inflicted pain upon him, withou,*^ *ny benefit. 
 
LIFE OF BTROtf. 
 
 Finding no good result from this, he was taken to London, for the 
 advice of Dr. Baillie ; but all proved in vain. 
 
 His education, which had amounted to nothing at Aberdeen, now 
 became a serious subject, and he was placed under Dr. Glennie, ol 
 Dulwich ; but all the worthy doctor's efforts were rendered abortive 
 by the miscond'iict of his mother ; no regularity in his attendance, 
 no persistency in his studies required, he found, if he made an object 
 of the boy's continuance with him, that he should be the slave cf 
 both son and mother. There are some little pleasing anecdotes of 
 this period related by the doctor, but I really can only consign 
 them to the apochryphal chapter before mentioned. Here, how- 
 ever, his guardian, Lord Carlisle, interfered, and he was sent to 
 Harrow. 
 
 Some account for his character in one way, some in another : one 
 says it was created by becoming a lord at so early an age ; another, 
 more weakly, attributes it to a disappointed passion — but, it is my 
 opinion, it was stamped by his being sent to Harrow. Had he 
 been placed with one of the many worthy and learned men who, 
 'with a limited number of pupils, undertake the education of the 
 morals and the heart, as well as of the intellect, at a distance from 
 London, and out of the reach of his mother's influence, he might 
 have become a good, useful member of society, as well as an orna- 
 ment to it. He was plunged into the vortex of a great pubiio 
 school, without a single home affection to counteract the pernicious 
 effects of associating with boys becoming men, proud of their 
 initiatory steps in vice, and of their sphere in life, which rendered 
 them, in their young opinions, above control. It is true his mind 
 was cultivated, and his genius here imped its wings, but it was 
 at the expense of his moral character. Nothing can be worse than 
 educating boys in large masses, where there is great disparity in 
 ages ; and where the youngest, on entering, become the slaves of 
 the elders, and the spectators and auditors of all they do and say. 
 The fag treasures all the lessons burnt into his memory, to practise 
 t hem when his turn comes. At Harrow, however, he was better 
 oft than he would have been at Westminster ; there was a gentle- 
 manly tone preserved in his errors. He was not only under an 
 able master, but he was contemporary with several boys who have 
 turned out eminent men. He made up for lost time by rapid im- 
 provement, but, like all great poets, he was rather a desultory 
 reader than an ardent votary of any particular branch of know- 
 ledge. The quantity ho read, after he had acquired a love of 
 reading, is astonishing, particularly when we see how, according 
 to his own account, he passed his school leisure, "in rowing, 
 rebelling, breaking bounds, and mischief of every kind.'* One 
 
LIFE OF BYRON 
 
 freat advantage was gained — the great public school was above the 
 control of his mother. 
 
 In the third year after going to Harrow, he passed his vacation 
 at Nottingham, about ten miles from Newstead, and, in a visit to 
 Anncsley, the residence of a neighbouring gentleman, formed a 
 boyish attachment, which he was afterwards accustomed to assert, 
 had a great influence on his life. Miss Mary Chaworth's family 
 name was associated with that of Byron in a way to create a 
 romantic feeling in a mind like his. The great-uncle whom bo 
 succeeded, seems to have been a violent man, completely the slave 
 of his passions and caprices ; and he had, in consequence of a 
 foolish quarrel about the quantity of game on their relative estates, 
 killed the grandfather of that young lady in a duel. It is strange 
 that so many accounts have said that the gentleman who fell in 
 this fatal affair was Miss Chaworth's father ; even so respectable a 
 work as u Chambers's Cyclopaedia of English Literature" has it so. 
 The duel took plase at least twenty years before Miss Chaworth 
 was born. Upon this episode I must beg to say a few words. 
 When these young persons met at this period, Byron was a fat, 
 somewhat uncouth boy of sixteen, brusque in his manners and hot 
 in disposition. Miss Chaworth was a handsome young lady of 
 eighteen, formed for the world, moving in it, with her hand and 
 affections engaged to a gentleman of the name of Musters. From 
 his infancy, Byron had given way to the impulses of his wishes, and 
 continued to do so through the whole of his life, without any 
 reference to tho feelings of others. Although aware of Miss 
 Chaworth's position, ho seems rather to have cherished than 
 checked the passion he conceived for her, and which she, with 
 characteristic mildness, received as a transient boyish fancy, and* 
 while candidly revealing the state of her own affections, offered 
 him her friendship. There is nothing in tho tenor of his lifo and 
 actions to lead us to place faith in tho depth of this juvenile at- 
 tachment ; it was poetical to recur to it occasionally, but it was 
 likewise inconsiderate towards the object of it, and no proof of its 
 truth : he who truly loves, places her happiness above the gratifica- 
 tion of showing he can write affecting verses. Miss Chaworth's mar- 
 riage proved to be anything but a happy one : and the unenviable 
 notoriety which Byron's attachment procured her, I am assured, 
 made a bad husband worse. From tho first, she had treated him 
 with single-hearted candour, and he had nothing to complain of 
 but his own weakness or selfishness. As to his disappointment 
 Having any effect upon his after-career, it is preposterous to 
 imagine ; there is not a single trait of character to show that be 
 could ever have settled down into happy domestic life ; if he had 
 
LIFE OF BYF.ON. 
 
 married Miss Chaworth, she would have experienced the s&uie fats 
 as Lady Byron's, without, perhaps, that lady's means and firmness 
 to free herself from a life of misery. The " Dream" is a beautiful 
 poem, but that is all ; and the reader must not be led by it to 
 suppose that the lady's sorrows proceeded from her having refused 
 the love of one who had rendered himself famous. Sho, with a 
 family, had too many real griefs to bo affected by anything- so 
 factitious as his persistent poetical whining, more the effects of 
 wounded vanity than of disappointed love. We can only account 
 for the importance Moore attaches to this affair, by the circum- 
 stance of his being himself a poet. 
 
 As regarded his education, his residence at Harrow of five years 
 produced as much benefit as could be expected ; he acquired quite 
 scholo,rship enough for an original poet, or to qualify him for the 
 position his rank entitled him to take. The pride of birth, so 
 carefully instilled by his mother, acted here as strongly as it did 
 in his after-life : he had his pets among the untitled and the weak, 
 but his principal associates were the noble by descent and daring in 
 action ; he could patronize poor little Peel, but he formed no con- 
 nection with him to last beyond school- fellowship. From Harrow 
 he went to Cambridge, where he managed, in the easy way known 
 to the noble, to take a degree, but certainly benefited but little 
 otherwise. He distinguished himself, however, by many eccen- 
 tricities, among which may be reckoned his strange animal par- 
 tialities. He kept a bear ; and his canine favourites were of the 
 bull-dog breed, or others of a large and formidable strength and 
 size. Considering his lameness, he was a pretty good cricketer, 
 and was expert in boxing, single stick, and other athletic exercises. 
 But his physical deficiency did not extend to the water ; he was an 
 excellent swimmer, and could handle an oar manfully. He speaks 
 frequently of his riding, but he never was a good horseman ; and 
 that cannot be attributed to his deformed foot, for the Lord Barry- 
 more, surnamed Cripplcgate, was much more lame, in the same 
 way, than Lord Byron, and he was a first-rate rider, though & 
 heavy man. The Marquis of Anglesea, though he left a leg- 
 beneath a monument at Waterloo, continued, as ho had been, on<* 
 of the best gentlemen riders in Europe. 
 
 His position was a dangerous one for a young man of his temper- 
 • ment. Endowed by nature with an exceedingly handsome face 
 and person, a warm constitution, and a boundless imagination, 
 instead of laying down for himself a plan of honourable exertion 
 and self-government, that might have enabled him to relieve his 
 estates from their encumbrances, and support the peerage with 
 dignity, he gave himself up to the unchecked control of his passions. 
 Unfortunately, he had no family check ; his mother he despise^- 
 
LIFE OF BY HON. 
 
 xvii 
 
 arid not without cause ; whilst Lord Carlisle, his only relative who 
 might, from his own position, have interfered with any chance ol 
 mtccess, did not seem to think him worth notice. He was a peer, 
 though not rich ; when he came of age he would bo possessed of 
 estates ; and such a young man can generally find usurers bold and 
 calculating enough to furnish him for a time with the means of 
 indulgence. From the time he went to Cambridge, he plunged 
 recklessly into dissipations, which gave a tone and colour to all ho 
 afterwards wrote Ho had, unfortunately, no home; I say so, 
 although convinced he would never havo been a domesticated man ; 
 but if he had had any one ho loved to direct his energies in a light 
 course, his genius might have been a far grsater public blessing 
 than it has proved. But this person must havo been some one ho 
 held in awe, whom ho respected more than he loved ; the equal 
 passion of husband and wife would novcr havo effected good. His 
 passions always took their birth from impulses, consequently they 
 were sensual and evanescent. Wo frequently indulge in historical 
 calculations of what would have happened if such and such things 
 had not taken place — what might Byron havo proved if his father 
 had been a Chatham to give an impetus to his genius? 
 
 The nature of his early readings, ho says, however, made him a 
 poet, and his position gave a colouring to his writings. Before he 
 left Cambridge, ho had composed many pieces of various merits, 
 some little more than school-boy rhymes, others denoting the "rrre 
 that burned within him," and ho becamo ambitious to seo himaeU 
 in print ; but, at tho solicitations of a friend, submitted to the cruel 
 sacrifice of burning his darling offspring, after they were in type. 
 In his twentieth year, he, however, published the collection entitled 
 " Hours of Idleness," began an epic poem, called "Bosworth 
 Field," and wrote part of a novel : and this amidst dissipation of 
 the wildest and least refined nature. With scanty means, and 
 uncountenanced by any leaders of rank and fashion, he did not now 
 enjoy the entree into families of distinction, which his fame after- 
 wards procured him; so that his pleasures were of a gross, unsocial 
 nature. But this was part of his poetical education ; his wildest 
 excess^ furnished materials for his great poems, both as to facts 
 and reflections: "Almost all Don Juan," ho said, "is real life, 
 oither my own or other people's." 
 
 Had Byron not been a lord, his juvenile poetical effusions 
 ♦ruuld, most likely, havo been allowed to glide unnoticed down the 
 stream of ol livion ; but tho intrusion of a peer into tho republic of 
 letters, was as bold as that of a parvenu savant into the society oi 
 peers, and a great Northern critic undertook to whip the rhyming 
 fancy out of the noble young poet. This is not the only mistake of 
 the kind critics have made — Keats they are said to havo killed *** 
 
 & 
 
xvitl 
 
 Lire of uritun. 
 
 the whipping ; but they only roused the patrician blood of Byron ; 
 1 nstead of finding an humble victim, they caught a Tartar. 
 When anything offended him, ho was a prey to rage of the most 
 appalling nature, but, contrary to the generality of passionate 
 people, his anger was deep-rooted, and sought vent in action. 
 Soon after the appearance of the critique in the Edinburgh 
 Review, he took up his residence at Newstead, and set about the 
 composition of "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." One of 
 the most surprising peculiarities of his poetical writings, is that 
 they were produced whilst he was in a state of excitement of the 
 strongest kind, and of a nature apparently opposed to composition. 
 His mode of life at Newstead has, no doubt, been exaggerated, as 
 was almost all he ever did. He entertained an idea that a Byron 
 must be eccentric, and his orgies were marked by peculiarity as- 
 much as by excess. The crew of which he was the Comus, were 
 clothed as monks ; they quaffed their wine from a cup made of a 
 skull, and in their conversation, morals, and habits, they took an 
 unboundedly free and unusual latitude. This society, notwith- 
 standing the talents of several of its members, always appeared to 
 me to be a poor copy of the same sort of party over which J ack 
 Wilkes had presided half a century before. The worst result of 
 this was, that it hardened his nature prematurely ; he made the 
 most of his obliquities, and boasted of his profligacy. 
 
 On the 22nd of January, 1809, he came of age ; on the 13th of 
 March ho took his seat in the House of Lords, and on the 16th of 
 the same month published his celebrated reply to the Edinburgh 
 Review, in " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." This reply 
 Touchstone would, no doubt, have characterized as " a counter- 
 check quarrelsome :" it angered great part of the literary world ; 
 but it, at the same, proved the ability of the young poet, and that 
 he was too good a master of the fence of satire to be again 
 attacked with impunity. His coming of age was celebrated at 
 Newstead Abbey in the old English baronial fashion ; a roasted ox, 
 Hoods of ale, ko., being bestowed upon the tenant^, and offered 
 to all comers. His appearance in the House of Lords, though an 
 affair of consequence to him, excited but little attention in that 
 august assembly ; they did not dream of the geniuo that was 
 come among them, and his connection was so limited that his 
 unfriended position affected him deeply. Even his relation, Lord. 
 Carlisle, offered him no countenance, and the Chancellor was so 
 dilatory and indifferent in preparing the necessary papers, that 
 when ho apologized for the delay, Byron could not restrain the 
 cynical reply that roso spontaneously to his lips : — 94 Your Lord- 
 ship, " said he, "is like Tom Thumb— you have $ono your dmy? 
 but you have done no move," 
 
LIFE OF BYRON. 
 
 With fatrong and never regulated passions, great prid* of birth, 
 a full sense of his abilities, and little but debts and destitution 
 before him, he was so depressed in spirits that a profound cynicism 
 took possession of his mind, and from that hour was the prevailing^ 
 feature of his character. Mr. Moore, in his Memoirs, talks a great 
 deal of what I think nonsense about a disappointed heart and 
 waste affections ; Lord Byron was not the man to be crushed by 
 cuch poetical feelings. He was, perhaps, as vain a man as ever 
 lived, he was extravagantly sensitive, deeply alive to neglect, and 
 looking for too much admiration before he had earned it. Witn 
 the pride of a poet, Moore says, u Luckily he became a poet and 
 not a legislator." Had his poetry proved such as to have been a 
 blossing to his fellow-men, instead of only dazzling and astonishing 
 them, I should have agreed with him ; as it is, I cannot but think 
 one good law would weigh very heavily in the balance against it. 
 A man who is a born British peer is born to honourable duties, 
 and the chance possessor of that elevated rank, has no right to 
 boast of it when he neglects them. He could not say with his 
 favourite Pope : 
 
 " I left no calling: for this idle trade, 
 No duty broke." 
 
 With his vast talents, and the position he was placed in, he should 
 have shaken off his annoyances and difficulties " like dewdrops 
 from the lion's mane," and have become a great, good man, as well 
 as a splendid genius. It cannot be denied that many circum- 
 stances conspired to give tho bias to his genius, and the tone to 
 his character; tho poetical mind is too apt to let the idiosnycrasy 
 of the man associate itself with tho flights of imagination, which 
 is sure to engender vanity, egotism, disappointment, and cynicism. 
 The poet fancies his mission so exalted, that all the world should 
 pa)" it homage, whereas nine hundred and ninety-nine out of ever}" 
 thousand of his fellow-men care not a straw for him or his verse. 
 While struggling with the difficulties created by high rank, pride 
 of birth, ungovernable passions, and a slender income, the severe 
 criticism of tho Edinburgh Review seems to have decided his 
 fate : he answered that review, his answer proved his ability and 
 was very much admired ; he had found he possessed a weapon 
 which could wound the world which he falsely thought his enemy, 
 and from that hour to the day of his death, he became a cynic and 
 a satirist ; the joyous spirit which had given zest to his debauche- 
 ries was changed to gibing mockery, and everybody and every- 
 thing was viewed through the distorted medium of selfishness,, 
 embittered by poverty and cynicism, rendered almost super* 
 humaclv keen br extra 1 ordinary genius. 
 
 IS 
 
LIFE OF BYItOa. 
 
 Such was the tone of mind in which Lord Byron left Eng^nl in 
 the summer of the year he came of age, to travel, more with the 
 hope of getting ride of home, that is of his country, than with the 
 view of acquiring knowledge. But such a penetrating, observant 
 mind could not avoid accumulating additions to his stores at every 
 step, and few great writers have enjoyed such extraordinary 
 opportunities. No poetry of a high rank was ever so completely 
 founded upon facts as Byron's ; it is true his brilliant fancy threw 
 those facts out in new and striking lights, or covered them with 
 beautiful ornaments, but all were drawn from himself, his friends, 
 the scenes he had actually beheld, or the books he had read. 
 This gives a solidity, if I may be allowed the word, to all he wrote, 
 because it makes it all intelligible. Nothing could be more 
 different than his genius and that of Shelley, in this respect. 
 Shelley was possessed of an inventive, unbounded fancy ; if there 
 is a reality in his poetry, it lies too deep for common observers, and 
 whilst idolized by a few, he will never be generally understood or 
 appreciated as he perhaps deserves. 
 
 Consistently with this self-painting, the poem with which his 
 mind must have been busy during his first travels, is entirely self- 
 reflective, that is to say, his own actual adventures, wanderings 
 and thoughts. And what an astonishing grasp of faculties does 
 *" Childe Harold's Pilgrimage" display! "To a Poet," says 
 Johnson, in Rasselas, " nothing can be useless. Whatever is 
 beautiful and whatever is dreadful must be familiar to his imagina- 
 tion : he must be conversant with all that is awfully vast or 
 •elegantly little." After this direction is "Childe Harold" written, 
 but with a much wider scope ; the vices, the follies, the fallacies, 
 the eccentricities of mankind are rendered subject to the muse as 
 well as the poetical elements, and all tinged by the cynical spirit of 
 the writer, like the sowpqon of vinegar which gave piquancy to 
 many of Soyer's favourite dishes. 
 
 If confined to the Old World, Byron's travels were as judiciously 
 directed as possible. In his first wanderings he seems to have 
 been in search of the beautiful and the classic, which was natural 
 for a young man educated, as it is the fashion at our high schools 
 and colleges, upon the writings left us by Greece and Rome. His 
 first place of halt was Lisbon, whose beautiful bay must have been 
 strongly provocative of a love of travel, whilst the degradation of 
 the inhabitants of the country furnished ample matter for the 
 indulgence of his cynical mood. From Lisbon he went to Seville and 
 Cadw, still observing all, and never forgetting to throw woman, the 
 principal object of his thoughts through life, into the foreground of 
 every picture he took. He then visited Malta, Prevessa, Salaro, 
 Ajta, Joannini, Zeltza, and Tepaleen, where he was introduced to 
 
LIFE OF B7r.O:t. 
 
 Ali Pasha. Gratified with his interview, ho returned to Joannini, 
 and there began to transfer to paper the impressions of his pil- 
 grimage, in the poem which will prove his principal claim to » 
 niche in the Temple of Fame. 
 
 1 have not space to £>llow him through his delightful wanderings 
 amidst classic regions, though perfectly entering into his enjoy- 
 ment of them. No place illustrated by great men or important 
 events was neglected, and, in addition to tho great poem, which 
 must have been always prominent in his mind, tho muse was \ 
 frequently called upon to commemorate striking scenes and 
 incidents, or interesting persons. From his self-acknowledged 
 libertine character, ever} 7 female ho writes verses upon is supposed 
 to have been a mistress ; but, although by no means disposed to bo 
 the champion of his continenco, I am convinced there are many 
 " exceptions to this, and that to the above-mentioned foolish 
 boasting may be added a considerable quantity of the fiction of 
 poetical license. He remained six weeks at Athens, for the sake 
 of viewing all the classic scenes of that interesting country ; and 
 though he addressed "Maid of Athens, &c." to the daughter of 
 the house in which he was located, before ho quitted that cit\ . 
 there is not even a suspicion that he did not leave her untainted by 
 the scant morality of London and Cambridge. 
 
 He seemed determined to leave no spot he had ever read of un\ i - 
 sited; from Athens he went to Smyrna, where ho wrote the second 
 canto of " Childe Harold." He next explored tho ruins of Ephesus, 
 and from thence proceeded to Constantinople. As a poet, ho could 
 not bo so near tho great scene of Homer's action, without making a 
 pilgrimage to the Troad, which, in spite of Mr. Bryant, confirmed 
 him in his Homeric faith. But he was not satisfied with believing 
 in Homer, ho wished to prove one of tho poetically-registered 
 wonders of antiquity practicable, and, without the hope of having 
 a Hero to welcome him on his landing, he rivalled Leander by 
 swimming from Sestos to Abydos. Of this feat he was always very 
 proud, as indeed he was of everything that proved his courage, 
 agility, or strength: when, in his later travels, he was compelled, as 
 he says, " to give an impertinent fellow a good English punch in 
 the guts," he did not fail to mention it in more than one letter. 
 He made another short sojourn at Constantinople, during which 
 he enjoyed an excursion through the Bosphorus to the Black Sea 
 and Cyanean Symplegades ; ho then returned to Athens, where, 
 after a trip to Corinth, and a tour of the Moroa to visit Velay 
 Pasha, he seemed to linger as loath to depart, and took up his 
 residence at the Franciscan convent. While he^o he wrote many 
 of the beautiful smaller pieces rendered interesting by local cir- 
 •urastances and personal associations, by which they are to be 
 
LIFE OF BYRON. 
 
 traced, among which may be particularly noted " The Curse or 
 Minerva," — a severe, though perhaps well-deserved castigation oi 
 Lord Elgin, for his depredations upon the sculptural remains oi 
 Greece. 
 
 After an absence of two years he, in July 1811, returned to 
 England, " a wiser, but I fear not a better man." Whether he 
 ■had been as various and successful in his amours as he would lead 
 his readers to think, I know not ; but there was always a reckless- 
 ness of the peace of others which led him to write verses to every 
 lady he admired, whatever her position might be. Thoso to Mrs. 
 Musters (Miss Chaworth), on his leaving England were, to say the 
 '3east, inconsiderate, and showed no regard for the happiness of 
 'the person to whom they were addressed. Of the same class were 
 dines to " Florence" (Mrs. Spenser Smith), each piece beautifully 
 proving to the ladies of what little value was his boasted love ; 
 take for instance, the last line of the address to " Mrs. Musters," 
 and the verses to " Florence," and the " Maid of Athens," which 
 so quickly followed ! Neither in his life nor his writings did Byron 
 show the least acquaintance with true, pure love, or a proper 
 appreciation of the character of woman. He has a poet's eye for 
 beauty, but it is likewise the eyo of a sensualist. His few poems 
 addressed to " Thyrza," seem to be the only ones on which 
 secrecy placed its finger ; he never would tell even his most 
 intimate friends who she was. Some persons pretended that 
 there was likewise a mystery about a period of his travels in 
 Oreece, in which a tale of horror was mixed up, but I can find 
 nothing to prove there was any foundation for it, beyond the 
 character of his writings, and the mystification ho sometimes 
 delighted to deal in. 
 
 On his return to England, he proposed settling at Newstead, and 
 sent down some furniture to render it more comfortable. He had 
 established his* •another there before his departure, reversing, in his 
 last letter, the position of mother and son, by sending her advico 
 to behave properly to her neighbours, " for you know," he adds, 
 " you are a vixen." Mrs. Byron had for some years enjoyed a 
 pension from government of £300 a year ; why granted nobody 
 eouid discover ; but it must have been a great relief to her needy 
 son His coming home proved the signal for her death ; for, when 
 the upholsterer appeared with the furniture, she, from some little 
 mistake on his part, flew into one of those fits of rage that used 
 to amuse her son so much, but which, in this instance, she carried 
 beyond a joke, as the passion produced a fit, and the fit death. 
 As the mother of a Byron, he, of course, paid her decent respect, 
 feut he was not likely even to affect grief. 
 
 Once more in London, he fell willingly into ths cortex of pleasure. 
 
LIF£ OK* EY.RON. 
 
 to which, very shortly great inducements were added. On the 
 27th of February, he made his first speech in the House of Lords ; 
 it was respectable, but yet did not hold out a promise of much 
 oratorical excellence, and he seldom spoke afterwards. But, as 
 " English Bards" had been closely connected with his taking his 
 coat, so his first speech was as quickly followed by the great event 
 of his life, the publication of " Childo Harold." Like several other 
 poets, ho preferred other comparatively worthless works to this his 
 best, and was with great difficulty provailcd upon to publish it. 
 He however, was persuaded by his distant relation, Mr. Dallas, 
 the author of some novels, to whom ho gave tho copyright. He 
 <vas soon made aware of his error ; for the sensation created by tho 
 poem was immense; as he expresses it: u I awoke one morning, and 
 (bund myself famous!" He had no longer to complain of tho 
 world's neglect, the danger now was of his being spoiled by 
 adulation. To him who three years before could not gain entrance 
 to good society, not only was every door of the great and the 
 rich thrown open, but all the fascinations of beauty and pleasure 
 were put in forco to allure the titled genius into their magic circle. 
 His unexpected success put an end to all ideas of retirement ; no 
 man ever coveted admiration moro keenly, and ho now enjoyed it 
 to satiety. Tho very persons he had so freely vituperated in his 
 satire, felt their anger melt away beneath the rays of his genius, 
 and eagerly sought his friendship. It is impossible to trace tho 
 various reconciliations without a smile. Mooro, whom ho had 
 sharply censured under tho name of Littlo, began with something 
 approaching to hostility, but he was easily mollified, and becamo 
 the noble poet's Fidus Achates. I do not say he becamo his friend, 
 in the exalted and scarcely in the wordly meaning of the word ; in 
 a letter to Moore, after they had long been on the most intimato 
 relations, he says: u I don't know what to say about friendship, I 
 never was in friendship but once, in my nineteenth year, and then 
 it gave mo as much trouble as love. I am afraid, as Whitbroad's 
 sire said to the king, who wanted to knight him, I am too old ; 
 but, nevertheless, no one wishes you more friends, fame, and 
 felicity, than yours, &e." Moore felt this cold-blooded, flippant 
 declaration deeply, and made no reply for some time. In fact, 
 liyron only told tho truth ; he could be kind and generous as a 
 patron or protector, but his friendships were like his loves — selfish 
 and not proof against absence. His letters are exceedingly pleasant 
 reading, but we feci assured that Mooro has suppressed many that 
 would have betrayed double dealing, and the bulk of them 
 are addressed to persons who could bo of uso to him. The 
 romanti'j friendship he declared for Lord Clare was like his lovo 
 for Mary Duff and Miss Chaworti. nothing bu* the dream of a 
 
LI2T£ OF BYKQIff. 
 
 youthful fancy, that only rose to his mind when in a more than 
 usually morbid state, and never influenced a single action of ms 
 life. 
 
 To attempt to remark upon " Childe Harold," or the numerous 
 poems that now poured from his copious genius like a flood, wera 
 a work of supererogation ; England, Europe, the world are ac- 
 quainted with their beauties, their peculiarities and their fault*. 
 Well do I recollect when the question of every intellectual person 
 you met was : " Have you seen the G, I, A, 0, U, R ? " for no 
 one could pronounce the word, and therefore spelt it. Byron 
 proved that no poet since Shakespeare had so deep an insight into 
 so many and various objects for poetry : the deepest passions, — 
 the most evanescent trifles, — the profoundest feelings, — the most 
 heartless cynicisms, — all flowed chaotically from his pen, the most 
 astounding discords jostling against each other, and harmonizing 
 into a beautiful whole. But wonder was the predominant feeling 
 his works created, for they wanted the divine principle of goodness ; 
 they made man proud of his fellow-man's intellect, but they left 
 him no better, and gave birth to no love. Through the whole of 
 his writings, from "English Bards to the last Canto of "Don 
 Juan," there is one prominent character in the scene. I know not 
 whether he wished it; if he did, he failed in concealing the original 
 from which he drew ; according to the time, the place, and tbe 
 circumstances, " Harold," the " Giaour," the " Corsair," " Lara," 
 " Manfred," ay, even " Cain," are all himself. Almost the only 
 exception to this is the " Prisoner of Chillon," and it is therefore, 
 in my opinion, the more beautiful. When his domestic differences 
 were so blameably brought before the world, this was very much 
 against him ; Byron was inseparably connected with his heroes — 
 and a man with " one virtue and a thousand crimes," was not 
 deemed likely to make a good husband, particularly when that 
 single virtue itself looked very like a vice. 
 
 Amidst dissipation, amours, poetry, boxing, and most in- 
 congruous pursuits, he seems to have given free course to his 
 pleasures for a year ; then his increasing difficulties forced upon him 
 the necessity for a wealthy marriage or more foreign travel. He 
 planned a voyage to Abyssinia, but, in the mean time made pro- 
 posals for the hand ox Miss Milbanke, an heiress, and a peeress in 
 prospective, but was rejected. For a length of time, his prido 
 prevented his deriving any pecuniary advantage from his writings, 
 and his early copyrights were given away ; but when his scruples 
 were once overcome by the kind representations of Mr. Murray, 
 the eminent publisher, he seems to have had no objection to all 
 *Hat could be obtained from tliem, and strikes us, in his letters, as> 
 •o bad hand at driving a bargain. But that time had not yd© 
 
LITE OF DHiOY. 
 
 arrived, and, with no diminution in his pleasures, his debts ami 
 wants increased. Another year passed away, as the preceding 
 one had done ; dissipation seemed to have no power to dull tho 
 powers of his mind, or clog tho wings of his fancy, some of his 
 most popular pieces being produced at this time. As a. pis-aller, 
 he resolved again to enlist Hymen in his favour ; and when wo seo 
 the manner in which his inauspicious marriage was concoctei wo 
 cannot at all wonder at the result. He consulted with a friend 
 whether he should mako proposals to a lady he had not then 
 addressed on the subject, or whether he should repeat his offer to 
 Miss Milbanke, with whom, though rejected, ho had kept up a 
 friendly correspondence. His friend, who saw the incompatibility 
 of a union with Miss Milbanke, advised him to write- to the newly- 
 mentioned lady, which he accordingly did, and was by her like- 
 wise rejected. He then fell back upon Miss Milbanke, and wroto 
 such u a pretty letter" that his friend's objections were overruled, 
 and the important missive was sent. Tho text of the Memoirs 
 gives us no means of telling tho sex of this friend, but from tho 
 "pretty letter," I should think it was a lady — perhaps Lady 
 Melbourne. Whether dazzled by his increasing fame, or affected 
 by the "pretty letter," no one can tell, but anybody can see that 
 Miss Milbanko acted quite as imprudently as Lord Byron, in 
 entering into a union the dangers of which must have been so apparent. 
 Ziord Byron was capable of entertaining for a time what he called 
 love, but <hen it must bo with a nature looking up to him, holding 
 him as an object worthy of almost worship — this might be ;s 
 nature soft as wo are led to suppose the Countess Guiccioli was, 
 or fiery as that of Marianna or tho Fornarina — but not like Miss 
 Milbanke's, metaphysical, mathematical, and reflective. Misa 
 Milbanko was good, pious, learned, and highly intellectual — Byron 
 was dissipated, to use tho mildest word, a sceptic, a man of fiery 
 genius, and boasting in his wilfulness — such a match was liko th» 
 • d inging together of firo and water, and it is surprising that tho 
 lady's mother, who is said to havo exercised so much influence 
 after it had taken place, did not prevent it. After an absence 
 from each other of ton months, on the iind of January, 1S15, they 
 were married. A wit has said that tho marriage which ends a 
 comedy, is frequently the commencement of a tragedy, and truly 
 Ruch should I suspect this to have been. Mr. Moore, though, 
 throughout his work, more a friendl}'- advocate than a biographer, 
 confesses that thero was not a particle of love on either side. If 
 Riich was tho case, we are totally at a loss to fathom the lady's 
 object ; Lord Byron's, notwithstanding his professions to tho 
 contrary, may bo more easily guessed. 
 
 But little immediate advantage accrued; so far, indeed, to tha 
 
iiijpjs or 
 
 contrary, the news of his wealthy marriage brought his creditors 
 upon him, and he had eight executions in his house within a year. 
 Some few months before, he had expressed a determination not to 
 write any more, and to endeavour to suppress what he had already 
 published ; but for a man who had inhaled the incense of popularity 
 in such copious draughts this was impossible, and he soon appeared 
 to write more than ever. He likewise very imprudently mixed 
 himself up with the affairs of Drury Lane Theatre ; which, in 
 addition to the dangers of les coulisses to such a man, could not, in 
 any way, be productive of good. 
 
 One short year put an end to his ill-assorted marriage. How it 
 had been passed by the parties with respect to each other no one 
 can tell. Byron always persisted in saying he did not know why 
 Lady Byron required to be separated from him, but I should 
 think nobody believed him. Had that been the case, he was not 
 the man to have got out of the tempest quietly ; with his enmity 
 to the lady's mother and his want of love for herself, he would 
 have battled the difference out in the face of the world instead of 
 pouring out his griefs in poetry, or brooding over them in banish- 
 ment. Lady Byron acted consistently with her character. She 
 imparted her complaints to her parents, and consulted the best 
 legal advisers, in Sir Samuel Komilly and Dr. Lushington. The 
 latter, at first strongly advised reconciliation, but when put 
 completely in possession of the case by Lady Byron, said that 
 must be for ever impossible. Romilly and Lushington are more 
 than common names to give sanction to an opinion of right or 
 wrong, and the lady's dignified silence and exemplary life have, 
 I should think, stamped her decision as correct. It is of no use 
 to set the mind thinking whether his conduct was that of a madman 
 or only that of a slave to his passions ; the truth is never likely to 
 be known ; Lady Byron, after this long interval, has too much 
 good sense to awaken and gratify a morbid curiosity by any 
 revealment. Although, I have no doubt, my opinion may bo 
 opposed to that of a vast number, I feel glad that the Memoirs 
 intrusted to Moore were destroyed. Mark the vindictive feeling, 
 the unjust feeling entertained by Byron for all concerned in tho 
 affair, and then let us say whether an account published after his 
 death could be relied on. His triumph at the lamented death of 
 Sir Samuel Romilly is disgraceful to his memory ; he said it w*s 
 a retribution for his advocacy of Lady Byron. 
 
 Leaving, then, his infant daughter in the care of her mother, 
 within three months after the separation, he quitted his native 
 country for ever. People who blindly worship genius, without 
 properly reflecting how it has been employed, affect to rejoice at 
 4lis banishment, as they think to it are due -ihe bril 'iant effusions 
 
LL£n OF BlUON. 
 
 he poured out during the short remainder of his career ; but, 
 whilst admitting the splendour, the versatility, the profundity, of 
 his genius, I cannot but think that it might have been better 
 directed. Such powers are given to so few, that the possessor 
 ought to prove a certain blessing to his species — the clever, the 
 iazzling, the perplexing, however wonderful, do not constitute ali 
 *o have a right to expect from God's nobility. 
 
 Lord Byron, at first, as he had done with respect to his writings, 
 refused to benefit by his wife's fortune, but did not persevere in 
 the resolution. He had been on the eve of selling Newstead, and 
 had received forfeiture from the proposed purchaser ; but he had 
 not effected the sale at his departure. He took a different course 
 from his first voyage ; travelling through Flanders, and up the 
 Rhine, he chose Switzerland as his first resting-place. With his 
 usual felicity, ho made his journeyings among the Alps subservient 
 to his muse, and he here collected the machinery and scenery of 
 his sublime dramatic poem of " Manfred," the hero of the piece he 
 had not to travel far in search of. Byron is so essentially a painter 
 from realities, that this conscience-stricken metaphysician would 
 almost lead us to attach consequence to horrid tales that were in 
 circulation relative to a part of his sojourn in Greece ; but no, — 
 with all his errors, he was an Englishman, and 1 will not think 
 them even possiblo. 
 
 In Switzerland he renewed his intimacy with Madame do Stael, 
 who was more kind to him than sho had been in London. The 
 author of " Delphine " and u Corinno " was too well versed in the 
 theory, if not the practice of love, to be deceived by Byron's 
 pretences to the passion. M She attacked mo furiously last night," 
 said he ; " sho said I had no right to make love — that I had 
 used * * * barbarously — that I had no feeling, and was totally 
 insensible to la belle passion, and had been all my life." This 
 might be sharp, but it was nevertheless true. But now, in her 
 own territory of Copot, and the poet being in a sort of banishment, 
 she was not only a hospitable hostess, but a friend. He became 
 acquainted with Shelley at Geneva, and notwithstanding the 
 diti'orenco of their genius, formed something like a friendship for 
 him. Shelley was of a knightly family, had great talents, and 
 was sceptical and peculiar in his opinions. This all "jumped with 
 fcJyron's humour," but, to judge from his letters, they were never 
 very intimate friends. Shelley's genius was of too delicate and 
 fanciful a nature to consort completely with the bold, dashing, 
 eccentric spirit of Byron — as I before said, in Shelley all w&u 
 imagination, as in Byron all was real. As an excuse for this, the 
 latter was accustomed to say: "There should always be some 
 foundation of fact for the most airy fabric, and pure invention it 
 
XIVlSI 
 
 L1FS j Bl'ROJl. 
 
 out the talent of a liar." Whilst here he wrote " Lines on hearing 
 Lady Byron was ill," which are much more cruel than even the 
 celebrated f ' Farewell," and began " Manfred." 
 
 In October he left Switzerland for Italy, a country in which he 
 seemed more at home than in any other, and shortly took up a 
 kind of settled residence at Venice. He entered upon his initiation 
 in Italian manners by falling in love with Marianna, the wife of 
 the person in whose house he lodged. He wrote to Rogers "that 
 Venice was a famous place for women," which, indeed, he seemed 
 to think, for his dissipations were such as to bring him down to a 
 serious illness. But the inexhaustible stores of his mind were 
 never left to rust — the third canto of "Childe Harold" was finished, 
 " Manfred " ha/1 a third act added, a fourth canto of " Childe 
 Harold" was begun, and " Beppo" was written. After producing 
 "Mazeppa," his genius took its most eccentric, and, perhaps, most 
 surprising flight, and he began "Don Juan." Of this astonishing 
 production it is difficult to speak, — its elements are so extraordinary T 
 so diversified, and yet each so perfect in its way — the sublime, tho 
 ridiculous, the pathetic, the humorous, the sarcastic, the benevolent, 
 the moral, and the obscene, seem to chase each other along every 
 line, "with artless heed and giddy cunning," till the brain of the 
 reader becomes bewildered in the pursuit. And yet, every friend- 
 to the poet, every friend to morality, must wish that "Don Juan" 
 had never been written — the greater the genius displayed, the 
 more insidious the danger. 
 
 Another amour soon engaged him. He accidentally met with 
 a low-born woman, the wife of a miller, with whom he became 
 infatuated. This was one of his magnificent Juno-like charmers, 
 and the contests between her and her rival seem to have amused 
 him highly : what the reader of his life must think on seeing th© 
 English Peer of the highest genius so amused is another thing. 
 All this time his pen was as active as ever, and though he affected 
 to hate the very name of England, no event happened there without 
 engaging his attention so far as to set it to work ; his letters 
 contradict themselves in this respect. Poor Southey seems to have 
 ever remained a favourite butt; the "Vision of Judgment" was 
 severe, but was almost warranted by the absurdity of the Laureate's 
 original. 
 
 In 1820, he had the good fortune to become acquainted with the 
 Countess Guiccioli, the wife of an elderly nobleman, and the- 
 daughter of a Count Gamba. I say good fortune, as this connection,, 
 in a great degree, weaned him from the course of low libertinism, 
 into which he had fallen. The husband became jealous, the young" 
 wife extravagantly in love with her celebrated foreign lover, and" 
 her familv slightly anxious about their honour. But masters wer*- 
 
LIFE OF BYRON. 
 
 nil 
 
 managed as they do these things in Italy ; all parties, at length, 
 seemed tolerably satisfied, except the poor husband, who was 
 compelled to pay his wife a certain income, although deprived of 
 her, and quite conscious that she and the noble poet were happy 
 in their loves. A great deal more has been said about Byron's 
 attachment to this lady than I think it deserves. With the true 
 " Don Juan " spirit, when ho was struck with her beauty, diffi- 
 c ilties only enhanced the pleasure of the pursuit ; but when those 
 difficulties were overcome, his conduct, his letters, and his asso- 
 ciations prove that his love was no more, or at most little more, 
 than one of the hundred evanescent flames that had been kindled in 
 his inflammablo breast. He had been rather cooler in his pursuit of 
 pleasure, and the countess, as a lady, associated rather more with 
 his mental occupations and gentlemanly feelings than the low women 
 with whom he had of late been connected. But that was all. He 
 appears, after tho first, to be always ready to leave her, and it is 
 her attachment to him that produces the appearance of constancy 
 on his part. He was anxious to get an eminent portrait-painter 
 over — but it was to paint two portraits ; not only that of the fair, 
 beautiful, lady-like countess, but that of his vixen love, tho magni- 
 ficent Italian, the miller's wife. As tho melancholy close ap- 
 proaches, there is no mention of this lady, and if it be true that 
 tho ruling passion is strong in death, tho evidence is conclusive — 
 for, in no account is there any proof of her having engaged one of 
 his last thoughts ; the names of his sister and his daughter were 
 murmured from his dying lips, but not that of the devoted Guiccioli. 
 Madame do Stael was right ; Byron had never an idea of puro 
 exalted love. Of all his multifarious heroines, there is not one to 
 excite the sympathies of a well-directed mind. Haide'e has been 
 pronounced innocent, but it is tho innocence of ignorance, and, 
 from the finding of the half-naked boy to the last scene of her 
 episode, it is nothing but animal passion. 
 
 About this period occurred one of those abortive attempts which 
 tho Italians occasionally make to regain their liberty ; attempts 
 so ill planned and feebly carried out, that they only serve to rivet 
 their chains the tighter. In fact, since Italy became a nation of 
 artists, it has ceased to be a nation of freemen ; and such will be 
 the case with all countries ; when wealth and luxury lead to un- 
 due encouragement of the arts, tho manly virtues, in every empire, 
 have speedily died away. Very wrongly as well as imprudently, 
 Lord Byron took not only an interest, but a part in this ill-con- 
 certed rising. However strong his sympathies may be with what 
 ho considers a suffering people, a man allowed to live in a foreign 
 country can never be justified in interfering in its revolutions. 
 By run managed to keep out of the hands of tho Austrians. but 
 
LliE OF BYRON. 
 
 when, as Madame Guiccioli said, " the Italians had proved them- 
 selves only fit to compose operas," his lady-love and her father and 
 brother were forced to leave Kavenna. Byron was induced to 
 follow them very unwillingly. Before quitting a place to which ho 
 had become attached, he sent for Shelley, who obeyed the voice ol 
 friendship. They then went together, and resided near each other 
 at Genoa. Here he was joined, I believe on invitation, by Leigh 
 Hunt and his fan?ily, to whom he had been introduced by Moora. 
 when Hunt was suffering under royal persecution. This was an 
 association that could not lead to good. Hunt had made himself 
 a name by his talents, and was, perhaps justly, vain of it. Byron 
 had very far superior talents, and was, at the same time, nobly 
 born and aristocratically bred — the habits, the prejudices, the very 
 abilities of the two men clashed when they came in contact, and 
 neither of them gained honour by the association. Byron disap- 
 pointed the hopes of a man struggling with an adverse world, and 
 Hunt, by the publication of a book on the subject, proved himself 
 ungrateful for what benefits he had received. In conjunction with 
 Hunt's brother, John, they started a periodical, called the 
 * ( Liberal but it came to nothing. Byron was not the man to 
 work in partnership with anybody. 
 
 While residing here, the melancholy death of Shelley took place ? 
 a circumstance as worldly-wide known as the genius of the man. 
 Much ass I admire his writings, I have not space to comment upon 
 them or him : a few garbled remarks would be unworthy of the 
 subject. 
 
 I have not judged it necessary to mention Lord Byron's works 
 regularly as they came out, because the very naming of them must 
 lead to a notice of their merits, and that would fill a volume, 
 whereas my task is bounded to a few pages. But if we look at the 
 list of his writings and contemplate their bulk, and then reflect 
 ttiat they were all written in eighteen years, between eighteen and 
 thirty-six, wo are almost as much astonished at their number as 
 their brilliancy. I am "'led to make this remark by the prodigality 
 with which he seems to have poured out one great production 
 after another, while resident in Italy. Neither dissipation, love, 
 conspiracy, friendships nor enmities, seem to have checked the 
 stream, but rather to have increased its abundance. 
 
 Ho had sold Newstead, and the death of Lady Noel added con- 
 siderably to his income, which was now ample. I will not venture 
 upon any discussion of her ladyship's conduct in the unfortunate 
 separation ; but, if we consider Byron's writings on the occasion, 
 and his frequent coarse verbal and written allusions to the mother of 
 hig wife — and that lady's resentment, which carried her so far as 
 to leave instructions in her will, that Lord Byron's daughter waa 
 
UlfE OF XYROff. 
 
 mot to be allowed to s^e her father's portrait for many years — we are 
 brought to the conviction that there was more petty spite than 
 dignified anger on both sides. 
 
 But now a fresh and a concluding change came over his dream 
 of a life. Deeply imbued with a love of classic literature, 
 admiring Greece as a country which he had traversed with the eyo 
 and feelings of a poet, he forgot, in his enthusiasm, that there was 
 not a man in Greece able to write a line of that which had created 
 his love, or one inspired by the smallest spark of that worship of 
 liberty which had created an Epaminondas or led to the goll- 
 sacrifice of a Leonidas, and ho plunged headlong into a visionary 
 scheme for the rescuing of Greece from the hands of the Turk, 
 ilis residence in Greece, and his poetry connected with it, had 
 rendered him familiar to the Greeks ; their hopes magnified the 
 extent of his wealth, and they hailed the promise of his coming 
 among them as an omen of certain success. The Greek committee 
 for promoting the insurrection, established in London, too, forgetting 
 it was a very different thing to make a poetical Corsair attack upon 
 the Pasha Seyd, and to restore liberty to a country that had been 
 enslaved four hundred years, appointed him to a high command, 
 which no circumstance of his antecedent lifo could have led them 
 to think he was qualified for. A Washington would not havo 
 bestowed attention upon tho splendid helmets with the Byron 
 crest, or have wasted his time in pistol-practice ; he would have 
 known that his own personal achievements could be of but littlo 
 importance in a great national revolution. Beyond furnishing 
 money, and making his sojourn with one or another of the various 
 parties into which this Smeute was divided a subject of constant 
 quarrel and intrigue, I cannot see any effects produced by 
 Byron's going into Greece. Of all the plots the world has pro- 
 duced, and some of them havo been extraordinary in their 
 ill-construction, this was one of the worst digested, and most 
 confusedly carried out. That bane of all man's great projects, 
 self-interest, prevailed even more strongly than it usually does in 
 such cases ; and, from his supposed inexhaustible wealth, Lord 
 Byron was the bone all contended for. 
 
 What may have been his ambitious anticipations in gointr to 
 Greece no one c»n say, though most may divine ; but he soon found 
 that his calculations were wrong ; the people ho had to deal with 
 were quite untractable, and he said in bitterness, " I was a fool to 
 come here ;" they only wanted his money. As, however, ho had 
 embarked in tho cause, he knew he was too conspicuous in tho 
 ©yes of that world which it had been his object to defy, to retreat 
 without disgrace, and he was about to command an attack upon 
 Leprnto, whsn he was overtaken by disease and death. The 
 
LIFE OP BTROJJ. 
 
 causes of this melancholy catastronhe wore many. MissoJonghl, 
 to which he had been confined by stress of weather, is a dismal, 
 unhealthy swamp ; his mind was incessantly harassed by finding 
 fiimseif involved in an affair out of which his talents could not 
 extricate him ; his dissipated life had weakened his constitution ; on 
 the 15th of February, he had a convulsion fit — and as he was little 
 amenable to the advice of either friends or physicians, theso 
 altogether rendered a cold, which at another time might have 
 been got over, formidable. His last illness was only ten days in 
 duration, and is a scene of confusion, discomfort, and privations 
 melancholy to contemplate, as the departure of such a man. He 
 evidently did not expect death, and there is little in the account of 
 'hi? last moments for the religionist or the philosopher to theorize 
 upon. Every one was taken by surprise ; every one was absorbed 
 in his own interests. Fletcher, his servant, and Count Gamba, 
 the brother of the Countess Guiccioli, were the only persons 
 deeply affected by the loss. Lord Byron, as I have said, formed 
 strong attachments for those beneath him and dependent upon 
 him, and was, consequently, beloved by his servants. 
 
 In his Timon-like feeling for England, he had desired to be 
 buried anywhere but in his own country ; but this was, wisely, not 
 acted upon. His remains were brought to England, and consigned 
 to the family vault in the village of Hucknall, a spot so similar to 
 Missolonghi, that the pilgrim to the tomb of genius who has seen 
 ■both cannot help being struck with the dreary resemblance. 
 
 In this sketch, which must be unsatisfactory from its shortness, 
 I have ventured so many remarks upon Lord Byron's character 
 &tid writings, that, unless I had much more room at my command, 
 I can add nothing else. As a man most highly gifted, and as 
 writings of transcendent genius, Byron and his works must ever 
 remain subjects of pride to his country ; whether, if the life of the 
 inan might have been purer, and, if it had, whether the works 
 would have been more brilliant and beneficial, must be left to the 
 •speculations of the moralist ; the biographer has only to declare 
 tsat there has been no genius so universal since Shakspeare, and 
 tb\t no ono man's writings belonging to modern times have been 
 ■utwe generally read. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS: 
 
 A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED 
 
 Virsinlbus pu*rlvpM canto.— lion ace, lib. IU, Odo 1. 
 
 W»/T np /ie fi'iX' aivee, ^i//Te tj k:</<c< — HoHKR, Iliad, x. 219. 
 
 lio whistled as he went, for w.aut of thought.— DBfDStf. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE FREDERICK, EARL OF CARLISLE, 
 
 KNIGHT OF THE GARTKH, ETC. ETC* 
 THB 8BCOXD EDITION OF THESE POEMS IS INSCRIBED, 
 BY HIS OBLIGED WARD AND 
 
 AFFECTIONATE KINSMAN, 
 
 W'* THE AUTflOH. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In submitting to the public eye the following collection, I have not only 
 to combat the difficulties that writers of verse generally encounter, but 
 may incur the charge of presumption for obtruding myself on the world, 
 when, without doubt, I might be, at my age, more usefully employed. 
 
 These productions are the fruits of the lighter hours of a young man 
 who has lately completed his nineteenth year. As they bear the internal 
 evidence of a boyish mind, this is, perhaps, unnecessary information. 
 Some few were written during the disadvantages of illness and depression 
 of spirits; under the former influence, " Childish Rkcoui.kctions," in 
 particular, were composed. This consideration, though it cannot excite 
 the voice of praise, may at least arrest the arm of censure. A considera- 
 ble portion of these poems has been privately printed, at the request and 
 for the perusal of my friends. I am sensible that the partial and frequently 
 injudicious admiration of a social circle is not the criterion by which 
 poetical genius is to be estimated, yet " to do greatly," we must " dare 
 greatly ;" and 1 have hazarded my reputation and feelings in publishing 
 <his volume. 11 I have passed the Rubicon," and must stand or fall by 
 1he "cast of the die." In the latter event, 1 shall submit without a 
 murmur ; for, though not without solicitude for the fate of these effusions, 
 iny expectations are by no means sanguine. It is probable that I may 
 have dared much and done little ; for, in the words of Cowper, " it is one 
 thing to write what may please our friends, who, because they are such, 
 .nre apt to be a little biassed in our favour, and another to write what may 
 please everybody j because they who have no connection, or even know- 
 ltdge of the author, will be sure to find fault if they can." To the truth 
 of this, however, 1 do not wholly subscribe; on the cpntrary, I feel con- 
 vinced that these trifles will not be treated with injustice. Their merit, 
 if they possess any, will be liberally allowed ; their numerous faxilts, on 
 the other hand, cannot expect that favour which has been denied to 
 ^others of maturer years, decided character, and far greater ability. 
 
I have not aimed at exclusive originality, still less have I studied any 
 particular model for imitation: some translations are given, of which 
 many are paraphrastic. In the original pieces, there may appear a casual 
 coincidence with authors whose works I have been accustomed to read ; 
 but 1 have not been guilty of intentional plagiarism. To produce anything 
 entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhyme, would be a Herculean task, 
 as every subject has already been treated to its utmost extent. Poetry, 
 however, is not my primary vocation; to divert the dull moments of 
 indisposition, or the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me " to this sin :" 
 little can be expected from so unpromising a muse. My wreath, scanty 
 as it must be, is all I shall derive from these productions j and I shall 
 never attempt to replace its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional 
 sprig from groves where I am, at best, an intruder. Though accustomed, 
 in my younger days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the Highlands of 
 Scotland, I have not, of late years, had the benefit of such pure air, or so 
 elevated a residence, as might enable me to enter the lists with genuine 
 bards, who have enjoyed both these advantages. But they derive consi- 
 derable fame, and a few not less profit, from their productions ; while I 
 shall expiate my rashness as an interloper, certainly without the latter, 
 and in all probability with a very slight share of the former. 1 leave t o 
 others " virum volitare per Ora." 1 look to the few who will hear with 
 patience '* dulce est desipere in loco.'" To the former worthies I resign, 
 without repining, the hope of immortality, and content myself with the 
 not very magnificent prospect of ranking amongst " the mob of gentle- 
 men who write — my readers must determine whether I dare say " with 
 ease," or the honour of a posthumous page in " The Catalogue of Royal 
 and Noble Authors," — a work to which the Peerage is under infinite obli- 
 gations ; inasmuch as many names of considerable length, sound, and 
 antiquity, are thereby rescued from the obscurity which unluckily over- 
 shadows several voluminous productions of their illustrious bearers. 
 ^ With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish this first and last attempt 
 To the dictates of young ambition may be ascribed many actions more 
 criminal and equally absurd. To a few of my own age, the contents may 
 afford amusement : I trust they will, at least, be found harmless. It is 
 highly improbable, from my situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should 
 ever obtrude myself a second time on the public; nor, even in the very 
 doubtful event of present indulgence, shall I be tempted to commit a 
 future trespass of the same nature. The opinion of Dr. Johnson on the 
 Poems of a noble relation of mine,* " That when a man of rank appeared 
 in t he character of an author, he deserved to have his merit handsomely 
 allowed," can have little weight with verbal, and still less with periodical 
 rensors ; but were it otherwise, I should be loath to avail myself of the 
 privilege, and would rather incur the bitterest censure of anonymous* 
 criticism, than triumph in honours granted solely to a title. 
 
 * The Earl of Carlisle, whose works have long received the meed of public applaruw, tr, 
 rhieu, by thoir intrinsic worth, they were well entitled. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY; t 
 
 COUSIN TO TITK AUTHOR, AN'D VERT DEAR TO HIM. 
 
 Husn'D are the winds, and still tho evening gloom, 
 Not e'en a zephyr wanders through tho grove, 
 
 Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, 
 And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 
 
 Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 
 
 That clay, where once Ruch animation beam'd ; 
 
 Tho King of Terrors seized her as his prey ; 
 Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redoem'd. 
 
 Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel, 
 Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate ! 
 
 Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, 
 Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 
 
 But wherefore weep ? Tier matchless spirit scars 
 Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day ; 
 
 And weeping angels lead her to thoso bowers 
 Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 
 
 And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign, 
 And, madly, godlike Providenco accuse ? 
 
 Ah ! no, far fly from mo attempts so vain ; — 
 I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 
 
 Yet is remembrance of thoso virtues dear, 
 
 Yet fresh tho memory or that beauteous faco ; 
 
 Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
 Still in my heart retain their wonted placo. 
 
 TO E- 
 
 Let Folly smile, to view tho names 
 Of thee and me in friendship twined ; 
 
 Yet Virtue will havo groatcr claims 
 To love, than rank with vico combined. 
 
 9 The author claims the indulgence of the reader more for this piece, than, perhare, 
 »ny other In the collection ; but as it was written at an earlier period than the rest (being 
 composed at the age ot fourteen), and his first, essay, he preferred submitting it to th* 
 indulgence of his friendl in its present state, to making either addition or alteration. 
 
 I The (laughter of Admiral I'arker, who died at tho of fifteen. 
 
 B 2 
 
B i'RON'S POEMS. 
 
 And though, unequal is thy fate, 
 
 Since title deck'd my higher birth ! 
 Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 
 
 Thine is the pride of modest worth: 
 
 Our souls at least congenial meet, 
 
 Nor can thy lot my rank disgraco ; 
 Our intercourse is not less sweet, 
 
 Since worth of rank supplies the place. 
 
 November, 1303 
 
 TO B . 
 
 In thee, I fondly hoped to clasp 
 
 A friend, whom death alone could sever ; 
 
 Till envy, with malignant grasp, 
 
 Detach' d thee from my breast for ever. 
 
 True, she has forced thee from my breast, 
 Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 
 
 There, there thine image still must rest, 
 Until that heart shall cease to beat. 
 
 And when the grave restores her dead, 
 
 When life again to dust is given, 
 On thy dear breast I'll lay my head — 
 
 Without thee, where would be my heaven ? 
 
 February, 
 
 EPITAPH ON A FKIEND. 
 
 A<tt»/p Trpiv fj.€v eAa/jLires evl £(oo7criv eyoy.— Laertius. 
 
 Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear ! 
 What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bicv ! 
 What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
 Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of death ! 
 Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
 Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force, 
 Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
 Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey ; 
 Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
 Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. 
 If yet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
 The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
 Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
 A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
 No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
 But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
 Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
 Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
 What though thy sire lament his failing lino, 
 A father's sorrows cannot equal mine 1 
 
HOUliS OF IDLENESS 
 
 5 
 
 Though none, like thee, his dying hour will choor, 
 Yet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 
 But, who with me shall hold thy former place ? 
 Thine image, what new friendship can efhice ? 
 Ah 1 none ! — a father's tears will cease to flow, 
 Time will assuage an infant brother's woe ; 
 To all, save one, is consolation known, 
 While solitary friendship sighs alone. 
 
 Kg 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 When, to their airy hall, my fathers' voice 
 Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice ; 
 When, poised upon the gale, my form shall rido, 
 Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side ; 
 Oh I may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
 To mark the spot where earth to earth returns ! 
 No lengthen' d scroll, no praise-oncumbcr'd stone ; 
 My epitaph shall be my name alone : 
 If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
 Oli ! may no other fame my deeds repay ! 
 That, only that, shall singlo out the spot ; 
 By that rcmember'd, or with that forgot. 
 
 1803 
 
 ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 ** Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days ? Thou lookeat from tliy toweT 
 to-day : yet a few years, aud the blast of the desert cornea, it howls in thy euanty com t." 
 
 . OSSI AN . 
 
 Througit thy battlements, Newstead, the hollow winds whistlo ; 
 
 Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to decay : 
 In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and thistle 
 
 Have choked up the rose which late bloom'd in the way. 
 
 Of the mail-cover'd Barons, who proudly to battlo 
 Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's plain, 
 
 The escutcheon and shield, which with overy blast rattle, 
 Are the only sad vestiges now that remain. 
 
 No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing numbers, 
 Raise a flame in the breast for the war-laurell' wreath ; 
 
 Near Askalon's towers John of Iloristan slumbers ; 
 Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel by death. 
 
 Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of Cressy ; 
 
 For the safety of Edward and England they fell : 
 My lathers ! the tears of your country redress ye ; 
 
 How you fought, how you died, still her annals can tell. 
 
6 
 
 BYRON'S rOEMS 
 
 On Marston, with Rupert, 'gainst traitors contending,* 
 Four brothers enrich'd with their blood the bleak held ; 
 
 For the rights of a monarch their country defending^ 
 Till death then* attachment to royalty seal'd. 
 
 Shades of heroes, farewell! your descendant, departing 
 From the seat of his ancestors, bids you adieu ! 
 
 Abroad, or at home, your remembrance imparting 
 New courage, he'll think upon glory and you. 
 
 Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
 'Tis nature, not fear, that excites his regret , 
 
 Far distant he goes, with the same emulation, — 
 The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 
 
 That fame, and that memory, still will ho cherish ; 
 
 He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your renown : 
 Like j'ou will he live, or like you will he perish : 
 
 When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with your own ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 written in " letters to an italian nun and an english 
 gentleman: by j. j. rousseau: founded on facts/' 
 
 *' Away, away, your flattering arts 
 May now betray some simple hearts ; 
 And you will smile at their believing, 
 And they shall weep at your deceiving." 
 
 ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED TO MISS — — . 
 
 Dear simple girl, those flattering arts, 
 
 From which thou'dst guard frail female hearts, 
 
 Exist but in imagination, — 
 
 Mere phantoms of thine own creation ; 
 
 For he who views that witching grace, 
 
 That perfect form, that lovely face, 
 
 With eyes admiring, oh ! believe me, 
 
 He never wishes to deceive thee : 
 
 Once in thy polish'd mirror glance, 
 
 Thou'lt there descry that elegance 
 
 Which from our sex demands such praises, 
 
 But envy in the other raises : 
 
 Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, 
 
 Believe me, only does Ins duty : 
 
 Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 
 
 It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 
 
 July, 1804. 
 
 • The battle of Marston Moor, where the adherents of Charles I. wero defaatid. It up? 
 ion of the Elector Palatine, and nephew to Charles L He afterwards commanded the U» 
 >u the ryigu of Ch&rlea 11. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 DRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL WHEW DYINGo 
 
 Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite. 
 Friend and associate of this clay ! 
 
 To what unknown region borne, 
 Wile thou now wing thy distant flight ? 
 No more with wonted humour gay, 
 
 But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn j 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 AD LESBIAM. 
 
 Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
 Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
 Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, 
 Securely views thy matchless charms, 
 That cheek, which ever dimpling glows, 
 That mouth, from whence such music flows f 
 To him, alike are always known, 
 Reserved for him, and him alo:ue. 
 Ah ! Lesbia ! though 'tis death to mo, 
 I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
 But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
 I needs must gaze, but gazing, die ; 
 Whilst trembling with a thousand fears, 
 Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres, 
 My pulse beats quick, my breath heaves ahc;\ 
 My limbs deny their slight support. 
 Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, 
 With deadly languor droops my head, 
 My ears with tingling echoes ring, 
 And life itself is on the wing ; 
 My eyes refuse the cheering light, 
 Their orbs are veil'd in starless night : 
 Such pangs my nature sinks beneath, 
 And feels a temporary death. 
 
 • Anlmula ! vagula, blandula, 
 Hospes coinesque corporis. 
 Qure mine abibia in loca — 
 Pallidula, rigida, nudula. 
 Mac, ut aok-b, dabitfjocotf 
 
8 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON VIRGIL AND 
 
 TIBULLUS. 
 
 BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 
 
 He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, 
 And he who struck the softer lyre of love, 
 
 By Death's unequal hand alike controll'd,* 
 Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 
 
 IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 
 
 *' Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — Lib, 4. 
 
 Cruel Cerinthus ! does the fell disease 
 Which racks my breast your fickle bosom ploaso ? 
 Alas ! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 
 That I might live for love and you again : 
 But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate ; 
 By death alone I can avoid your hate. 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 Ye Cupids, droop each little head, 
 Nor let your wings with joy be spread, 
 My Lesbia's favourite bird is dead, 
 
 Whom dearer than her eyes she loved : 
 For he was gentle, and so true, 
 Obedient to her call he flew ; 
 No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 
 
 But lightly o'er her bosom moved : 
 
 And softly fluttering here and there, 
 He never sought to cleave the air, 
 But chirrup'd oft, and, free from care, 
 
 Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
 Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
 From whence he never can return, 
 His death and Lesbia's grief I mourn, 
 
 Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 
 
 Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
 Whoso jaws eternal victims crave, 
 From whom no earthly power can save ; 
 
 For thou hast ta'en the bird away : 
 From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
 Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow ; 
 Thou art the cause of all her woe, 
 
 Receptacle of life's decay. 
 
 • T?i- irfind of Death is said to be unjust or unequal, as Virgil f/ae conil.leraUy o\am 
 » i..uUufl at his decease. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENES3. 
 
 9 
 
 IMITATED FROM CATULLUS. 
 
 TO ELLEN. 
 
 Oh ! might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
 A million scarce would quench desire : 
 Still would I steep my lips in bliss, 
 And dwell an age on every kiss : 
 Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
 Still would I kiss and cling to thee : 
 Nought should my kiss from thine dissovtr J 
 Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
 E'en though the numbers did exceed 
 The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
 To part would be a vain endeavour : 
 Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never ! 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 
 
 The man of firm and noble soul 
 No factious clamours can control ; 
 No threat'ning tyrant's darkling brow 
 
 Can swerve him from his just intent : 
 Gales the warring waves which plough, 
 
 By Auster on the billows spent, 
 To curb the Adriatic main, 
 Would awe his fix'd determined mind in vain. 
 
 Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
 Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
 With all his terrors there unfurl'd, 
 
 He would, unmoved, unawed behold. 
 The flames of an expiring world, 
 
 Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 
 In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, 
 Might light his glorious funeral pile : 
 Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'd emila 
 
 FROM ANACREON. 
 
 I WISH to tune my quivering lyre 
 To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
 To echo, from its rising swell, 
 How heroes fought and nations fell, 
 When Atreus' sons advanced to war, 
 Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar ; 
 But still, to martial strains unknown, 
 My lyre recurs to love alone : 
 Fired with the hope of future fame, 
 I seek some nobler hero's nam* : 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 The dying chords aro strung anew, 
 To war, to war, my harp is due : 
 With glowing strings, the epic strain 
 To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
 Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
 Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds* 
 All, all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
 Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
 Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms I 
 Adieu, the clang of war's alarms ! 
 To other deeds my soul is strung, 
 And sweeter notes shall now be sung ; 
 My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
 To tell the tale my heart must feel : 
 Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
 In songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 
 
 FROM ANACREON. 
 
 'TWAS now the hour when Night had driven 
 
 Her car half round yon sable heaven ; . 
 
 Bootes, only, seern'd to roll 
 
 His arctic charge around the pole ; 
 
 While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 
 
 Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 
 
 At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 
 
 Descending from the realms of joy, 
 
 Quick to my gate directs his course, 
 
 And knocks with all his little force. 
 
 My visions fled, alarm' d I rose, — 
 
 " What stranger breaks my blest repoas V' 
 
 " Alas !" replies the wily child, 
 
 In faltering accents sweetly mild, 
 
 " A hapless infant here I roam, 
 
 Far from my dear maternal home. 
 
 Oh ! shield mo from the wintry blast ! 
 
 The nightly storm is pouring fast. 
 
 No prowling robber lingers here, 
 
 A wandering baby who can fear V 
 
 I heard his seeming artless tale, 
 
 I heard his sighs upon the gale : 
 
 My breast was never pity's foe, 
 
 But felt for all the baby's woe. 
 
 I drew the bar, and by the light, 
 
 Young Love, the infant, met my sight 5 
 
 His bow across his shoulders flung, 
 
 And thence his fatal quiver hung 
 
 (Ah ! little did I think the dart 
 
 Would rankle soon within my heart), 
 
 With care I tend my weary guest, 
 
 His little lingers chill my breast ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 11 
 
 His glossy curls, his azure wing, 
 
 Which droop with nightly showers, I wring ; 
 
 His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 
 
 And now reviving from the storm, 
 
 Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 
 
 Than swift he seized his slender bow : — 
 
 " I fain would know, my gentle host," 
 
 He cried, " if this its strength has lost : 
 
 I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 
 
 The strings their former aid refuse." 
 
 With poison tipt, his arrow flies, 
 
 Deep in my tortured heart it lies ; 
 
 Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd : — 
 
 1 ' My bow can still impel the shaft : 
 
 'Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it ; 
 
 Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it ? ' 
 
 FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS OF ^ESCIIYLUS. 
 
 Great Jove, to whose almighty throne 
 Both gods and mortals homage pay, 
 
 Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 
 Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 
 
 Oft shall the sacred victim fall 
 
 In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; 
 
 My voico shall raise no impious strain, 
 'Gainst him who rules the sky and azure main. 
 
 How different now thy joyless fate, 
 
 Since first Hesione thy bride, 
 When placed aloft in godlike state, 
 
 The blushing beauty by thy side, 
 Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smilod, 
 Ami mirthful strains the hours beguiled ; 
 The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
 Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relentless frown'd, 
 
 Ilarrow, Dec. 1, 180^ 
 
 TO EMMA. 
 
 SINCE now tho hour is come at last, 
 When you must quit your anxious lover ; 
 
 Since now our dream of bliss is past, 
 Ono pang, my girl, and all is over. 
 
 Alas ! that pang will be severe, 
 
 Which bids us part to meet no more ; 
 
 Which tears me far from one so dear, 
 Departing for a distant shore. 
 
 Well ! wo have pass'd some happy hours, 
 And joy will mingle with our tears ; 
 
 When thinking on these aneient towors, 
 The shelter of our infant years ; 
 
BYRON'S 1'Or.MJ. 
 
 Where from this Gothic casement's b eight* 
 We view'd the lake, the park, the dell ; 
 
 And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
 We lingering look a last farewell. 
 
 O'er fields through which we used to run, 
 And spend the hours in childish play ; 
 
 O'er shades where, when our race was done. 
 Reposing on my breast you lay ; 
 
 Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 
 Forgot to scare the hovering flies, 
 
 Yet envied every fly the kiss 
 
 It dared to give your slumbering eyea : 
 
 See still the little painted bark, 
 In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; 
 
 See there, high waving o'er the park, 
 The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 
 
 These times are past — our joys are gono, 
 You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 
 
 These scenes I must retrace alone : 
 Without thee, what will they avail ? 
 
 Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
 The anguish of a last embrace ? 
 
 When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
 You bid a long adieu to peace. 
 
 Chis is the deepest of our woes, 
 For this these tears our cheeks bedo w J 
 
 fhis is of love the final close, 
 Oh, God ! the fondest, last adieu ! 
 
 TO M. S. G. 
 
 Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
 Their hue invites my fervent kiss ; 
 
 Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
 Alas ! it were unhallow'd bliss. 
 
 Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
 How could I dwell upon its snows ! 
 
 Yet is the daring wish repress'd ; 
 For that — would banish its repose. 
 
 A glance from thy soul-searching eyo 
 Can raise with hope, depress with foar ," 
 
 Yet I conceal my love, — and why ? 
 I would not force a painful tear. 
 
 I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
 Hast seen my ardent flame too well ; 
 
 And shall I plead my passion now, 
 To make thy bosom'? heaven a holl ? 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 No ! for thou never canst be mine, 
 United by the priest's decree : 
 
 By any ties but those divine, 
 Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shall bo. 
 
 Then let the secret fire consume, 
 
 Let it consume, thou shalt not know : 
 
 With joy I court a certain doom, 
 Rather than spread its guilty glow. 
 
 I will not ease my tortured heart, 
 
 By driving dove-eyed peace from thino ; 
 
 Rather than such a sting impart, 
 
 Each thought presumptuous I resign. 
 
 Yes ! yield those lips for which I'd bravo 
 More than I hero shall dare to tell ; 
 
 Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
 1 bid thee now a last farewell. 
 
 Yes ! yield that breast, to seek despair, 
 And hope no more thy soft embrace ; 
 
 Which to obtain my soul would daro 
 All, all reproach — but thy disgrace. 
 
 At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
 No matron shall thy shame reprove 
 
 Though cureless pangs may prey on mo, 
 No martyr shalt thou be to love. 
 
 TO CAROLINE. 
 
 Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
 Suffused in tears, implore to stay ; 
 
 And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
 Which said far more than words can say ? 
 
 Though keen the grief thy tears cxpress'd, 
 When love and hope lay both o'erthrown ; 
 
 Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
 Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own. 
 
 But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 
 When thy sweet lips were join'd to mine, 
 
 The tears that from my eyelids flow'd 
 Were lost in those which fell from thino. 
 
 Thou couldst not feel my burning cheek, 
 Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flar 
 
 And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
 In sighs alone it breathed my namo. 
 
 And yet, my girl, wo weep in vain, 
 In vain our fate in sighs deplore ; 
 
 Remembrance only can remain, — 
 But that wi]J make us weep the mora. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Again, thou best beloved, adieu ; 
 
 Ah ! if thou canst, o'ercomo regret 5 
 Nor let thy mind past j oys review 
 
 Our only hope is to forget ! 
 
 TO CAKOLINE. 
 
 iV HEN I hear you express an affection so warm, 
 Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not believe ; 
 
 For your lip would the soul of suspicion disarm, 
 And your eye beams a ray which can never deceive* 
 
 Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
 That love, like the leaf, must fall into the sear ; 
 
 That age will come on, when remembrance, deploring, 
 Contemplates the scenes of her youth with a tear. 
 
 That time must arrive, when, no longer retaining 
 
 Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the breeze, 
 
 When a few silver hairs of those tresses remaining, 
 Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 
 
 'Tis this, my beloved, which spreads gloom o'er my features 
 Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the decree 
 
 Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of His creatures, 
 In the death which one day will deprive you of me. 
 
 Mistake not, sweet sceptic, the cause of emotion, 
 No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 
 
 He worships each look with such faithful devotion, 
 A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 
 
 But as death, my beloved, soon or late shall o'ertake us, 
 And our breasts, which alive with such sympathy glow, 
 
 Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall awake us, 
 When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid low. 
 
 Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draughts of pleasure, 
 Which from passion like ours may unceasingly flow : 
 
 Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in full measure, 
 And quaff the contents as our nectar below. 
 
 18l» 
 
 TO CAKOLINE. 
 
 Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my sorrows ? 
 
 Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight from this clay ? 
 The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 
 
 But brings, with new torture, the curse of to-day. 
 
 From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow no curses, 
 I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me from bliss : 
 
 For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 
 Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 
 
HOURS OP IDLENESS. 
 
 Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury-flakes bright'ning, 
 Would my lips breathe a flame which no stream could assuag*, 
 
 On our foes should my glance launch in vengeance its lightning, 
 With transport my tongue give a loose to its rage. 
 
 But now tears and curses, aliko unavailing, 
 Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight ; 
 
 Could they view us our sad separation bewailing, 
 Their merciless hearts would rejoice at the sight. 
 
 Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd resignation, 
 Life beams not for us with one ray that can cheer, 
 
 Love and hope upon earth bring no more consolation ! 
 In tho grave is our hope, for in life is our fear. 
 
 Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will they place me, 
 Since, in lifo, love and friendship for ever are fled '( 
 
 If again in the mansion of deatli I embrace? thee, 
 Perhaps they will leave unmolested the dead. 
 
 law 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY. 
 
 WITH THE POEMS OP CAMOENS. 
 
 This votive pledge of fond esteem, 
 
 Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize ; 
 
 It sings of Love's enchanting dream, 
 A theme we never can despise. 
 
 Who blames it but tho envious fool, 
 The old and disappointed maid ; 
 
 Or pupil of the prudish school, 
 In single sorrow doom'd to fade ? 
 
 Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 
 For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 
 
 To theo in vain I shall not pic; id 
 In pity for the poet's woes. 
 
 He was in sooth a genuine bard ; 
 
 His was no faint, fictitious flame : 
 Like his, may love be thy reward, 
 
 But not thy hapless fate the sain©. 
 
 THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 
 
 'A B«p/3tToc de x°P^a»f 
 "EpvTa fiovvov nx ct *— Anacreow. 
 
 Away with your fictions of flimsy romance- ; 
 
 Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove ! 
 Give mo the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance, 
 
 Or the rapture which dwells on the first kiss of lova. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, 
 Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove ; 
 
 From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow, 
 Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love ! 
 
 If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 
 
 Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove. 
 
 Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 
 And try the effect of the first kiss of love ! 
 
 I hate you, ye cold compositions of art ! 
 
 Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove, 
 I court the effusions that spring from the heart 
 
 Which throbs with delight to the first kiss of love ! 
 
 Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes, 
 Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move. 
 
 Arcadia displays but a region of dreams : 
 What are visions like these to the first kiss of love ? 
 
 Oh ! cease to affirm that man, since his birth, 
 
 From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove : 
 
 Some portion of paradise still is on earth, 
 And Eden revives in the first kiss of love. 
 
 When age chills the blood, when our pleasures aro past, 
 For years fleet away with the wings of the dove, 
 
 The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 
 Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love. 
 
 ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A GREAT PUBLIC 
 
 SCHOOL. 
 
 Where are those honours, Ida ! once your own, 
 When Probus fill'd your magisterial throne ? 
 As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
 Hail'd a barbarian in her CsDsar's place ; 
 So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 
 And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
 Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
 Pomposus holds you in his harsh control ; 
 Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 
 With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 
 With noisy nonsense, and new-fangled rules, 
 Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
 Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
 He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause ; 
 With him the same dire fate attending Rome 9 
 Ill-fated Ida ! soon must stamp your doom : 
 Like her o'erthrown, for ever lost to fame. 
 No trace of science left you, but the name. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENE33. 
 
 TO THE DUKE OP DORSET.* 
 
 Dorset ! whose early steps with mine have stray' d» 
 Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
 Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
 And made me less a tyrant than a friend, 
 Though the harsh custom of our youthful band 
 Bade thee obey, and gave me to command ;*f 
 Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower 
 The gift of riches and the pride of power ; 
 E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
 Renown' d in rank, not far beneath the throno. 
 Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul 
 To shun fair science, or evade control, 
 Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise $ 
 The titled child, whoso future breath may ra:s9, 
 View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
 And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 
 
 When youthful parasites, who bend the kuoo 
 To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, 
 And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
 Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn, — 
 When these declare, " that pomp alone should wait 
 On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
 That books were only meant for drudging fools, 
 That gallant spirits scorn the common rules 
 Believe them not ; — they point the path to shame, 
 And seek to blast the honours of thy name. 
 Turn to the few in Ida's early throng. 
 Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
 Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
 None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 
 Ask thine own heart ; 'twill bid thee, boy, forbear ; 
 For well I know that virtue lingers there. 
 
 Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, 
 But now new scenes invito me far away ; 
 Yes ! I have mark'd within that generous mind 
 A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
 Ah ! though myself, by nature haughty, wild, 
 Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child ; 
 Though every error stamps me for her own, 
 And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
 Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, 
 I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 
 
 • In looking over my papers to select a few additional poems for this second edition, ] 
 round the above lines, which I had totally forgotten, composed in the summer of 180o, a 
 • nort time previous to my departure from Harrow. They were addressed to a young 
 »<-hoolfellow of high rank, who had been my frequent companion in some rambles through 
 the neighbouring country : however, lie never saw the lines, and most probably never 
 will. As, on a reperusal, I found them not worse than some other pieces in the collec- 
 tion, I have now publishod them, for the lirst time, after a slight revision. 
 
 t At every public school the junior boys are completely subservient to the upper forme 
 till they attain a seat in the higher classes. From this state of probation, very properly, 
 tto rank . ;xompt ; but after a certain period, they command in turn those who succeed. 
 
 t Allow me to disclaim any personal allusions, even the most distant ; I merely uten* 
 tlon generally what is too often the weakness of preceptors. 
 
 • 9 
 
18 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 "lis not enough, with other sons of power, 
 To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
 To swell some peerage page in feeble pride, 
 With long-drawn names that grace no page bosids ; 
 Then share with titled crowds the common lot — 
 In life just gazetl at, in the grave forgot ; 
 While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead, 
 Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head, 
 The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
 That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, 
 Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find 
 One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 
 There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
 That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, 
 A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread, 
 In records destined never to be read. 
 Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes, 
 Exalted more among the good and wise, 
 A glorious and a long career pursue, 
 As first in rank, the first in talent too : 
 Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun ; 
 • Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 
 
 Turn to the annals of a former day ; ! 
 Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display. 
 One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth, 
 And call'd, — proud boast ! the British drama forth.. 
 Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 
 Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 
 Bold in the field, and favour' d by the Nine ; 
 In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; 
 Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, 
 The pride of princes, and the boast of song. 
 Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their name ; 
 Not heir to titles only, but to fame. 
 The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close 
 To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 
 Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
 Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship, all were niiafi \ 
 Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
 And gild their pinions as the moments flew ; 
 Peace, that reflection never frown' d away, 
 By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
 Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell ; 
 Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. 
 To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
 Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, 
 Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, 
 Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. 
 
 Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
 Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
 The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
 Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. > 
 And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, » 
 Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sph©rs p 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS- 
 
 19 
 
 Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, 
 May one day claim our suffrage for the state, 
 We hence may meet, and pass each other by, 
 With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
 
 For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
 A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe, 
 With thee no more again 1 hope to trace 
 The recollection of our early race ; 
 No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, 
 Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice : 
 Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
 To veil those feelings which perchance it ought — 
 If these — but let mo cease the lengthen'd strain — 
 Oh ! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 
 The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
 Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. 
 
 1800 
 
 FRAGMENT, % 
 
 WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OP MISS CI1AWGRTH. 
 
 Hills of Annesley ! bleak and barren, 
 Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, 
 
 How the northern tempests, warring, 
 Howl above thy tufted shade ! 
 
 '* 
 
 » Now no more, the hours beguiling, 
 
 Former favourite haunts I see ; 
 \ Now no more my Mary smiling 
 
 Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 
 
 GRANT A. A Medlet. 
 
 On ! could Lo Sage's demon's gift* 
 
 Bo realized at my desire, * 
 This night my trembling form he'd lift v 
 
 To place it on St. Mary's spire. 
 
 Then would, unroof d, old Granta's hallfl 
 
 Pedantic inmates full display ; 
 Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 
 
 The price of venal votes to pay. 
 
 Then would I view each rival wight, 
 
 Petty and Palmerston survey ; 
 Who canvass there with all their might. 
 
 Against tho next elective day. 
 
 The " Dlable Boiteux" of Lo Sage, where Asmac-deus, the demon plum Dc^ U!t>4&ft 
 tvu elevated sUuatiou, and uuruofa the houses IV r ummctioa, 
 
 o 2 
 
20 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Lo ! candidates and voters lie 
 
 All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number : 
 A race renown' d for piety, 
 
 Whose conscience won't disturb their s!unib&\ 
 
 Lord H , indeed, may not demur ; 
 
 Fellows are sage reflecting men : 
 They know preferment can occur 
 
 But very seldom, — now and then. 
 
 They know the Chancellor has got 
 
 Some pretty livings in disposal : 
 Each hopes that one may be his lot, 
 
 And therefore smiles on his proposal. 
 
 Now from the soporific scene 
 
 I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, 
 
 To view, unheeded and unseen, 
 The studious sons of Alma Mater. 
 
 There, in apartments small and damp, 
 
 The candidate for college prizes 
 Sits poring by the midnight lamp ; 
 
 Goes late to bed, yet early rises. 
 
 He surely well deserves to gain them. 
 
 With all the honours of his college. 
 Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 
 
 Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge : 
 
 Who sacrifices hours of rest 
 
 To scan precisely metres Attic ; 
 Or agitates his anxious breast 
 
 In solving problems mathematio. 
 
 Who reads false quantities in Seale,* 
 
 Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle ; 
 Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 
 
 In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle :+ 
 
 Renouncing every pleasing page 
 
 From authors of historic use ; 
 Preferring to the letter'd sage, 
 
 The square of the hypothenuso.J 
 
 Still, harmless are these occupations, 
 That hurt none but the hapless student,. 
 
 Compared with other recreations, 
 Which bring together the imprudent ; 
 
 wmc* publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent said 1 ft ifntsr^. * ~K 
 tcM might he expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy, 
 t The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not very intelii*'- ' 
 X The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hrpothenufe 1b oqufiu u> as* 
 •quare* of the other two aides of a right-angled triangle. 
 
 V 
 
 ■ i 
 
 5 > 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 2) 
 
 Whose daring revels shock the sight, 
 
 When vice and infamy combine, 
 When drunkenness and dice invite, 
 
 As every sense is steep'd in wine. 
 
 Not so the methodistic crew, 
 
 Who plans of reformation lay : 
 In humble attitude they sue, 
 
 And for the sins of others pray : 
 
 Forgetting that their pride of spirit, 
 
 Their exultation in their trial, 
 Detracts most largely from the merit 
 
 Of all their boasted self-denial. 
 
 'Tis morn : — from these I turn my sight. 
 
 What scene is this which meets the eyo ? 
 A numerous crowd, array'd in white, 
 
 Across the green in numbers fly. 
 
 Loud rings in air the chapel bell : 
 
 'Tis hush'd — what sounds are these I hc?.r I 
 
 The organ's soft celestial swell 
 .Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 
 
 To this is join'd the sacred song, 
 
 The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain ; 
 
 Though he who hears the music long 
 Will never wish to hear again. 
 
 Our choir would scarcely be excused, 
 
 Even as a band of raw beginners ; 
 All mercy now must be refused 
 
 To such a set of croaking sinners. 
 
 If David, when his toils were ended. 
 
 Had heard these blockheads sing before hire. 
 
 To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
 In furious mood ho would have tore 'em. 
 
 The luckless Israelites when taken 
 
 By some inhuman tyrant's order, 
 Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken, 
 
 On Babylonian river's border. 
 
 Oh ! had they sung in notes like these, 
 
 Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
 They might have set their hearts at ea",?, 
 
 The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 
 
 But if I scribble longer now, 
 
 The deuce a soul will stay to read ; 
 
 My pen is blunt, my ink is low ; 
 Tis almost time to stop, indeed. 
 
22 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires : 
 
 No more, like Cleofas, I fly ; 
 No more thy theme my muse inspires : 
 
 The reader 's tired, and so am I. 
 
 1806 
 
 ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL 
 OF HARROW-ON-THE-HILL. 
 
 *' O ! mihi praeteritos roferat si Jupiter annos." — Virgil. 
 
 Ye scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection 
 Embitters the present, compared with the past ; 
 
 Where' science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection, 
 And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last ; 
 
 Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 
 Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied ; 
 
 How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance, 
 Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied ! 
 
 Again I revisit the hills where we sported, 
 
 The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought ; 
 The school, where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted, 
 
 To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught. 
 
 Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd, 
 
 As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay ; 
 Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd, 
 
 To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray. 
 
 I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded, 
 Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'crthrown ; 
 
 While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded, 
 I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone.* 
 
 Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation, 
 By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived ; 
 
 Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-edulation, 
 I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. 
 
 Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you ! 
 
 Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast ; 
 Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you : 
 
 Your pleasures may still be in fancy possess'd. 
 
 To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me, 
 While fate shall the shades of the future unroll ! 
 
 Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me, 
 More dear is the beam of the past to my soul. 
 
 But if, through the course of the years which await me, 
 Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 
 
 I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate mo 
 " Oh ! such were the days which my infancy knew ! " 
 
 • A <>ot2ff>mr>oraTv of Garrick. fiunmu for his performance of Zar-tf** 
 
ilOURS OF IDLKNE^. 
 
 TO M . 
 
 Oh ! did those eyes, instead of fire, 
 With bright but mild i.ffection shino, 
 
 Though they might kindle less desiro, 
 Love more than mortal would be thifca, 
 
 Tor thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
 Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 
 
 We must admire, but still despair ; 
 That fatal glance forbids esteem. 
 
 When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, 
 So much perfection in thee shone, 
 
 She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 
 
 The skies might claim thee for their own ; 
 
 Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
 Lest angels might dispute the prize, 
 
 She bade a secret lightning lurk 
 Within those once celestial eyes. 
 
 These might the boldest sylph appal. 
 When gleaming with meridian blaze ; 
 
 Thy beauty must enrapture all ; 
 
 But who can dare thine ardent gaze ? 
 
 Tis said that Berenice's hair 
 
 In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 
 
 But they would ne'er permit theo there, — 
 Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven. 
 
 For did those eyes as planets roll, 
 
 Thy sister-lights would scarco appear : 
 
 E'en suns, which systems now control, 
 
 Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.* 
 
 TO WOMAN. 
 
 Woman ! experience might have told mo. 
 
 That all must love thee who behold thee : 
 
 Surely experience might have taught 
 
 Thy firmest promises are nought : 
 
 But, placed in all thy charms before mo, 
 
 All I forget, but to adore thee. 
 
 O memory ! thou choicest blessing, 
 
 When join'd with hope, when still possessing ; 
 
 But how much cursed by every lover 
 
 When hope is fled, and passion 's over. 
 
 • •* Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven. 
 Having some business, do entreat her eyes 
 To twinkle in their spheres till they return."- Sbakstass) 
 
BYRON'S rOLMS. 
 
 Woman, that fair and fond deceiver, 
 
 How prompt are striplings to believe hor ! 
 
 How throbs the pulse when first we view 
 
 The eye that rolls in glossy blue, 
 
 Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 
 
 A beam from under hazel brows ! 
 
 How quick we credit every oath, 
 
 And hear her plight the willing troth : 
 
 Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye, — 
 
 When lo ! she changes in a day. 
 
 This record will for ever stand, 
 
 " Woman ! thy vows are traced in sand."* 
 
 TO M. S. G. 
 
 When I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgiv 
 
 Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
 For in visions alone your affection can live, — 
 
 I rise, and it lea ves me to weep. 
 
 Then, Morpheus ! envelop my faculties fast, 
 
 Shed o'er me your languor benign ; 
 Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last, 
 
 What rapture celestial is mine ! 
 
 They tell us that slumber, the sister of death, 
 
 Mortality's emblem is given : 
 To fate how I long to resign my frail breath, 
 
 If this be a foretaste of heaven ! 
 
 Ah ! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow, 
 
 Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
 If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 
 
 Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 
 
 Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may amie 
 
 Oh ! think not my penance delicient ! 
 When dreams of your presence my slumbers begufto. 
 
 To awake will be torture sufficient. 
 
 TO MAEY, 
 
 ON RECEIVING HER riCTUR2. 
 
 THIS faint resemblance of thy charms, 
 Though strong as mortal art could givo, 
 
 My constant heart of fear disarms, 
 Ecvives my hopes, and bids me live. 
 
 • This line is almost a literal translation from a StatUl ,wvw!fc 
 
HOLT.S OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Here I can trace the locks of gold 
 
 Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 
 The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, 
 
 The lips which made me beauty's slave. 
 
 Hero I can trace — ah, no ! that cyo, 
 
 Whoso azure floats in liquid tiro. 
 Must all the painter's art defy, 
 
 And bid him from the task retire. 
 
 Hero I behold its beauteous hue ; 
 
 But whero's the beam so sweetly straying, 
 Which gave a lustre to its blue, 
 
 Like Luna o'er the ocean playing ? 
 
 Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, 
 
 Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
 Than all the living forms could be, 
 
 Save hor who placed thee next my heart. 
 
 She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 
 Lest time might shako my wavering soul, 
 
 Unconscious that her image thero 
 Hold every sense in fast control. 
 
 Through hours, through years, through time, 'twill cheer 
 
 My hope, in gloomy moments raiso ; 
 In life's last conflict 'twill appear, 
 
 And meet my fond expiring gaze. 
 
 TO LESBIA. 
 
 Lesbia ! since far from you I've ranged, 
 Our souls with fond affection glow not ; 
 
 You say 'tis I, not you, have changed ; 
 I'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 
 
 Your polish 'd brow no cares have cross'd ; 
 
 And, Lesbia ! wo are not much older 
 Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, 
 
 Or told my love, with hope grown boldor. 
 
 Sixteen was then our utmost age, 
 
 Two years have lingering past away, fort ! 
 And now new tlvoughts our minds cngago, 
 
 At least I feel disposed to stray, love ! 
 
 'Tis I that am alone to blame, 
 
 I, that am guilty of love's treason ; 
 
 Since your sweet breast is still the same, 
 Caprice must be my only reason. 
 
 1 do not, lovo! suspect your truth, 
 
 With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; 
 
 Warm was the passion of my youth, 
 One trace of dark deceit it leaves not. 
 
byron's foems. 
 
 No, no, my flame was not pretended ; 
 
 For, oh ! I loved you most sincerely ; 
 And — though our dream at last is end&d— 
 
 My bosom still esteems you dearly. 
 
 No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 
 
 Absence has made me prone to roving- \ 
 But older, firmer hearts than ours 
 
 Have found monotony in loving. 
 
 Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
 New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 
 
 Your eye for conquest beams prepared, 
 The forge of love's resistless lightning. 
 
 Arm'd thus to make their bosoms bleed, 
 Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 
 
 More constant they may prove, indeed ; 
 Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 
 
 LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED BY THE, AUTEOT 
 WHILE DISCHARGING HIS FISTOLS IN A GARDEN. 
 
 Doubtless, sweet girl ! the hissing lead, 
 Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 
 
 And hurtling o'er thy lovely head,* 
 Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms. 
 
 Surely some envious demon's force, 
 
 Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 
 Impell'd the bullet's viewless course, 
 
 Diverted from its first career. 
 
 Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour 
 
 The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; 
 
 But Heaven, with interposing power, 
 In pity turn'd the death aside. 
 
 Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
 
 Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 
 Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, 
 
 Extracted from its glistening cell : 
 
 Say, what dire penance can atone 
 
 For such an outrage done to thee ? 
 Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, 
 
 What punishment wilt thou decree ? 
 
 e This word is used by Gray, in his poem to the Fntal Sis tern »— 
 
 Iron sleet of arrowy shower 
 Hurtles through the darken'd air." 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 27 
 
 Might I perform the judge's pare, 
 
 The sentence I should scarce deplore ; 
 
 It only would restore a heart 
 
 Which but belong'd to thee before. 
 
 The least atonement I can mako 
 
 Is to become no longer free ; 
 Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 
 
 Thou shalt be all in all to me. 
 
 But thou, perhaps, mayst now reject 
 
 Such expiation of my guilt : 
 Come, then, some other mode elect ; 
 
 Lot it be death, or what thou wilt. 
 
 Choose then, relentless ! and I swear 
 Nought shall thy dread decree prevent ; 
 
 Yet hold — one little word forbear ! 
 Let it be ought but banishment. 
 
 LOVE'S LAST ADIEU. 
 
 'Act, 6' uel /ie <p€vf€t • — Ax acreoh. 
 
 The roses of love glad the garden of life, 
 
 Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 
 
 Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
 Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu. 
 
 In vain with endearments wo soothe the sad heart, 
 
 In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
 The chance of an hour may command us to part, 
 
 Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 
 
 Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen breast, 
 Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may renew :" 
 
 With this dream of deceit half our sorrow 's repress'd, 
 Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 
 
 Oh ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth 
 
 Love twined round their childhood his flowers as they grcif ; 
 
 They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
 Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu 1 
 
 Sweet lady ! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
 Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue ? 
 
 Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 
 
 Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu ! 
 
 Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 
 
 From cities to caves of the forest ho flew : 
 There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 
 
 The mountains reverberate love's last adieu 1 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains 
 Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew, 
 
 Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins ; 
 He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu ! 
 
 How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in stool ! 
 
 His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, 
 Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 
 
 And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu i 
 
 Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast ; 
 
 No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
 He spreads his young wing, he retires with the bias. ; 
 
 The shroud of affection is love's last adieu ! 
 
 In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
 Astrea declares that some penance is due ; 
 
 From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle shrins, 
 The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 
 
 Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
 Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew : 
 
 His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
 His cypress the garland of love's last adieu ! 
 
 DAM^ETAS. 
 
 In law an infant, and in years a boy,* 
 
 In mind a slave to every vicious joy ; 
 
 From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd ; 
 
 In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 
 
 Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ; 
 
 Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild ; 
 
 Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ; 
 
 Old in the world, though scarcely broke from schoc! ; 
 
 Damsetas ran through all the maze of sin, 
 
 And found the goal when others just begin : 
 
 Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, 
 
 And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; 
 
 But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, 
 
 And what was once his bliss appears his bane. 
 
 TO MARION. 
 
 Marion ! why that pensive brow ? 
 What disgust to life hast thou ? 
 Change that discontented air ; 
 Frowns become not one so fair. 
 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, 
 Love 's a stranger to thy breast ; 
 
 • In law, every person is an infant who has not attained the age of Incut j •oniv 
 
HOUIIS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 He in dimpling smiles appears, 
 Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 
 Or bends the languid eyelid down, 
 But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 
 Then resume thy former fire, — 
 Some will love, and all admire ; 
 "While that icy aspect chills us, 
 Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 
 Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 
 Smile at least, or seem to smile. 
 Eyes like thine were never meant 
 To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; 
 Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 
 Still in truant beams they play. 
 Thy lips — but here my modest muse 
 Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 
 She blushes, curt'sies, frowns— in short sho 
 Dreads lest tho subject should transport mo 
 And flying off in search of reason, 
 Brings prudence back in proper season ; 
 All I shall therefore say (whate'er 
 I think, is neither here nor there) 
 Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 
 Were form'd for better things than sneerinp 
 Of smoothing compliments divested, 
 Advice at least's disinterested ; 
 Such is my artless song to thee, 
 From all the flow of flattery free ; 
 Counsel like mine is like a brother's, 
 My heart is given to some others ; 
 That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 
 It shares itself among a dozen. 
 Marion, adieu ! oh, pr'ythee slight not 
 This warning, though it may delight not ; 
 And, lest my precepts be displeasing 
 To those who think remonstrance teasing, 
 At once I'll tell thee our opinion 
 Concerning woman's soft dominion : 
 Howe'er we gaze with admiration 
 On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 
 Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 
 Howe'er those beauties may distract u? y 
 Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 
 These cannot fix our souls to love : 
 It is not too sovere a stricture 
 To say they form a pretty picture ; 
 But wouldst thou seo the secret chain 
 Which binds us in your humble train. 
 To hail you queens of all creation, 
 JCnow, in a word, 'tis Animation. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 tfflO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR BRAIDED 
 WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO 
 ilEET HIM IN THE GARDEN. 
 
 These locks, which fondly thus entwine, 
 
 In firmer chains our hearts confine, 
 
 Than all th' unmeaning protestations 
 
 Which swell with nonsense love orations. 
 
 Our love is fix'd, I think we've proved it, 
 
 Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it ; 
 
 Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, 
 
 With groundless jealousy repine, 
 
 With silly whims, and fancies frantic, 
 
 Merely to make our love romantic ? 
 
 Why should you weep like Lydia Languish, 
 
 And fret with self-created anguish ? 
 
 Or doom the lover you have chosen, 
 
 On winter nights to sigh half-frozen ; 
 
 In leafless shades to sue for pardon, 
 
 Only because the scene 's a garden ? 
 
 For gardens seem, by one consent, 
 
 Since Shakspeare set the precedent, 
 
 Since Juliet first declared her passion, 
 
 To form the place of assignation.* 
 
 Oh ! would some modern muse inspire, 
 
 And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; 
 
 Or had the bard at Christmas written 
 
 And laid the scene of love in Britain, 
 
 He surely, in commiseration, 
 
 Had changed the place of declaration* 
 
 In Italy I've no objection : 
 
 Warm nights are proper for reflection £ 
 
 But here our climate is so rigid, 
 
 That love itself is rather frigid : 
 
 Think on our chilly situation, 
 
 And ^.urb this rage for imitation ; 
 
 Then let us meet, as oft we've done, 
 
 Beneath the influence of the sun ; 
 
 Or, if at midnight I must meet you, 
 
 Within your mansion let me greet you : 
 
 There we can love for hours together, 
 
 Much better, in such snowy weather, 
 
 Than placed in all th' Arcadian groves 
 
 That ever witness'd rural loves ; 
 
 • In the above little piece, the author has been accused by some candid reavlirt » 
 Introducing the name of a lady from whom he was some hundred miles distant at the tim» 
 thia was written ; and poor Juliet, who has slept so long in " {\e tomb of all thb 
 Capulets," has been converted, with a trifling alteration of her v«fr»>«e, into an English 
 damsel, walking in a garden of their own creation, during the month of December, in 
 a village where the author never passed a winter. Such has been the candour of some 
 Ingenious critics. We would advise these liberal commentators on taste and arbiters of* 
 decorum to read Shakspeare. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Then, if my passion fail to please, 
 Next night I'll be content to freeze ; 
 N o more I'll give a loose to laughter, 
 Lut curse my fate for ever after.* 
 
 OSCAR OF ALVA.t 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 How sweetly shines through azure skicto 
 
 The lamp of heaven on Lora's r.horc ; 
 Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
 
 And hear the din of arms no moro. 
 
 But often has yon rolling moon 
 
 On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 
 And view'd at midnight's silent noon 
 
 Her chiefs in gleaming mail array M : 
 
 And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, 
 
 Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow, 
 Pale iu the scatter'd ranks of death, 
 
 She saw the gasping warrior low ; 
 
 While many an eye which ne'er again 
 
 Could mark the rising orb of day, 
 Turn'd feebly from the gory plain, 
 
 Beheld in death her fading ray. 
 
 Once to thoge eyes the lamp of Love, 
 They bless'd her dear propitious light ; 
 
 But now she glimmer'd from above, 
 A sad, funereal torch of night. 
 
 Faded is Alva's noble race, 
 
 And gray her towers are seen afar ; 
 No more her heroes urge the chase, 
 
 Or roll the crimson tide of war. 
 
 But who was last of Alva's clan ? 
 
 Why grows the moss on Alva's stone ? 
 Uer towers resound no steps of man, 
 
 They echo to the gale alone. 
 
 And when that gale is fierce and high, 
 
 A sound is heard in yonder hall ; 
 It rises hoarsely through the sky, 
 
 And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 
 
 Having beard that a very severe and indelicate censure has been passed on the abore 
 .v.i in, I beg leave to reply» in a quotation from an admired work, — " Carr*B Stranger in 
 *' ranee." — " As wo were contemplating a painting on a large scale, in which, among otii«r 
 igures, 1b the uncovered whole-length of a warrior, a prudish-looking lady, who seemed 
 »<> have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through hei 
 glass, observed to her party, that there was a great deal of indecorum in that picture, 
 uadarne S. Bhrewdly whispered in my ear that the indecorum was in the remark." 
 
 t The catastrophe of this tale was suggested by the Btory of" Jeronyme and Lorenzo," 
 In the first volume of Schiller's " Armenian, or the Ghost-Seer." It also bears 
 
 mblalMM U> a ac-cue lr the third act of" Macbeth." 
 
btron's poems. 
 
 Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
 It shakes the shield of Oscar brave ; 
 
 But there no more his banners rise, 
 No more his plumes of sable wave. 
 
 Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 
 When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 
 
 The vassals round their chieftain's hearts 
 Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 
 
 They feast upon the mountain deer, 
 The pibroch raised its piercing noto : 
 
 To gladden more their Highland cheer, 
 The strains in martial numbers float ; 
 
 And they who heard the war-notes wild, 
 Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 
 
 Should play before the hero's child, 
 While he should lead the tartan train. 
 
 Another year is quickly past, 
 
 And Angus hails another son ; 
 His natal day is like the last, 
 
 Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 
 
 Taught by their sire to bend the bow, 
 
 On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
 The boys in childhood chased the roe, 
 
 And left their hounds in speed behind. 
 
 But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
 They mingle in the ranks of war ; 
 
 They lightly wheel the bright claymore, 
 And send the whistling arrow far. 
 
 Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 
 Wildly it stream' d along the gale ; 
 
 But Allan's locks were bright and fair, 
 And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 
 
 But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, 
 
 His dark eye shone through beams of truth 
 Allan had early learn' d control, 
 
 And smooth his words had been from you it. 
 
 Both, both were brave : the Saxon spear 
 Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 
 
 And Oscar's bosom scorn' d to fear, 
 But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 
 
 While Allan's soul belied his form, 
 Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 
 
 Keen as the lightning of the storm, 
 On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 
 
 From high Southannon's distant tower 
 Arrived a young and noble damo ; 
 
 With Kenneth's lands to form her dower, 
 Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter cuca^ ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 88 
 
 And Oscar claim' d the beauteous bride. 
 And Angus on his Oscar smiled J 
 
 It soothed the father's feudal pride 
 Thus to obtain Glenalvon's child. 
 
 Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 
 
 Hark to the swelling nuptial song ! 
 In joyous strains the voices float, 
 
 And still the choral peal prolong 
 
 See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 
 
 Assembled wave in Alva's hall ; 
 Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 
 
 Attending on their chieftain's call. 
 
 It is not war their aid demands, 
 The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 
 
 To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
 Nor yet the sounds of pleasure ceaso. 
 
 But where is Oscar ? sure 'tis late : 
 Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame ? 
 
 While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
 Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 
 
 At length young Allan join'd the bride : 
 " Why comes not Oscar ?" Angus said ; 
 
 u Is he not here ?" the youth replied ; 
 ' * With mo he roved not o'er tho glado. 
 
 M Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
 'Tis his to chase the bounding roe ; 
 
 Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
 Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 
 
 M Oh, no t " the anguish' d sire rejoin'd, 
 "Nor chase nor wave my boy delay ; 
 
 Would he to Mora seem unkind ? 
 Would aught to her impede his way ? 
 
 " Oh, search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around I 
 Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 
 
 Till Oscar, till my son is found, 
 
 Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply. 99 
 
 All is confusion — through the vale 
 The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 
 
 It rises on the murmuring gale, 
 
 Till night expands her dusky wings ; 
 
 It breaks the stillness oi the night, 
 But echoes through her shades in vain. 
 
 It sounds through morning's misty light, 
 But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 
 
 Three days, three sleepless nights, tho Chio£ 
 For Oscar search' d each mountain cuvo 1 
 
 Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief, 
 His locks in gray-torn ringlets wave. 
 
 D 4 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 " Oscar ! my son ! — thou God of heaVa, 
 Restore the prop of sinking age ! 
 
 Or if that hope no more is given. 
 Yield his assassin to my rage. 
 
 " Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
 My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie ; 
 
 Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
 With him his frantic sire may die ! 
 
 " Yet he may live — away, despair ! 
 
 Be calm, my soul ! he yet may live ; 
 T* arraign my fate, my voice forbear ! 
 
 0 God ! my impious prayer forgive. 
 
 * 4 What, if he live for me no more, 
 
 1 sink forgotten in the dust, 
 The hope of Alva's age is o'er ; 
 
 Alas ! can pangs like these be just ?" 
 
 Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 
 Till Time, which soothes severest woe 
 
 Had bade serenity return, 
 
 And made the tear-drop cease to flo\Y 
 
 For still some latent hope survived 
 That Oscar might once more appear ; 
 
 His hope now droop'd and now revived, 
 Till Time had told a tedious year. 
 
 Days roll'd along, the orb of light 
 Again had run his destined race ; 
 
 No Oscar bless' d his father's sight, 
 And sorrow left a fainter trace. 
 
 For youthful Allan still remain 'd, 
 And now his father's only joy : 
 
 And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 
 For beauty crown' d the fair-hair' d boy. 
 
 She thought that Oscar low was laid, 
 And Allan's face was wondrous fair ; 
 
 If Oscar lived, some other maid 
 Had claim' d his faithless bosom's cara 
 
 And Angus said, if one year more 
 In fruitless hope was pass'd away, 
 
 His fondest scruples should be o'er, 
 And he would name their nuptial day* 
 
 Slow roll'd the moons, but blest at last 
 Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 
 
 The year of anxious trembling past, 
 What smiles the lovers 7 cheeks adorn $ 
 
 Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 
 
 Hark to the swelling nuptial song ' 
 In ioyous strains the voices float. 
 
 And still the choral peal prolong. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS, 
 
 Again the clan, in festive crowd, 
 
 Throng through the gate of Alva's hall j 
 
 The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
 And all their former joy recall. 
 
 But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
 Glooms in the midst of general mirth ? 
 
 Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 
 The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 
 
 Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 
 
 And tall his plume of gory red ; 
 His voice is like the rising storm, 
 
 But light and trackless is his tread. 
 
 'Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
 The bridegroom's health is deeply quafFd ; 
 
 With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
 And all combine to hail the draught. 
 
 Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 
 And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
 
 And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 
 And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 
 
 " Old man ! " he cried, "this pledge is done ; 
 
 Thou saw'st 'twas duly drunk by mo : 
 It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 
 
 Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 
 
 While all around is mirth and joy, 
 To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 
 Say, hadst thou ne'er another boy ? 
 Say, why should Oscar be forgot ? " 
 
 " Alas ! " the helpless sire replied, 
 
 The big tear starting as he spoke, 
 ** When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
 
 This aged heart was almost broke. 
 
 " Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
 Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; 
 
 And Allan is my last resource, 
 
 Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 
 
 "'Tis well," replied the stranger stern, 
 
 And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye : 
 Thv Oscar's fate I fain would learn : 
 
 Perhaps the hero did not die. 
 
 u Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
 
 Would call, thy Oscar might return ; 
 Perchance the chief has only roved ; 
 
 For him thy beltane yet may burn.* 
 
 • nrlf.inc Tree, a Highland featival on the first of May, held near flrei lighted for tha 
 
 s 2 
 
 8£ 
 
 » 
 
BTR03f*S POEaIS. 
 
 u Fill high the bowl the table round, 
 We will not claim the pledge by stealth * 
 
 With wine let every cup be crown'd ; 
 Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 
 
 u With all my soul," old Angus said, 
 
 And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; 
 *' Here's to my boy ! alive or dead, 
 
 I ne'er shall find a son like him." 
 
 " Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 
 
 But why does trembling Allan stand ? 
 Come, drink remembrance of the dead, 
 
 And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 
 
 The crimson glow of Allan's face 
 
 Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 
 The drops of death each other chase 
 
 Adown in agonizing dew. 
 
 Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
 
 And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 
 For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
 
 On his with deadly fury placed. 
 
 " And is it thus a brother hails 
 
 A brother's fond remembrance here ? 
 If thus affection's strength prevails, 
 
 What might we not expect from fear?" 
 
 Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
 " Would Oscar now could share our mirth !'* 
 
 Internal fear appall' d his soul ; 
 
 He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 
 
 " *Tis he ! I hear my murderer's voice ! " 
 
 Loud shrieks a darkly-gleaming form ; 
 u A murderer's voice ! the roof replies, 
 
 And deeply swells the bursting storm. 
 
 The tapers wink, the chieftains shrink, 
 
 The stranger 's gone, — amidst the crew 
 A form was seen in tartan green, 
 
 And tall the shade terrific grew. 
 
 His waist was bound with a broad belt round, 
 
 His plume of sable stream' d on high ; 
 But his breast was bare, with the red wounds ^here, 
 
 And fix'd was the glare of his glassy eye. 
 
 And thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 
 
 On Angus bending low the knee ; 
 And thrice he frown' d on a chief on the ground, 
 
 Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 
 
 The bolts loud roll, from pole to pole 
 
 The Miunders through the welkin ring, 
 And vhe gleaming form, through the midst of the Btorm 
 
 Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Cold was the feast, the revel ceased,— 
 
 Who lies upon, the stony floor ? 
 Oblivion press' d old Angus' breast, 
 
 At length his life-pulse throbs onco more. 
 
 " Away ! away ! let the leech essay 
 To pour the light on Allan's eyes •" 
 
 His sand is done, — his race is run ; 
 Oh ! naver more shall Allan riso ! 
 
 But Oscar's breast is cold as clay, 
 His locks are lifted by the gale : 
 
 And Allan's barbed arrow lay 
 
 With him in dark Glentanar's valo. 
 
 And whence the dreadful stranger cam©, 
 Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 
 
 But no ono doubts the form of flame, 
 For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 
 
 Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
 Exulting demons wing'd his dart ; 
 
 While Envy waved her burning brand, 
 And pour'd her venom round his heart. 
 
 Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow ; 
 
 Whoso streaming life-blood stains his sido I 
 Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 
 
 Tho dart has drunk his vital tide. 
 
 And Mora's eye could Allan movo, 
 Sho bade his wounded pride rebel ; 
 
 Alas ! that eyes which beam'd with love 
 Should urge the soul to deeds of hell. 
 
 Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
 Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 
 
 It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
 Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed, 
 
 Far, distant far, the noble graV- 
 
 Which held his dan's great ashes stood ; 
 
 And o'er his corse no banners wave, 
 
 For they were stain'd with kindred blocd. 
 
 What minstrel gray, what hoary bard, 
 Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 
 
 Tho song is glory's chiet reward, 
 But who can strike a murderer's praise ? 
 
 Unstrung, untouch'*!, the harp must stand, 
 No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 
 
 Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 
 
 His harp in shuddering chords would brotJr 
 
 No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse. 
 Shall sound his glories high in air ; 
 
 A dying father's bitter curse, 
 A brother's death -groan echoes there. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND EURYALU8. 
 
 A PARAPHRASE FROM THE -3SNEID, LIB. IX. 
 
 Nisus, the guardian of the portal stood, 
 
 Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood ; 
 
 Well skill' d in fight the quivering lance to wield, 
 
 Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field : 
 
 From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 
 
 And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 
 
 To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 
 
 With him Euryalus sustains the post ; 
 
 No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 
 
 And beardless bloom yet graced the gallant boy ; 
 
 Though few the seasons of his youthful life, 
 
 As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
 
 'Twas his, with beauty, valour's gifts to share — 
 
 A soul heroic, as his form was fair : 
 
 These burn with one pure flame of generous love ; 
 
 In peace, in war, united still they move ; 
 
 Friendship and glory form their joint reward ; 
 
 And now combined they hold their nightly guard. 
 
 "What god," exclaim'd the first, " instils this firs i 
 Or, in itself a god, what great desire ? 
 My labouring soul, with anxious thought oppress'd, 
 Abhors this station of inglorious rest ; 
 The love of fame with this can ill accord, 
 Be't mine to seek for glory with my sword. 
 Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling dim, 
 Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb ? 
 Where confidence and ease the watch disdain, 
 And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 
 Then hear my thought : — In deep and sullen grief 
 Our troops and leaders mourn their absent chief; 
 Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine 
 (The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine), 
 Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound, 
 Methinks, an easy path perchance were found : 
 Which past, I speed my way to Pallas' walls, 
 &nd lead tineas from Evander's halls." 
 
 With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 
 His glowing friend address' d the Dardan boy : — 
 * 'These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone 1 
 Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own ? 
 Am I by thee despised, and left afar, 
 As one unfit to share the toils of war ? 
 Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught , 
 Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought ; 
 Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
 I track' d iEneas through the walks of fate : 
 Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid of fear. 
 And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Here is a soul with hope immortal burns. 
 And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
 Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by fleeting breath ; 
 The price of honour is the sleep of death." 
 
 Then Nisus, — " Calm thy bosom's fond alarms, 
 Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
 More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
 I swear by him who fills Olympus' throne 1 
 So may I triumph, as I speak the truth, 
 And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
 But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 
 Through hostile legions must abide by chance,— 
 If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
 Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low, 
 Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
 Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
 When humbled in the dust, let some one be 
 Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for mo ; 
 Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
 Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse ; 
 Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
 If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
 Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
 To mark thy love, and signalize my doom. 
 Why should thy doting wretched mother wepp 
 Her only boy, reclined in endless sleep ? 
 Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
 Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
 Who braved what woman never braved before, 
 And left her native for the Latian shore." 
 u In vain you damp the ardour of my soul," 
 Replied Euryalus : "it scorns control ! 
 Hence, let us haste ! " — their brother guards aroo? : 
 Boused by their call, nor court again repose ; 
 The pair, buoy'd up on Hope's exulting wing, 
 Their stations leave, and speed to seek the kifi^. 
 
 Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
 And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
 Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold 
 Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
 On one great point the council are agreed, 
 An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
 Each lean'd upon the lance he well could wield, 
 And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
 When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
 To offer something to their high behest. 
 With anxious tremors, yet unawed by fear, 
 The faithful pair before the throne appear ; 
 lulus greets them ; at his kind command, 
 The elder first address'd the hoary band. 
 
 u With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) 
 u Attend, nor judge from youth our humble phut* 
 
BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, 
 Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream, 
 Nor heed that we a secret path have traced, 
 Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
 Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke, 
 Whose shade securely our design will cloak ; 
 If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow, 
 We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's brow, 
 Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight, 
 Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night : 
 Then shall iEneas in his pride return, 
 While hostile matrons raise their offspring's urn ; 
 And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
 Shall mark the havoc of our hero's tread. 
 Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
 Where yonder torrent's devious waters stray, 
 Oft have we seen, when hunting by the stream, 
 The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 
 
 Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
 Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, — 
 " Ye parent gods ! who rule the fate of Troy, 
 Still dwells the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
 When minds like these in striplings thus ye raise, 
 Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise ; 
 In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
 And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
 Then in his warm embrace the boys he press'd, 
 And, quivering, strain' d them to his aged breast ; 
 With tears the burning cheek of each bedew' d, 
 And, sobbing, thus his first discourse renew'd : 
 " What gift, my countrymen, what martial prisa 
 Can we bestow, which you may not despise ? 
 Our deities the first best boon have given — 
 Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
 What poor rewards can bless your deeds on earth. 
 Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
 iEneas and Ascanius shall combine 
 To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
 lulus then : — " By all the powers above ! 
 By those Penates who my country love ! 
 By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear 
 My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair ! 
 Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
 And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
 Nisus ! two silver goblets are thine own, 
 Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrcwn ; 
 My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
 Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey ; 
 Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine ; 
 Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine ; 
 An ancient cup, which Tyrian Dido gave, 
 While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave i 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 But when the hostile chiefs at length bow down, 
 
 When great iEneas wears Hesperia's crown, 
 
 The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
 
 Which Turnus guides with more than mortal speed, 
 
 Are thine ; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
 
 I pledge my word, irrevocably past : 
 
 Nay, more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive dam* 
 
 To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
 
 And all the realms which now the Latins sway, 
 
 The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
 
 But thou, my generous youth, whose tender years 
 
 Are near my own, whose worth my heart reveres, 
 
 Henceforth affection sweetly thus begun, 
 
 Shall join our bosoms and our souls in one ; 
 
 Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
 
 Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
 
 Alike through life esteem' d, thou godlike boy, 
 
 In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 
 
 To him Euryalus : — "No day shall shamo 
 The rising glories which from this I claim. 
 Fortune may favour, or the skies may frown, 
 But valour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
 Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
 One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart : 
 My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
 Line thine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
 Nor Troy nor King Acestes' realms restrain 
 Her feeble age from dangers of the main ; 
 Alone she came, all selfish fears above, 
 A bright example of maternal love. 
 Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, 
 Lest grief should bend n/y parent to the gravo ; 
 From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
 No fainting mother's lips have press' d my cheok ; 
 By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
 Her parting tears would shake my purpose now : 
 Do thou, my prince, her failing ago sustain, 
 In thee her much-loved child may live again ; 
 Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
 Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress : 
 80 dear a hope must all my soul inflame, 
 To rise in glory, or to fall in fame. " 
 Struck with a filial care so deeply felt, 
 In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt : 
 Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'orflow ; 
 Such love was his, and such had been his woo. 
 u All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince repliod ; 
 " Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
 To cheer thy mother's years, shall bo my aim, 
 Creusa's style but wanting to the dame.* 
 
 * The mother of lulu*, lost on the night when Troy was tafcoo 
 
BIEON'S POEMS. 
 
 Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
 
 But bless' d thy mother in so dear a son. 
 
 Now, by my life ! — my sire's most sacred oath — 
 
 To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
 
 All the rewards which once to thee were vow'd, 
 
 If thou shouldst fall, on her shall be bestow'd." 
 
 Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to vie ft 
 
 A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew ; 
 
 Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steel, 
 
 For friends to envy and for foes to feel : 
 
 A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
 
 Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil, 
 
 Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, 
 
 And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
 
 Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train, 
 
 To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain. 
 
 More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
 
 lulus holds amidst the chiefs his place : 
 
 His prayer he sends ; but what can prayers avail, 
 
 Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 
 
 The trench is pass'd, and, favour'd by the night, 
 Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. 
 When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 
 Alas ! some slumber who shall wake no more ! 
 Chariots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen ; 
 And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between : 
 Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine ; 
 A mingled chaos this of war and wine. 
 " Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood prepare, 
 With me the conquest and the labour share : 
 Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 
 Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies : 
 I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
 And clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
 His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
 And pierced proud Ehamnes through his panting brcs»3t 
 Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed ; 
 Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed : 
 To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, 
 His omens more than augur's skill evince ; 
 But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 
 Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
 Next Remus' armourbearer, hapless, fell, 
 And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell ; 
 The charioteer along his courser's sides 
 Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides ; 
 And, last, his lord is number' d with the dead : 
 Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head ; 
 From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents pour j 
 Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore. 
 Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 
 And gay Seranus, fill'd with youthful fire ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Half the long night in childish games was pass'd, 
 Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last : 
 Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 
 And till Aurora's dawn his skill display'd. 
 
 In slaughter'd fold, the keepers lost in sleep, 
 His hungry fangs a Hon thus may steep ; 
 'Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls, 
 With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls : 
 Insatiate still, through teeming herds ho roames ; 
 In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams. 
 
 Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, 
 But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
 His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, 
 Yet wakeful Rhacsus sees the threatening steel ; 
 His coward breast behind ajar he hides, 
 And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
 Full in his heart, the falchion search'd his veins, 
 The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
 Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow 
 One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
 Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, 
 Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray ; 
 There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, 
 Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed : 
 Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
 Too flush'd with carnage, and with conquest warm 
 u Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd 
 Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last : 
 Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
 Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 
 
 With silver arms, with various art emboss'd, 
 What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
 They leave regardless ! yet one glittering prize 
 Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
 The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
 The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt : 
 This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
 Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
 Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
 Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
 Then from the tents their cautious steps they ben<l> 
 To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 
 
 Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
 To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course: 
 While the slow foot their tardy march delay, 
 The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
 Three hundred mail-clad men, by volscens led, 
 To Turnus with their master's promise sped ; 
 Now they approach the trench, and view the walk, 
 When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 
 
BYRON 3 ?C2MS. 
 
 The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, 
 Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
 Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 
 u Stand, stragglers ! stand! why early thus in arms! 
 From whence, to whom ? " — He meets with no reply 1 
 Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 
 The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread, 
 While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. 
 
 With brakes entangled, scarce a path between. 
 Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
 Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
 The boughs aud winding turns his steps mislead ; 
 But Nisus scours along the forest's maze 
 To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, 
 Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, 
 On every side they seek his absent friend. 
 u 0 God ! my boy," he cries, " of me bereft, 
 In what impending perils art thou left ! " 
 Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
 Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
 The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
 Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
 Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise ; 
 The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys : 
 The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
 While lengthening shades his weary way confound ; 
 Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue, 
 Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
 What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare J 
 Ah ! must he rush his comrade's fate to share ? 
 What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
 Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ? 
 His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
 Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live ? 
 Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
 On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye : — 
 " Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
 Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
 By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove, 
 When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove : 
 If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
 Thine altars with the produce of the chase, 
 Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd, 
 To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
 Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
 Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung ; 
 The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
 Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on tlio clay : 
 He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 
 Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze. 
 While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples rivers 
 A second shaft with equal force is driven. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes : 
 Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies. 
 Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall : 
 " Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all ! " 
 Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drev«r, 
 And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew. 
 Nisus no more the blackening shape conceals, 
 Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ; 
 Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
 And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies ; 
 u Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone ; 
 Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own. 
 Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest ! 
 He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest ! 
 All, all was mine, — his early fate suspend ; 
 He only loved too well his hapless friend : 
 Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage removo 
 His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
 He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's swonl 
 Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ; 
 Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, 
 And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
 As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, 
 Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
 Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
 Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
 Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
 And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 
 
 But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
 Revenge his leader and despair his guide : 
 Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
 Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost : 
 Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ; 
 Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow ; 
 In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds. 
 Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds ; 
 Jn viewless circies wheel'd, his falchion flies, 
 Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
 Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
 The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. 
 Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved — 
 Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
 Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
 And death was heavenly in his friend's embraco. 
 
 Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, 
 Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame ! 
 Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 
 No future day shall see your names expire, 
 While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
 And vanquished millions hail their empress, Romo . 
 
BYKON'S c'OEMS. 
 
 t 
 
 TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF EURIP1DE3, 
 
 When fierce conflicting passions urge 
 The breast where love is wont to glow, 
 
 What mind can stem the stormy surge 
 Which rolls the tide of human woe ? 
 
 The hope of praise, the dread of shame, 
 Can rouse the tortured breast no moro ; 
 
 The wild desire, the guilty flame, 
 Absorbs each wish it felt before. 
 
 But if affection gently thrills 
 
 The soul by purer dreams possess'd, 
 The pleasing balm of mortal ills 
 
 In love can soothe the aching breast : 
 If thus thou comest in disguise, 
 
 Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, 
 What heart unfeeling would despise 
 
 The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 
 
 But never from thy golden bow 
 
 May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
 Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 
 
 Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
 Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 
 
 With others wage internal war ; 
 Repentance, source of future tears, 
 
 From me be ever distant far ! 
 
 May no distracting thoughts destroy 
 
 The holy calm of sacred love ! 
 May all the hours be wing'd with joy, 
 
 Which hover faithful hearts above ! 
 Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 
 
 May I with some fond lover sigh, 
 Whose heart may mingle pure with mis©~» 
 
 With me to live, with me to die. 
 
 My native soil ! beloved before, 
 
 Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
 Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 
 
 A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! 
 This very day, this very hour, 
 
 May I resign this fleeting breath ! 
 Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 
 
 A doom to me far worse than death. 
 
 Have I not heard the exile's sigh ? 
 
 And seen the exile's silent tear, 
 Through distant climes condemn'd to fiy p 
 
 A pensive weary wanderer here? 
 
BOORS OP IDLENESS. 47 
 
 Ah ! hapless dame ! no sire bewails,* 
 
 No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
 No kindred voice with rapture hail* 
 
 Thy steps within a stranger's doons. 
 
 Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 
 
 To fair affection's truth unknown, 
 Bids her he fondly loved depart, 
 
 Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
 Who ne'er unlocks with silver key*t* 
 
 The milder treasures of his soul, — 
 May such a friend be far from me, 
 
 And ocean's storms between us roll. 
 
 THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE 
 EXAMINATION. 
 
 High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
 Magnus his ample front sublime uprears :+ 
 Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
 While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
 As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, 
 His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome ; 
 Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
 Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 
 
 Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, 
 Though little versed in any art beside ; 
 Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
 Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
 What, though he knows not how his fathers bled, 
 When civil discord piled the fields with dead, 
 When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, 
 Or Henry trampled on the crest of France : 
 Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, 
 Yet well he recollects the law of Sparta : 
 Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
 While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid ; 
 Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, 
 Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. 
 
 Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
 Class honours, medals, fellowships, await ; 
 Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
 If to such glorious height he lifts his eyeu. 
 
 • Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him rorltie aansnur of 
 
 Creon, king of that city. The chorua from which this is taken here addresses Medea ; 
 
 though a considerable liberty is taken with the original, by expanding the idea, ma also 
 
 lo some other parts of the translation, 
 f The original means literally " disclosing the bright key of the mind.'* 
 I No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned under tho name of 
 
 Magnus. lie is merely represented as performing an unavoidable function of his ottice. 
 
 Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon myself; as that gentleman U now m 
 
 much distinguished by his eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills hit 
 
 situation, as he was in hi* younger days for wit and conviviality. 
 
Br RON'S 
 
 But lo ! no common orator can hope 
 
 The envied silver cup within his scope. 
 
 Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
 
 Th' Athenian's * glowing style, or Tully's fire. 
 
 A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
 
 We do not try by speaking to convince. 
 
 Be other orators of pleasing proud : 
 
 We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd : 
 
 Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
 
 A proper mixture of the squeak and groan : 
 
 No borrow'd grace of action must be seen, — 
 
 The slighteet motion would displease the Dean ; 
 
 Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
 
 Against what he could never imitate. 
 
 The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
 Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up, 
 Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
 No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
 Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
 Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best • 
 Who utters most within the shortest space 
 May safely hope to win the wordy race. 
 
 The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
 Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
 Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine they lie 
 Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for die : 
 Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
 They think all learning fix'd within their walls ; 
 In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
 All modern arts affecting to despise ; 
 Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's or Porson's note,"fr 
 More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
 Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, 
 Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
 To friendship dead, though not untaught to fee' 
 When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
 With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
 Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour ;J 
 To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, 
 While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
 But should a storm o'er whelm him with disgrace, 
 They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. 
 Such are the men who learning's treasures guard ! 
 Such is their practice, such is their reward ! 
 This much, at least, we may presume to say— - 
 The premium can't exceed the price they pay. 
 
 * Demosthenes. 
 
 t Porson, Greek professor of Trinity College, Cambridge ; a man whose powers of ru\ul 
 and writings may, perhaps, justify their preference. 
 
 I Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his place, and subsequently (I tiad 
 almost said consequently) the honour of representing the University. A fact so j>lari»* 
 wjuireo no comment. 
 
f 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 r 
 
 I 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 
 
 Sweet girl ! though only once wo met, 
 That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
 And though we ne'er may meet again, 
 Remembrance will thy form retain. 
 I would not say, "I love," but still 
 My senses struggle with my will ; 
 In vain, to drive thee from my breast, 
 My thoughts are more and more repress'd 
 In vain I check the rising sighs, 
 Another to the last replies : 
 Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
 Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 
 What though we never silence broko, 
 Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 
 The tongue in flattering falsehood deals. 
 And tells a talc it never fec\s : 
 Deceit the guilty lips impart ; 
 And hush the mandates of the heart ; 
 But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 
 Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise. 
 As thus our glances oft conversed, 
 And all our bosoms felt rehearsed, 
 No spirit, from within, reproved us, 
 Say rather, "'twas the spirit moved ua." 
 Though what they utter' d I repress, 
 Yet 1 conceive thou'lt partly guess ; 
 For as on thee my memory ponders, 
 Perchance to mo thine also wanders. 
 This for myself, at least, I'll say, 
 Thy form appears through night, through 
 Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 
 In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams : 
 The vision charms the hours away, 
 And bids me curse Aurora's ray, 
 For breaking slumbers of delight, 
 Which make me wish for endless night. 
 Since, oh ! whato'er my future fate, 
 Shall joy or woo my steps await, 
 Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
 Thine image I can ne'er forget. 
 Alas ! again no more we meet, 
 No more our former looks repeat ; 
 Then let me breathe this parting prayer, 
 The dictate of my bosom's care : 
 M May heaven so guard my lovely Quaker, 
 That anguish never can o'ertako her ; 
 That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
 But bliss be aye her heart's partaker I 
 Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
 To be, by dearest ties, related, 
 
 ■ 
 
50 BYRON *S POEMS. 
 
 For her each hour new joys discover, 
 And lose the husband in the lover ! 
 May that fair bosom never know 
 What 'tis to feel the restless woe, 
 Which stings the soul with vain regret 
 Of him who never can forget ! 99 
 
 THE CORNELIAN. 
 
 No specious splendour 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 nis t 
 
 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. 
 
 This pledge attentively I view'd, 
 
 And sparkling as I held it near, 
 Methought one drop the stone bedew'd, 
 
 And ever since I've loved a tear. 
 
 Still, to adorn his humble youth, 
 
 Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield ; 
 But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 
 
 Must quit the garden for the field. 
 
 'Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth, 
 
 Which beauty shows, and sheds perfumo ; 
 
 The flowers which yield the most of both 
 In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 
 
 Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
 . For once forgetting to be blind, 
 His would have been an ample share, 
 If well proportion'd to his mind. 
 
 But had the goddess clearly seen, 
 His form had fix'd her fickle breast ; 
 
 Her countless hoards would his have been, 
 And none remain'd to give thee rest. 
 
 AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, 
 
 t KUVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE Wa£«L 
 OF FORTUNE" at a private theatre. 
 
 Since the refinement of this polish' d age 
 Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Sinco taste has now expunged licentious wit, 
 
 Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ ; 
 
 Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 
 
 Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek, 
 
 Oh ! let the modest Muse some pity claim, 
 
 And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
 
 Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 
 
 Others appear more conscious of defect : 
 
 To-night no veteran Roscii you behold, 
 
 In all the arts of acenic action old ; 
 
 No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 
 
 No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear ; 
 
 To-night you throng to witness the debut 
 
 Of embryo actors to the Drama new : 
 
 Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ; 
 
 Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly : 
 
 Failing in this our first attempt to soar, 
 
 Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more, 
 
 Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 
 
 Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise 
 
 But all our dramatis person;© wait 
 
 In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. 
 
 No venal views our progress can retard, 
 
 Your generous plaudits are our sole reward : 
 
 For these, each Hero all his power displays, 
 
 Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze. 
 
 Surely the last will some protection find ; — 
 
 None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 
 
 While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 
 
 The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 
 
 Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail, 
 
 Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, 
 
 Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, 
 
 And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX. 
 
 CHE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEAREr IN 
 
 MORNING PAPER. 
 
 " Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, 
 But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath : 
 These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
 We give the palm where Justice points its due." 
 
 TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OP THESE PIECES SENT TUB 
 FOLLOWING REPLY. 
 
 OH factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth 
 Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth ; 
 What though our "nation's foes" lament the fat©, 
 With generous feeling of the good and great, 
 Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
 , Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ? 
 
 e 2 
 
52 
 
 bybon's poems. 
 
 When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 
 
 Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
 
 Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 
 
 For noble spirits " war not with the dead : 7 
 
 His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, 
 
 As all his errors slumber' d in the grave ; 
 
 He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weicrht 
 
 Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state ; 
 
 When, lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd, 
 
 Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 
 
 He, too. is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, 
 
 With him our fast-reviving hopes have died ; 
 
 Not one great people only raise his urn, 
 
 All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 
 
 "These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue, 
 
 To give the palm where Justice points its due 
 
 Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 
 
 Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. 
 
 Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, 
 
 Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep ; 
 
 For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
 
 While friends and foes alike his talents own ; 
 
 Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, 
 
 Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ; 
 
 Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask 
 
 For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask. 
 
 THE TEAR. 
 
 " O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
 Ducentium ortus ex animo ; quater 
 Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 
 Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."— 0 ray. 
 
 When Friendship or Love our sympathies move, 
 
 When Truth in a glance should appear, 
 The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, 
 
 But the te*t of affection 's a Tear. 
 
 Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile, 
 
 To mask detestation or fear ; 
 Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye 
 
 Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear. 
 
 Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, 
 
 Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 
 Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, 
 
 And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 
 
 The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, 
 
 Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
 Af* he bends o'er the wave wmich may soon be his grav#, 
 
 The green sparkles bright with a Tear. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath 
 
 In Glory's romantic career : 
 But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, 
 
 And bathes every wound with a Tear. 
 
 If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride, 
 
 Renouncing the gore-crimson' d spear, 
 All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid, 
 
 From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 
 
 Sweet scene of my youth ! seat of Friendship and Truth/ 
 Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, 
 
 Loath to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd, 
 But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. 
 
 Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more, 
 
 My Mary to love once so dear ; 
 In the shade of her bower I remember the hour 
 
 She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 
 
 By another possess'd, may she live ever blest ! 
 
 Her name still my heart must revere : 
 With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, 
 
 And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 
 
 Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, 
 
 This hope to my breast is most near : 
 If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, 
 
 May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 
 
 When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, 
 
 And my corse shall recline on its bier, 
 As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume, 
 
 Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 
 
 May no marble bestow the splendour of woo, 
 
 Which the children of vanity rear ; 
 No fiction of fame shall blazon my name ; 
 
 All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 
 
 October 26th, 1£(M 
 
 REPLY TO SOME VERSES 
 
 OF J. M. B. PIQOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OP HIS MIST".". ' 3l 
 
 Why, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain, 
 
 Why thus in despair do you fret ? 
 For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh 
 
 Will never obtain a coquette. 
 
 W ould you teach her to love ? for a time seem to rove ' 
 
 At first she may frown in a pet ; 
 But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile, 
 
 And then y«u may ki^s your coquette. 
 
 • Harrow 
 
BYRON'S TOEM5. 
 
 For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, 
 
 They think all our homage a debt : 
 Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect, 
 
 And humbles the proudest coquette. 
 
 Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain* 
 
 And seem her hauteur to regret ; 
 If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny 
 
 That yours is the rosy coquette. 
 
 If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride, 
 
 This whimsical virgin forget; 
 Seme other admire, who will melt with your fire, 
 
 And laugh at the little coquette. 
 
 For me, I adore some twenty or more, 
 
 And love them most dearly ; but yet, 
 Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon them all, 
 
 Did they act like your blooming coquette. 
 
 No longer repine, adopt this design, 
 
 And break through her slight-woven net ; 
 Away with despair, no longer forbear 
 
 To fly from the captious coquette. 
 
 Then quit her, my friend ! your bosom defend, 
 
 Ere quite with her snares you're beset : 
 Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the smart, 
 
 Should lead you to curse the coquette. 
 
 October 27th, lfrvS 
 
 TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 
 
 YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend, 
 
 Your pardon, a thousand times o'er : 
 From friendship, I strove your pangs to remove, 
 
 But I swear I will do so no more. 
 
 Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, 
 
 No more I your folly regret ; 
 She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine 
 
 Of this quickly reformed coquette. 
 
 Yet still, I must own, I should never have known 
 
 From your verses, what else she deserved ; 
 Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate, 
 
 As your fair was so devilish reserved. 
 
 Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss 
 
 Can such wonderful transports produce ; 
 Since the " world you forget, when your lips once have mel,* 
 
 My counsel will get but abuse. 
 
 You say, when "I rove, I know nothing of love 
 
 ,r I?is true, I am given to range : 
 If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number, 
 
 Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 I will not advance, by tho rules of romance, 
 
 To humour a whimsical fair ; 
 Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright, 
 
 Or drive me to dreadful despair. 
 
 While my blood is thus warm, I ne'er shall reform, 
 
 To mix in the Platonists' school ; 
 Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure, 
 
 Thy mistress would think me a fool. 
 
 And if I should shun every woman for one 
 
 Whose image must fill my whole breast 
 Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her— 
 
 What an insult 'twould be to the rest ! 
 
 Now, Strephon, good bye ; I cannot deny 
 
 Your passion appears most absurd ! 
 Such love as you plead is pure love indeed, 
 
 For it only consists in the word. 
 
 TO ELIZA. 
 
 Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 
 Who to women deny tho soul's future existence ; 
 
 Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect, 
 And this doctrine would meet with a general resistance. 
 
 Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, 
 He ne'er would have women from paradise driven ; 
 
 Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, 
 With women alono he had peopled his heaven. 
 
 Yet still, to increase your calamities more, 
 Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, 
 
 Ho allots one poor husband to share amongst four ! — 
 With souls you'd dispense ; but this last who could boar it ? 
 
 His religion to pleaso neither party is made ; 
 
 On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil ; 
 Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, 
 
 " Though women are angels, yet wodlock 's the devil." 
 
 LACHIN Y GAIR * 
 
 Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of rose3 ! 
 
 In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
 Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, 
 
 Though still they are sacred to freedom and love : 
 
 vHSSSSI S^tt!. m' tl" i*?™} 101 ™ 0 * *n Aw Erse, Lonhna Garr, towers proudly 
 u«i£n ?, ti i Northern Highland*, near Iuvcrcauld. One of our modern tourUU 
 VSSnU % blgh T t 2£ untaln i l )crb »P". ^ Great Britain. Be thus as it mav, it ia 
 wta.nly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our " Caledonian All*? IU 
 .ppeai -am-* ia of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Laehtn y 
 h j£ 8 ° me 0f the 99117 ptvrfc 01 my m *, the recollection of which has given birth to 
 
58 
 
 BYHON'5 POEMS. 
 
 Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 
 Round their white summits though elements war ; 
 
 Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing fountains, 
 I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander d ; 
 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;* 
 On chieftains long perish' d my memory ponder'd, 
 
 As daily I strode through the pine-cover' d glade. 
 I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star ; 
 For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, 
 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 " Shades of the dead ! have I not heard your voices 
 
 Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?" 
 Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, 
 
 And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland valo. 
 Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist gathers, 
 
 Winter presides in his cold icy car . 
 Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers ; 
 
 They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 "Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions forebodingt 
 
 Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause ? " 
 Ah ! were you destined to die at Culloden,J 
 
 Victory crown'd not your fall with applause : 
 Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
 
 You rest with your clan in the caves of Braemar ;§ 
 The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number, 
 
 Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you, 
 
 Years must elapse ere I tread you again ; 
 Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you, 
 
 Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
 England ! thy beauties are tame and domestic 
 
 To one who has roved o'er the mountains afar ! 
 Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic ! 
 
 The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr. 
 
 * TO ROMANCE. 
 
 Parent of golden dreams, Romance ! 
 
 Auspicious queen of childish joy*, 
 Who lead'st along, in airy dance, 
 
 Thy votive train of girls and boys ; 
 
 • Thl* word Is erroneously pronounced plad : the proper pronunciation (fcefl^rdlt* u> 
 the Scotch) is shawn by the orthography. 
 
 f I allude here to my maternal ancestors, " the Gordons," many of whom fought fut 
 the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. Thia 
 branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stuarts. George, the 
 second Rul of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stuart, daughter of James the 
 First o1 Scotland. By her he left four sons : the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the 
 honour to claim as one of my progenitors. 
 
 ♦ Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden, I am not certain ; but, as many fell 
 In the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, " pars pro toto." 
 
 £ A tract of the Highlands so called. There is alsc a Castle of Braemar. 
 
1S0URS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 6? 
 
 At length, in spells no longer bound, 
 
 1 break the fetters of my youth ; 
 No more I tread thy mystic round, 
 
 But leave thy realms for those of Truth. 
 
 And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 
 
 Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
 Where every nymph a goddess seems, 
 
 Whose eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
 While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 
 
 And all assume a varied hue ; 
 When virgins seem no longer vain, 
 
 And even woman's smiles are true. 
 
 And must we own thee but a name, 
 
 And from thy hall of clouds descend ? 
 Nor find a sylph in every dame, 
 
 A Pylades* in every friend ? 
 But leave at once thy realms of air 
 
 To mingling bands of fairy elves ; 
 Confess that woman 's false as fair, 
 
 And friends have feeling for — themselvec ! 
 
 With shame I own I've felt thy sway 
 
 Repentant, now thy reign is o'er : 
 No more thy precepts I obey, 
 
 No more on fancied pinions soar. 
 Fond fool ! to love a sparkling eye, 
 
 And think that eye to truth was dear ; 
 To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 
 
 And melt beneath a wanton's tear ! 
 
 Romance ! disgusted with deceit, 
 
 Far from thy motley court I fly, 
 Where Affectation holds her scat, 
 
 And sickly Sensibility ; 
 Whose silly tears can never flow 
 
 For any pangs excepting thine ; 
 Who turns aside from real woe, 
 
 To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine. 
 
 Now join with sable Sympathy, 
 
 With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds, 
 Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, 
 
 Whose breast for every bosom bleeds ; 
 And call thy sylvan female choir, 
 
 To mourn a swain for ever gone, 
 Who once could glow with equal fire, 
 
 But bends not now before thy throne. 
 
 fe genial nymphs, whose ready tears, 
 
 On all occasions swiftly flow ; 
 Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 
 
 With fancied flames and phrensy glow ; 
 
 • It Is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades •was the companion of Ore«t*«, and % 
 (MMtner In on* of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Patroclus, NLrtu 
 kin Ki.i yalus, Damon and Pythias, have heen handed down to posterity as remarkable 
 In 4 Win MM ot attachments, which in all probability never existed beyond the imagination 
 J i \»«s poet, or the page of an historian, or modern novelist. 
 
\ 
 
 W byhon's poems. 
 
 Say, will you mourn my absent name, 
 Apostate from your gentle train ? 
 
 An infant bard at least may claim 
 From you a sympathetic strain. 
 
 Adieu, fond race ! a long adieu ! 
 
 The hour of fate is hovering nigh ; 
 E'en now the gulf appear* in view, 
 
 Where unlamented ytfbt must lie : 
 Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, 
 
 Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; 
 Where you, and eJ*e your gentle queen, 
 
 Alas 1 must perish altogether. 
 
 ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT VERSES, 
 
 BStf? BY A FRIEND TO THE AUTHOR, COMPLAINING THAT OH 2 0'. 
 HIS DESCRIPTIONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. 
 
 ** But if any old lady, knight, priest, or physician, 
 Should condemn me for printing a second edition ; 
 If good Madame Squintum my work should abuse, 
 May 1 venture to give her a smack of my muse ?" — New Bath Quid >. 
 
 Candour compels me, Becher ! to commend 
 The verse which blends the censor with the friend. 
 Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 
 From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 
 For this wild error which pervades my strain, 
 I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 
 The wise sometimes from Wisdom's ways depart : 
 Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart ? 
 Precepts of prudence curb, but can't control, 
 The fierce emotions of the flowing soul. 
 When Love's delirium haunts the glowing mind, 
 Limping Decorum lingers far behind : 
 Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
 Outstripp'd and vanquished in the mental chase. 
 The young, the old, have worn the chains of love 2 
 Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove : 
 Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing power, 
 Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
 
 Oh ! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
 The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng, 
 Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow, 
 To paint a pang the author ne'er can know ! 
 The artless Helicon I boast is youth ; — 
 My lyre, the heart ; my muse, the simple truth. 
 Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to " taint f* 
 Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
 The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile, 
 Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 
 Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer, 
 Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not sever© — 
 
\ 
 
 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 69 
 
 She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine, 
 
 Will ne'er be ' ' tainted" by a strain of mine. 
 
 But for the nymph whose premature desires 
 
 Torment her bosom with unholy fires, 
 
 No net to snare her willing heart is spread ; 
 
 She would have fallen, though she ne'er had read. 
 
 For me, I fain would please the chosen few, 
 
 "Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
 
 Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
 
 The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
 
 I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
 
 Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud ; 
 
 Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize, 
 
 Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 
 
 November 20th, !St>8 
 
 ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY.* 
 
 1 It it the voice of years that are gone I they roll before me with all their deed/ * - 
 
 Newstead ! fast-falling, once resplendent dome ! 
 
 Religion's shrine ! repentant Henry's pride !*t* 
 Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd tomb, 
 
 Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide. 
 
 Hail to thy pile ! more honour'd in thy fall, 
 Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 
 
 Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
 Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 
 
 No mail-clad sorts, X obedient to their lord, 
 In grim array the crimson cross demand ;§ 
 
 Or gay assemble round the festive board 
 Their chief's retainers, an immortal band : 
 
 Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye 
 
 Retrace their progress through the lapse of time, 
 
 Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
 A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 
 
 But not from thee, dark pile ! departs the chief; 
 
 His feudal realm in other regions lay ; 
 In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 
 
 Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 
 
 Yes ! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound, 
 The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view ; 
 
 Or blood-stain' d guilt repenting solace found, 
 Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 
 
 • As one poem on this subject is already printed, the author had, originally, no inton- 
 Uon of inserting this piece. It is now added at the particular request of some JriendB 
 
 t lieury II. founded Newstead soon after the murder ol Thomas a Kecket 
 
 + lh »3 word is used by Walter Scott, in bis poem, " The Wild Huntsman » synony- 
 mous with vassal. ' * 
 
 § The red crow was the badge of the crusaden 
 
60 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 
 Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl ; 
 
 And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, 
 Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 
 
 Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
 
 The humid pall of life-extinguish' d clay, 
 In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
 
 Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 
 
 Where now the bats their wavering wings extend, 
 Soon as the gloaming* spreads her waning shad©, 
 
 The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 
 Or matin orisons to Mary paid.f 
 
 Years roll on years ; to ages, ages yield ; 
 
 Abbots to abbots, in a line, succeed ; 
 Religion's charter their protecting shield, 
 
 Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 
 
 One holy Henry rear'd the Gothic walls, 
 And bade the pious inmates rest in peace ; 
 
 Another Henry the kind gift recalls, J 
 
 And bids devotion's hallo w'd echoes cease. 
 
 Vain is each threat or supplicating prayer ; 
 
 He drives them exiles from their blest abode, 
 To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 
 
 No friend, no home, no refuge but their God. 
 
 Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
 Shakes with the martial music's novel din ! 
 
 The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 
 High-crested banners wave thy walls within. 
 
 Of changing sentinels the distant hum, 
 
 The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms, 
 
 The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 
 Unite in concert with increased alarms. 
 
 An abbey once, a regal fortress now, 
 
 Encircled by insulting rebel powers, 
 War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow, 
 
 And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 
 
 Ah, vain defence ! the hostile traitor's siege, 
 Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave ; 
 
 His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 
 Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave. 
 
 Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 
 
 The blood of traitors smears the purple plain ; 
 Unconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields, 
 
 And days of glory yet for him remain. 
 
 • Aa " gloaming," the Scottish word for twilight, is far more poetical, and has f.^'J 
 recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly by Dr. Moore in his Leiteil 
 to Burns, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony. 
 
 f The priory was dedicated to the Virgin. 
 
 1 At the dissolution of the moiiasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sii 
 John Byicn. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 61 
 
 Still in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew 
 Self- gather' d laurels on a self-sought grave ; 
 
 But Charles' protecting genius hither flew, 
 
 The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save. 
 
 Trembling, she snatch' d him from the unequal strifo,* 
 
 In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
 For nobler combats, here, reserved his life, 
 
 To lead the band where godlike Falkland fell.t 
 
 From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given, 
 While dying groans their painful requiem sound. 
 
 Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 
 Such victims wallow on the gory ground. 
 
 There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, 
 Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
 
 O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, 
 Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. 
 
 Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread 
 Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould ; 
 
 From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 
 llaked from repose in search for buried gold. 
 
 Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, 
 The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death ; 
 
 No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire, 
 Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 
 
 At length the sated murderers, gorged with prey 
 
 Retire ; the clamour of the fight is o'er ; 
 Silence again resumes her awful sway, 
 
 And sable Horror guards the massy door. 
 
 Here desolation holds her dreary court : 
 
 What satellites declare her dismal reign ! 
 Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen' d birds resort, 
 
 To flit their vigils in the hoary fane. 
 
 Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
 The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies ; 
 
 The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 
 And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 
 
 With storms she welcomes his expiring groans ; 
 
 Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring breath ; 
 Earth shudders as her caves receive his bones, 
 
 Loathing the offering of so dark a death.^ 
 
 • lord Byron, and his brother Sir William, held high commands in the royal army. 
 The former was general in chief in Ireland, lieutenant of the Tower, and governor to 
 .lames, Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. ; the latter had a principal 
 ■hare in many actions. 
 
 t Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of hi» age, was 
 killed at the battle of Newbury, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron'B regiment of 
 cavalry. 
 
 X This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the 
 death or interment of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans 
 and the cavaliers : both interpreted the circumstance Into divine interposition ; but 
 whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave for the casuists of that age to decide 
 I have made nuch use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my peem. 
 
BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 The legal ruler now resumes the helm,* 
 
 He guides through gentle seas the prow of state ; 
 
 Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful realm, 
 And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied hat®. 
 
 The gloomy tenants, Newstead ! of thy cells, 
 
 Howling, resign their violated nest ; 
 Again the master on his tenure dwells, 
 
 Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 
 
 Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, 
 
 Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return ; 
 
 Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
 And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn. 
 
 A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
 Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees : 
 
 And hark ! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
 The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. 
 
 Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake : 
 What fears, what anxious hopes, attend the chase ! 
 
 The dying stag seeks refuge in the Lake ; 
 Exulting shouts announce the finish' d raoe. 
 
 Ah, happy days ! too happy to endure ! 
 
 Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew : 
 No splendid vices glitter'd to allure ; 
 
 Their joys were many, as their cares were few. 
 
 From these descending, sons to sires succeed ; 
 
 Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart ; 
 Another chief impels the foaming steed, 
 
 Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 
 
 Newstead ! what saddening change of scene is tnine ! 
 
 Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay ! 
 The last and youngest of a noble line 
 
 Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. 
 
 Deserted now, he scans thy gray worn towers ! 
 
 Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep ; 
 Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers : 
 
 These, these he views, and viewa them but to wee]>. 
 
 Yet are his tears no emblem of regret : 
 Cherish' d affection only bids them flow. 
 
 Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget, 
 But warm his bosom with impassion' d glow. 
 
 iTet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 
 Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great : 
 
 Yet lingers, 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
 Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fat©. 
 
 Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 
 
 Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 
 Hours splendid as the past may still be thine, 
 
 And bless thy future as thy former day. 
 
 Charles IL 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 ** I cannot but remember such things were, 
 And were most dear to me." 
 
 When slow disease, with all her host of pains, 
 Chills the warm tide which flows along the veins ; 
 When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing, 
 And flies with every changing gale of spring ; 
 Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
 Unyielding pangs assail the drooping mind : 
 What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, 
 Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
 With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
 While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life. 
 Yet less the pang, when, through the tedious hour, 
 Remembrance sheds around her genial power, 
 Calls back the vanish' d days to rapture given, 
 When love was bliss, and beauty form'd our heavon ; 
 Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scone, 
 Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
 As when through clouds that pour the summor storra, 
 The orb of day unveils his distant form, 
 Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
 And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
 Thus, while the future dark and cheerless gleam*, 
 The sun of memory, glowing through my dreams, 
 Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
 To scenes far distant points his paler rays : 
 Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
 The past confounding with the present day. 
 
 Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
 Which still recurs, unlook'd for and unsought ; 
 My soul to fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
 And roams romantic o'er her airy fields : 
 Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
 To which I long have bade a last adieu ! 
 Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes ; 
 Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams ; 
 Some who in marblo prematurely sleep, 
 Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
 Some who yet urge the same scholastic courso 
 Of early science, future fame the source ; 
 Who, still contending in the studious race. 
 In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
 These with a thousand visions now unite, 
 To dazzle, though they please, my aching sigh t 
 Ida ! blest spot, where Science holds her reign, 
 How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train 1 
 Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
 Again I mingle with thy playful quire ; 
 Our tricks of mischief, every childish game, 
 Unchanged by time or distance, seem the samo ; 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 Through winding paths along the glade, I treee 
 
 The social smile of every welcome face ; 
 
 My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe, 
 
 Each early boyish friend, or youthful foe, 
 
 Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship past :— 
 
 I bless the former and forgive the last. 
 
 Hours of my youth ! when, nurtured in my breast. 
 
 To love a stranger, friendship made me blest ; — 
 
 Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
 
 When every artless bosom throbs with truth ; 
 
 Untaught by worldly wisdom how to feign, 
 
 And check each impulse with prudential rein ; 
 
 When all we feel, our honest souls disclose — 
 
 In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
 
 No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
 
 No dear-bought knowledge purchased by deceit. 
 
 Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen' d years, 
 
 Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears. 
 
 When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 
 
 His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan ; 
 
 Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 
 
 Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think ; 
 
 Still to assent, and never to deny — 
 
 A patron's praise can well reward the lie : 
 
 And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard, 
 
 Would lose his opening prospects for a word ? 
 
 Although against that word his heart rebel, 
 
 And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 
 
 Away with themes like this ! not mine the tar Y 
 From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask ; 
 Let keener bards delight in satire's sting ; 
 My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing : 
 Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow, 
 To hurl defiance on a secret foe ; 
 But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,. 
 The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
 Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired. 
 With this submission all her rage expired. 
 From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 
 She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave ; 
 Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
 Pomposus' virtues are but known to few ; 
 I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 
 And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod, 
 If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
 Who share the converse of a college hall, 
 She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
 *Tis past, and thus she will not sin again. 
 Soon must her early song for ever cease, 
 And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 
 
 Here first remember'd be the joyous band. 
 Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Who join'd with me in every boyish sport— 
 Their first adviser, and their last resort ; 
 Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown, 
 Or all the sable glories of his gown ; 
 Who, thus transmitted from his fathor's school- 
 Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule- 
 Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, 
 The dear preceptor of my early days ; 
 Probus, the pride of science, and the boast,* 
 To Ida now, alas ! for ever lost. 
 With him, for years, we search'd the classic page, 
 And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage : 
 Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat, 
 From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 
 Pomposus fills his magisterial chair ; 
 Pomposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear : 
 Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot ; 
 His name and precepts bo alike forgot ! 
 No more his mention shall my verse degrade,— 
 To him my tribute is already paid. 
 
 High, through those elms, with hoary branches orown'd, 
 Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round ; 
 There Science, from her favour'd seat, surveys 
 The vale where rural Nature claims her praise ; 
 To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 
 Who move in joy, and dance along the plain ; 
 In scatter'd groups, each favour'd haunt pursue ; 
 Repeat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
 Flush' d with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
 In rival bands, between the wickets run, 
 Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
 Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
 But these with slower steps direct their way, 
 Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents stray ; 
 While yonder few search out some green retreat, 
 And arbours shade them from the summer heat : 
 Others again, a pert and lively crew, 
 Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view, 
 With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 
 And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
 Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
 Tradition treasures icr a future day : 
 r "Twas here the gather \5 swains for vengeance fought, 
 And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 
 Here have we fled before su^rior might, 
 And here renew'd the wild tumultuous fight." 
 
 • lir. Drury. This most able and excellent man retired from his situation In March. 
 1805, after having resided thirty-live years at Harrow ; the last twenty as head-master; 
 *n office he heJd with equal honour to himself and advantage to the very extensive sckool 
 over wiiich ho presided. Panegyric would here be superfluous : it would be useless to 
 enumerate qualifications which were never doubted. A considerable contest took plac* 
 »»«*ween three rival candidates for his vacant chair : of this I can only say, 
 
 Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi 1 
 Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis hseree. 
 
 9 
 
BYRON v S POEMS. 
 
 While thus our souls with early passions swell, 
 In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 
 Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, 
 And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
 No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
 But ruder records fill the dusky wall ; 
 There, deeply carved, behold ! each tyro's name 
 Secures its owner's academic fame ; 
 Here mingling view the names of sire and son, 
 The one long graved, the other just begun : 
 These shall survive alike when son and sire 
 Beneath one common stroke of fate expire : 
 Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
 Denied in death a monumental stone, 
 Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
 The sighing weeds that hide their nameless gravs. 
 And here my name, and many an early friend's, 
 Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
 Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
 Who tread our steps, and fill our former place, 
 Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe, 
 Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law ; 
 And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, 
 To rule, the little tyrants of an hour ; — 
 Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day, 
 They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
 "And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide, 
 And thus they dealt the combat side by side ; 
 Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled ; 
 Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd ; 
 Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell, 
 And here he lalter'd forth his last farewell ; 
 \nd here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
 While bold Pomposus bravely stay'd at home ;" — 
 W^hile thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive, 
 When names of these, like ours, alone survive : 
 Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
 The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 
 
 Dear honest race ! though now we meet no mors- 
 v)ne last long look on what we were before — 
 Dur first kind greetings, and our last adieu — 
 Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
 Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world, 
 Whore folly's glaring standard waves unfurl' d, 
 I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret, 
 And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
 Vain wish ! if chance some well-remember'd faoe ; 
 Some old companion of my early race, 
 Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy, 
 My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy ; 
 The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around, 
 Were quite forgotten when my friend was found ; 
 The smiles of beauty — (for, alas ! I've known 
 
HO UBS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne) — 
 The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear, 
 Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near • 
 My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise, 
 The woods of Ida danced before my eyes ; 
 I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, 
 I saw and join'd again the joyous throng ; 
 Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
 And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love. 
 
 Yet, why should I alone with such delight. 
 .Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
 Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
 Endear' d to all in childhood's very name ? 
 Ah ! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
 Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear, 
 To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
 And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
 Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in theo — 
 A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
 Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 
 The tender guidance of a lather's care. 
 Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
 The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
 For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
 Made, by a parent's early loss, my own ? 
 What brother springs a brother's love to seek ? 
 What sister's gentle kiss has press'd my cheek ? 
 For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
 To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties ! 
 Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream 
 Fraternal smiles collected round mo seem ; 
 While still the visions to my heart are press'd, 
 The voice of love will murmur in my rest : 
 I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice ; 
 I hear again, — but ah ! no brother's voice. 
 A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
 Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; 
 While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwias, 
 I cannot call one single blossom mine : 
 What then remains ! In solitude to groan, 
 To mix in friendship, or to sig h alone 
 Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
 And none more dear than Ida's social band. 
 
 Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends, 
 Thy namo ennobles him who thus commends . 
 From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praijfi ' 
 The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
 Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
 If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
 Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorkms name, 
 To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 
 Friend &f my heart, and foremost of the list 
 
 V 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, 
 Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore ; 
 Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more, 
 Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was dono s 
 Our sports, our studies, and our souls wera one * 
 Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
 Together waited in our tutor's hall : 
 Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 
 Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
 Or, plunging from the green declining shore, 
 Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore ; 
 In every element, unchanged, the same, 
 All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 
 
 Nor 3^et are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
 Davus, the harbinger of childish joy ; 
 For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 
 The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
 Yet with a breast of such materials made — ■ 
 Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid ; 
 Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
 In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. 
 Still I remember, in the factious strife, 
 The rustic's musket aim'd against my life : 
 High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
 A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
 Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
 Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow ; 
 Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
 Forward you sprung, insensible to fear ; 
 Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, 
 The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand : 
 An act like this, can simple thanks repay, 
 Or all the labours of a grateful lay ? 
 Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, 
 That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed. 
 
 Lycus ! on me thy claims are justly great : 
 Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, 
 To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
 The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 
 Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
 A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
 Though yet in embryo these perfections shino, 
 Lycus ! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
 Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
 What may we hope from genius thus refined ! 
 When time at length matures thy growing yeara* 
 How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers ! 
 Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, 
 With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 
 
 Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung, 
 From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung ? 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 69 
 
 What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
 
 That name is yet embalm'd within my heart ; 
 
 Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
 
 And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
 
 Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
 
 "We once were friends, — I'll think we are so still. 
 
 A form unmaich'd in nature's partial mould, 
 
 A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
 
 Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
 
 Nor seek for glory in the tented field ; 
 
 To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
 
 Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
 
 Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat, 
 
 But that thy tongue could never forge deceit : 
 
 The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
 
 The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 
 
 Would make that breast with indignation burn, 
 
 And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
 
 Domestic happiness will stamp thy fato ; 
 
 Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
 
 The world admire thee, and thy friends adoro ; — 
 
 Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 
 
 Now last, but nearest, of the social band, 
 See honest, open, generous Cleon stand ; 
 With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing icca*, 
 No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
 On tho same day our studious race begun, 
 On the same day our studious race was run ; 
 Thus side by side we pass'd our first career, 
 Thus side by side we strove for many a year ; 
 At last concluded our scholastic life, 
 We neither oonquer'd in tho classic strife : 
 As speakers each supports an equal name,* 
 And crowds allow to both a partial fame : 
 To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 
 Though Cleon's candour would the palm divida. 
 Yet candour's self compels me now to own, 
 Justice awards it to my friend alone. 
 
 Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
 Remembrance hails you with her warmest tcai I 
 Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's uin, 
 To trace the hours which never can return ; 
 Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
 And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell ! 
 Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
 As infant laurels round my head were twined ; 
 When Pi obus' praise repaid my lyric song, 
 Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; 
 Or when my first harangue received applause, 
 His sage instruction tho primeval cause, 
 
 * Th's alludet to the publio speeches delivered at the school where tho uttitr vra* 
 -fin-it jl. 
 
70 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 What gratitude to him my soul possess'd, 
 
 While hope of dawning- honours fill'd my breast 1 
 
 For all my humble fame, to him alone 
 
 The praise is due, who made that fame my own, 
 
 Oh ! could I soar above these feeble lays, 
 
 These young effusions of my early days, 
 
 To him my muse her noblest strain would give : 
 
 The song might perish, but the theme might live. 
 
 Yet why for him the needless verse essay ? 
 
 His honour' d name requires no vain dispL^y : 
 
 By every son of grateful Ida blest, 
 
 It finds an echo in each youthful breast ; 
 
 A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 
 
 Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 
 
 Ida ! not yet exhausted is the theme, 
 Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream. 
 How many a friend deserves the grateful strain ! 
 What scenes of childhood still unsung remain ! 
 Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
 This parting song, the dearest and the last ; 
 And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
 To me a silent and a sweet employ, 
 While future hope and fear alike unknown, 
 I think with pleasure on the past alone ; 
 Yes, to the past alone my heart confine, 
 And chase the phantom of what once was mine. 
 
 Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
 And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ; 
 Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere, 
 Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ; — 
 That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow 
 O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
 Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along, 
 The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
 Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd 
 Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
 Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 
 While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth ; 
 Say if remembrance days like this endears 
 Beyond the rapture of succeeding years ? 
 Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
 So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe ? 
 Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son, 
 Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won, 
 Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys 
 (For glittering baubles are not left to boys), 
 Kecall one scene so much beloved to view 
 As those where Youth her gariacd twined for yott \ 
 Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
 You turn with faltering hand life's varied pago ; 
 Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
 Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 71 
 
 Still lingering pause above each chequer 'd leaf, 
 And blot with tears the sable lines of grief ; 
 Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, 
 Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
 But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, 
 Traced by the rosy finger of the morn ; 
 When Friendship bow'd befoie tho shrine of truth. 
 And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youtK * 
 
 ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, 
 
 ENTITLED " THE COMMON LOT."t 
 
 Montgomery ! true, the common lot 
 
 Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 
 Yet some shall never be forgot — 
 
 Some shall exist beyond the grave. 
 
 w Unknown the region of his birth," 
 The hero rolls the tide of war ;£ 
 Yet not unknown his martial worth, 
 Which glares a meteor from afar. 
 
 His joy or grief, his weal or woe, 
 Perchance may 'scape the page of fame, 
 
 Yet nations now unborn will know 
 The record of his deathless name. 
 
 The patriot's and the poet's frame 
 
 Must share the common tomb of all : 
 Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
 
 That will arise, though empires falL 
 
 The lustre of a beauty's eye 
 
 Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 
 The fair, the brave, the good must die, 
 
 A nd sink the yawning grave beneath. 
 
 Once more the speaking eye revives, 
 
 Still beaming through the lover's strain ; 
 
 For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
 She died, but ne'er will die again. 
 
 Tho rolling soasons pass away, 
 
 And Time, untiring, waves his wing ; 
 " Whilst V'jnour's laurels ne'er decay, 
 But Lloom in fresh, unfading spring. 
 
 All, all must sleep in grim repose, 
 
 Collected in the silent tomb ; 
 The old and young, with friends and foes, 
 
 Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 
 
 0 *' I/amiti6 est l'aniour sans ailes," is a French proverb. 
 
 { Written by James Montgomery, author of " The Wanderer in Switzerland," *c. 
 
 \ No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemours, Edward th« 
 Muck Prinoe, and in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Greiit, 
 Count Saxe, Charlea of Sweden, &c, are familiar to every historical reader, but the enact 
 places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of th^ir admirers. 
 
72 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 The mouldering marble lasts its day, 
 
 Yet falls at length an useless fane ; 
 To ruin's ruthless fangs a prey, 
 
 The wrecks of \ tillar'd pride remain. 
 
 What, though tho sculpture be destroy' d, 
 
 From dark oblivion meant to guard ; 
 A bright renown shall be enjoy' d 
 
 By those whoso virtues claim reward. 
 
 Then do not say the common lot 
 
 Of all lies deop in Lethe's wave ; 
 Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
 
 Shall buret the bondage of the grave. 
 
 180ft 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T. BECHER, ON HIS ADVISI2JC TES 
 AUTHOR TO MIX MORE WITH SOCIETY. 
 
 Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with mankind ; — 
 
 I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
 But retirement accords with the tone of my mind : 
 
 I will not descend to a world I despise. 
 
 Did the senate or camp my exertions require, 
 
 Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go forth ; 
 
 When infancy's years of probation expire, 
 Perchance I may strive to distinguish my birth. 
 
 The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd, 
 
 Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; — 
 At length, in a volume terrific reveal'd, 
 
 No torrent can quench it, no bounds can repress. 
 
 Oh ! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 
 Bids me live bat to hope for posterity's praise. 
 
 Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of flame, 
 With him I would wish to expire in the blazo. 
 
 For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 
 
 What censure, what danger, what woe would I bra* 6 ! 
 
 Their lives did not end when they yielded their broatli ! 
 Their glory illumines the gloom of their grave. 
 
 Yet why should I mingle in Fashion's full herd ? 
 
 Why crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her rules ? 
 Why bend to the proud, or applaud the absurd ? 
 
 Why search for delight in the friendship of fook 1 
 
 I have tasted the sweets and the bitters of love ; 
 
 In friendship I early was taught to believe ; 
 My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; 
 
 I have found that a friend may profess, yet deceive^ 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 73 
 
 To me what is wealth ? — it may pass in an hour, 
 If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should frown ; 
 
 To me what is title ? — the phantom of power ; 
 To me what is fashion ? — I seek but renown. 
 
 Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; 
 
 I still am unpractised to varnish the truth : 
 Then why should I live in hateful control l 
 
 Why waste upon folly the days of my youth ? 
 
 18<*>. 
 
 THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND ORLA. 
 
 AN IMITATION OP MACTHERSON'S OSSIAN.* 
 
 Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on their remembranc* 
 through the mist of time. In tho twilight he recalls the sunny 
 hours of morn. He lifts his spear with trembling hand. " Not 
 thus feebly did I raise the steel before my fathers ! " Past is the 
 race of heroes ! But their fame rises on the harp ; their souls ride 
 on the wings of the wind ; they hear the sound through the sighs 
 of the storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds ! Such is Calmar. 
 The gray stone marks his narrow house. He looks down from 
 eddying tempests : he rolls his form in the whirlwind, and hovers 
 on the blast of the mountain. 
 
 In Morven dwelt the chief ; a beam of war to Fingal. His steps 
 in the field were marked in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before 
 his angry spear ; but mild was tho eye of Calmar ; soft was the 
 flow of his yellow locks, they streamed like the meteor of the night. 
 No maid was the sigh of his soul : his thoughts were given to 
 friendship, — to dark-haired Orla, destroyer of heroes ! Equal were 
 their swords in battle ; but fierce was the pride of Orla : — gentle 
 alone to Calmar. Together they dwelt in the cavo of Oithona. 
 
 From Lochlin, Swaran bounded o'er the blue waves. Erin's 
 sons fell beneath his might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. 
 Their ships cover the ocean. Their hosts throng on the green 
 hills. They come to the aid of Erin. 
 
 Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils tho armies : but the 
 blazing oaks gleam through tho valley. The sons of Lochlin 
 slept : their dreams were of blood. They lift the spear in thought, 
 and Fingal flies. Not so the host of Morven. To watch was tho 
 post of Orla. Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were in 
 their hands. Fingal called his chiefs : they stood around. The 
 king was in the midst. Gray were his locks, but strong was tho 
 arm of the king. Age withered not his powers. "Sons of 
 Morven," said the hero, "to-morrow we meet tho foe. But where 
 is Cuthullin, the shield of Erin ? He rests in the halls of Tura ; 
 he knows not of our coming. Who will speed through Lochlin to 
 tho hero, and call the chief to arms ? The path is by the swords 
 of foes ; but many are my heroes. They are thunderbolts of war. 
 Speak, ye chiefs ! Who will arise ? " 
 
 • It may be necessary to observe, tbat the story, though considerably varied in the 
 catastrophe, is taken frcm " Nisus and EuryaluB," of which episode a translation it 
 already given in th« present volume. 
 
74 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 "Son of Trenmorl mine be the deed," said dark-haired Orla, 
 " and mine alone. What is death to me ? I love the sleep of the 
 mighty ; bnt little is the danger. The sons of Lochlin dream. I 
 will seek car-borne Cuthullin. If I fall, raise the song of bards ; 
 and lay me by the stream of Lubar." — "And shalt thou fall 
 alone?" said fair-haired Calmar. "Wilt thou leave thy friend 
 afar ? Chief of Oithona ! not feeble is my arm in fight. Could I 
 see thee die, and not lift the spear? No, Ola ! ours has been the 
 chase of the roebuck, and the feast of shells ; ours be the path of 
 danger : ours has been the cave of Qithona ; ours be the narrow 
 dwelling on the banks of Lubar." "Calmar," said the chief of 
 Oithona, " why should thy yellow locks be darkened in the dust of 
 Erin ? Let me fall alone. My^jfather dwells in his hall of air : he 
 will rejoice in his boy ; but the blue-eyed Mora spreads the feast 
 for her son in Morven. She listens to the steps of the hunter on 
 the heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. . Let him not say, 
 1 Calmar has fallen by the steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy 
 Orla, the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears dim the 
 azure eye of Mora? Why should her voice curse Orla, the 
 destroyer of Calmar ? Live, Calmar ! Live to raise my stone of 
 moss ; live to revenge me in the blood of Lochlin. Join the song 
 of bards above my grave. Sweet will be the song of death to Orla, 
 from the voice of Calmar. My ghost shall smile on the notes of 
 praise." "Orla," said the son of Mora, " could I raise the song ol 
 death to my friend ? Could I give his fame to the winds ? No, 
 my heart would speak in sighs : faint and broken are the sounds of 
 sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song together. One cloud 
 shall be ours on high : the bards will mingle the names of Orla and 
 Calmar." 
 
 They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their steps are to the host of 
 Lochlin. The dying blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. 
 The northern star points the path to Tura. Swaran, the king, 
 rests on his lonely hill. Here the troops are mixed : they frown in 
 sleep ! their shields beneath their heads. Their swords gleam at 
 distance in heaps. The fires are faint ; their embers fail in smoke. 
 All is hush'd ; but the gale sighs on the rocks above. Lightly 
 wheel the heroes through the slumbering band. Half the journey 
 is past, when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets the eye of Orla. 
 It rolls in flame, and glistens through the shade. His spear is 
 raised on high. "Why dost thou bend thy brow, chief of 
 Oithona ? " said fair-haired Calmar : "we are in the midst of foes. 
 Is this a time for delay? " " It is a time for vengeance," said Orla 
 of the gloomy brow. "Mathon of Lochlin sleeps : seest thou his 
 spear ? Its point is dim with the gore of my father. The blood &$ 
 Mathon shall reek on mine ; but shall I slay him sleeping, son of 
 Mora ? No ! he shall feel his wound : my fame shall not soar on 
 the blood of slumber. Kise, Mathon, rise ! The sou of Conna 
 calls ; thy life is his ; rise to combat." Mathon starts from sleep , 
 but did he rise alone ? No : the gathering chiefs bound on the 
 plain. " Fly ! Calmar, fly ! " said dark-haired Orla. "Mathon is 
 mine : I shall die in ioy : but Lochlin crowds around. Fly 
 through the shade of nignt." Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is 
 cleft : his shield falls f rom his arm : he shudders in his blood. He 
 rolls by the side of the blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall : hi? 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 75 
 
 ■KTath rises : his weapon glitters on the head of Orla : but a spear 
 pierced his eye. His brain gushes through the wound, and foams 
 on the spear cf Calmar. As roll the waves of the OceaN on two 
 mighty barks of the north, so pour the men of Lochlin on the 
 chiefs. As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steer the barks of 
 the north, so rise the chiefs of Morven on the scattered crests of 
 Lochlin. The din of arms came to the ear of Fingal. He strikes 
 his shield ; his sons throng around ; the people pour along the 
 heath. Ryno bounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. Oscar 
 shakes the spear. The eagle wing of Fillan floats on the wind. 
 Dreadful is the clang of death ! many are the widows of Lochlin ! 
 Morven prevails in its strength. 
 
 Morn glimmers on the hills : no living foe is seen ; but the 
 sleepers are many ; grim they lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean 
 lifts their locks ; yet they do not awake. The hawks scream above 
 their prey. 
 
 Whose yellow locks wave o'er the breast of a chief ? Bright as 
 the gold of the stranger, they mingle with the dark hair of his 
 friend. 'Tis Calmar : he lies on the bosom of Orla. Theirs is ono 
 stream of blood. Fierce is the look of the gloomy Orla. He 
 breathes not; but his eye is still a flame. It glares in death un- 
 closed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's ; but Calmar lives ! ho 
 lives, though low. "Rise," said the king, "rise, son of Mora: 
 'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Calmar may yet bound on 
 the hills of Morven." 
 
 " Never more shall Calmar ohase the deer of Morven with Orla," 
 said the hero. "What were the chase to me alone ? Who should 
 p\iare the spoils of battle with Calmar ? Orla is at rest ! Rough 
 was thy soul, Orla ! yet soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared 
 on others in lightning : to me a silver beam of night. Bear my 
 sword to blue-eyed Mora ; let it hang in my empty hall. It is 
 not pure from blood : but it could not save Orla. Lay mo with my 
 friend. Raise the song when I am dark ! " 
 
 They are laid by the stream of Lubar. Four gray stones mark 
 the dwelling of Orla and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our 
 Fails rose on the blue waves. The winds gave our barks to 
 Morven : — the bards raised tho song. 
 
 "What form rises on tho roar of clouds? Whose dark ghost 
 gleams on the red streams of tempests? His voice rolls on the 
 thunder. 'Tie Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He was un- 
 matched in war. Peace to thy soul, Orla ; thy fame will not 
 perish. Nor thine, Calmar ! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed 
 Mora ; but not harmless was thy sword. It hangs in thy cave. 
 The ghosts of Lochlin shriok around its steel. Hear thy praise, 
 Calmar ! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. Thy name shakes 
 on the echoes of Mcrven. Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. 
 Spread them on the arch of the rainbow ; and smile through the 
 Soars of the storm."* 
 
 * I fear Laing's lato edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macpherson'a 
 Ossian might prove the translation of a series of poems complete in themselves; but 
 while the imposture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though 
 not without faults — particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. The 
 resent humble imitation will be pardoned by the admirers of the original as an attempt, 
 owovsr inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, Esq. 
 
 Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.— Houmjil 
 
 Dea.R Long, in this sequester' d sceno, 
 
 While all around in slumber lie, 
 The joyous days which ours have been 
 
 Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye ; 
 Thus if amidst the gathering storm, 
 While clouds the darken'd noon deibrm, 
 Yon heaven assumes a varied glow, 
 I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
 Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
 And bids the war of tempests cease. 
 Ah ! though the present brings but pain.,, 
 I think those days may come again ; 
 Or if, in melancholy mood, 
 Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
 To check my bosom's fondest thought, 
 
 And interrupt the golden dream, 
 I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 
 
 And still indulge my wonted theme. 
 Although we ne'er again can trace, 
 
 In Granta's vale, the pedant's loro ; 
 Nor through tho groves of Ida chase 
 
 Our raptured visions as before ; 
 Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
 And Manhood claims his stern dominion 
 Age will not every hope destroy, 
 But yield some hours of sober joy. 
 
 Yes, I will hope that Time's broad whig 
 Will shed around some dews of spring : 
 But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
 Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
 Where smiling youth delights to dwells , 
 And hearts with early rapture swell ; 
 If frowning Age, with cold control, 
 Confines the current of the soul, 
 Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
 Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
 Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
 An i bids me feel for self alone ; 
 Oh, may my bosom never learn 
 
 To soothe its wonted heedless flow ; 
 Still, still despise the censor stern, 
 
 But ne'er forget another's woe. 
 Yes, as you knew me in the days 
 O'er which Remembrance yet delays, 
 Still may I rove, untutor'd, wild. 
 And even in age at heart a child. 
 
 Though now on airy visions borne, 
 To you my soul is still the same. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 Oil has ifc been my fate to mourn, 
 
 And all my former joys are tame. 
 But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 
 
 Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er 
 By every bliss my childhood knew, 
 
 I'll think upon your shade no more. 
 Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is pact, 
 
 And caves their sullen roar inclose, 
 We heed no more the wintry blast, 
 
 When lull'd by zephyr to repose. 
 
 Full often has my infant Muse 
 
 Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
 But now without a theme to choose, 
 
 The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
 My youthful nymphs, alas ! aro flown : 
 
 E is a wife, and C a mother, 
 
 And Carolina sighs alone, 
 
 And Mary 's given to another ; 
 And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me, 
 
 Can now no more my love recall : 
 In truth, dear Long, 'twas time to fleo ; 
 
 For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
 And though the sun, with genial rays, 
 His beam alike to all displays, 
 And every lady's eye 's a sun, 
 These last should be confined to one. 
 The soul's meridian don't become her, 
 Whose sun displays a general summer I 
 Thus faint is every former flame, 
 And passion's self is now a name. 
 As, when the ebbing flames are low, 
 
 The aid which once improvod their ligk 
 And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 
 
 Now quenches all their sparks in nig lit 
 Thus has it been with passion's fires, 
 
 As many a boy and girl remembers. 
 While all the force of love expires, 
 
 Extinguish'd with the dying embers. 
 
 But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noor^ 
 And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
 Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
 Described in every stripling's verse ; 
 For why should I the path go o'er, 
 Which every bard has trod before ? 
 Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 
 
 Has thrice perform'd her stated roun \ 9 
 Has thrice retraced her path of light, 
 
 And chased away the gloom profound, 
 I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
 Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
 Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
 Which once contain'd our youth's retreat 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And then with those our childhood know, 
 We'll mingle in the festive crew ; 
 While many a tale of former day 
 Shall wing the laughing hours away ; 
 And all the flow of soul shall pour 
 The sacred intellectual shower, 
 Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
 Scarce glimmers through the mist of mens, 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, 
 As once this pledge appear' d a token, 
 
 These follies had not then been mine, 
 For then my peace had not been broken. 
 
 To thee these early faults I owe, 
 
 To thee, the wise and old reproving : 
 
 They know my sins, but do not know 
 'Twas thine to break the bonds of loving. 
 
 For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
 And all its rising Ures could smother ; 
 
 But now thy vows no more endure, 
 Bestow' d by thee upon another. 
 
 Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
 And spoil the blisses that await him ; 
 
 Yet let my rival smile in joy, — 
 
 For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 
 
 Ah ! since thy angel form is gone, 
 My heart no more can rest with any ; 
 
 But what it sought in thee alone, 
 Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 
 
 Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 
 
 'Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee ; 
 Nor Hope, nor Memory yield their aid, 
 
 But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 
 
 Yet all this giddy waste of years, 
 
 This tiresome round of palling pleasures ; 
 
 These varied loves, these matron's fears, 
 
 These thoughtless strains to passion's measure 
 
 If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : — 
 This cheek now pale from early riot, 
 
 With passion's hectic ne'er had flush' d, 
 But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet. 
 
 Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
 For Nature seem'd to smile before thee ; 
 
 And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
 For then it beat but to adore thee. 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 79 
 
 But now I seek for other joys : 
 
 To think would drive my soul to madness ; 
 In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 
 
 I conquer half my bosom's sadness. 
 
 Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 
 In spite of every vain endeavour, — 
 
 A.nd fiends might pity what I feel, — 
 To know that thou art lost for ever. 
 
 I WOULD I WERE A CARELESS CHILD. 
 
 I WOULD I were a careless child, 
 
 Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
 Or roaming through the dusky wild, 
 
 Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave ; 
 The cumbrous pomp of Saxon* pride 
 
 Accords not with the freeborn soul, 
 Which loves the mountain's craggy side, 
 
 And seeks the rocks where billows roll. 
 
 Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 
 
 Take back this name of splendid sound ! 
 I hate the touch of servile hands, 
 
 I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
 Place me along the rocks I love, 
 
 Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar ; 
 I ask but this — again to rove 
 
 Through scenes my youth hath known before, 
 
 Few are my years, and yet I feel 
 
 The world was ne'er design'd for me : 
 Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 
 
 The hour when man must cease to be ? 
 Once I beheld a splendid dream, 
 
 A. visionary scene of bliss : 
 Truth ! — wherefore did thy hated beam 
 
 Awake me to a world like this ? 
 
 I loved — but those I love are gone ; 
 
 Had friends — my early friends are fled : 
 How cheerless feels the heart alone 
 
 When all its former hopes are dead ! 
 Though gay companions o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
 Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 
 
 The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 
 
 How dull ! to hear the voice of those 
 
 Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or power, 
 Have made, though neither friends nor foes, 
 
 Associates of the festive hour. 
 
 8*ssenach, or Saxon, a Gaelic word, signifying either Lowland or Ens'l/J» 
 
BVRON'S POESES. 
 
 Give me again a faithful few, 
 In years and feelings still the same, 
 
 And 1 will fly the midnight crew, 
 Where boist'rous joy is but a narno. 
 
 And woman, lovely woman ! thou, 
 
 My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
 How cold must be my bosom now, 
 
 When e'en thy smiles begin to pall ! 
 Without a sigh would I resign 
 
 This busy scene of splendid woe, 
 To make that calm contentment mine, 
 
 Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 
 
 Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 
 
 I seek to shun, not hate mankind ; 
 My breast requires the sullen glen, 
 
 Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
 Oh ! that to me the wings were given 
 
 Which bear the turtle to her nest : 
 Then would I cleave the vault of heaven, 
 
 To flee away, and be at rest.* 
 
 WHEN 1 KOVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER, 
 
 When I roved a young Highlander o'er the dark hcatb ; 
 
 And climb' d thy steep summit, 0 Morven, of snow If 
 To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 
 
 Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, + 
 Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 
 
 And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
 No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 
 
 Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas center' d in you ? 
 
 Yet it could not be love, for I knew not the name, — 
 
 What passion can dwell in the heart of a child t 
 But still I perceive an emotion the same 
 
 As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover* d wild : 
 One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 
 
 I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
 And few were my wants, for my wishes were bless'd ; 
 
 And pure were my thoughts, for my soul was with you. 
 
 I arose with the dawn ; with my dog as ray guide, 
 From mountain to mountain I bounded along ; 
 
 • " And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove ; for then would I fly away, and be *t 
 rest." — Psalm Iv. 6. This verse also constitutes a part of the most beautiful anthem , a 
 our language. 
 
 t Morven, a lofty mountain in Aberdeenshire. " Gormal of snow," is an expression 
 frequently to be found in Ossian. 
 
 X This will not appear extraordinary to those who have been accustomed to the moun- 
 tains. It is by no means uncommon, on attaining the top of Ben-e-vis, Ben-y-Bourd, &c , 
 to perceive, between the summit and the valley, clouds pouring down rain, and occa- 
 sionally accompanied by lightning, while the spectator literally looks down upon the 
 norm, perfectly secure from its effect*, 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 ft 
 
 I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide,* 
 And heard at a distanoe the Highlander's song : 
 
 At eve, on my heath-cover' d conch of repose, 
 
 No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view ; 
 
 ind warm to the skies my devotions arose, 
 For the first of my prayers was a blessing on you. 
 
 I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone ; 
 
 The mountains are vanish'd, my youth is no moro ; 
 As the last of my raco, I must wither alone, 
 
 And delight but in days I have witness'd before : 
 Ah ! splendour has raised, but embitter'd, my lot ; 
 
 More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew ; 
 Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet they are not foi^cl 
 
 Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with you. 
 
 When I see some dark hill point its crest to the sky, 
 
 I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Colbleen ;t 
 When I see the soft blue of a love-speaking eye, 
 
 I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude sceno ; 
 When, haply, somo light-waving locks I behold, 
 
 That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
 I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, 
 
 The locks that were sacred to beauty, and you. 
 
 Yet the day may arrive when the mountains once mcrs 
 
 Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow ; 
 But while these soar above me, unchanged as beforo, 
 
 Will Mary bo there to receive me ? — ah, no ! 
 Adieu, then, ye hills, whore my childhood was bred I 
 
 Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
 No home in the forest shall shelter my head, — 
 
 Ah ! Mary, what home could be mine but with you ? 
 
 TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. 
 
 Oh ! yes, I will own we were dear to each other ; 
 
 The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, arc truo ; 
 The love which you felt was the love of a brother, 
 
 Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 
 
 But friendship can vary her gentle dominion ; 
 
 The attachment of years in a moment expires ; 
 Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion, 
 
 But glows not, like Lovo, with unquenchable Area. 
 
 Full oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 
 And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow : 
 
 In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather ! 
 But winter's rude tempests are gathering now. 
 
 " •* Breasting the lofty surge."— Shakspkark. The Deo is a beautiful river, which rise* 
 »>*r Mar Lodge, and falls into the sea at New Aberdeen. 
 
 . Colbleen is a mountain near the vergo of the Highlands, not far from the ruins o< 
 Castk. 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 Bo moire with affection shall memory blending, 
 The wonted delights of our childhood retrace : 
 
 When pride steels the bosom, the heart is unbendiog . 
 And what would be justice appears a disgrace. 
 
 However, dear George, for I still must esteem you — 
 The few whom I love I can never upbraid — 
 
 The chance which has lost may in future redeem you } 
 Repentance will cancel the vow you have made. 
 
 I will not complain, and though chill'd is affection, 
 With me no corroding resentment shall live : 
 
 My bosom is calm'd by the simple reflection, 
 
 That both may be wrong, and that both should forging 
 
 You knew that my soul, that my heart, my existence, 
 If danger demanded, were wholly your own ; 
 
 You knew me unalter'd by years or by distance, 
 Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 
 
 You knew, — but away with the vain retrospection ! 
 
 The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
 Too late you may droop o'er the fond recollection, 
 
 And sigh for the friend who was formerly yours. 
 
 For the present, we part, — I will hope not for ever ; 
 
 For time and regret will restore you at last : 
 To forget our dissension we both should endeavour, — 
 
 I ask no atoneme«nt, but days like the past. 
 
 TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 
 
 " Tii semper amoris 
 Sis ineiasr, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago." — Val. Wt/j; 
 
 Friend of my youth ! when young we rova&v 
 Like striplings, mutually beloved, 
 
 With friendship's purest glow, 
 The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
 Was such as pleasure seldom shower?! 
 
 On mortals here below. 
 
 The recollection seems alone 
 Bearer than all the joys I've kn^wa, 
 
 When distant far from you : 
 Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pam? 
 To trace those days and hours again, 
 
 And sigh again, adieu ! 
 
 My pensive memory lingers o'er 
 Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 
 
 Those scenes regretted ever ; 
 The measure of our youth is full, 
 Life's evening dream is dark and d' 
 
 And we may meet — ah ! never I 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 83 
 
 As when one parent spring supplies 
 
 Two streams which from one fountain rise, 
 
 Together join'd in vain ; 
 How soon, diverging from their source, 
 Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 
 
 Till mingled in the main ! 
 
 Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
 Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 
 
 Nor mingle as before : 
 Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
 Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 
 
 And both shall quit the shore. 
 
 Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
 One wish, nor breathed a thought beside. 
 
 Now flow in different channels : 
 Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
 'Tis yours to mix in polish' d courts, 
 
 And shine in fashion's annals ; 
 
 'Tis mine to waste on love my time, 
 Or vent my reveries in rhyme, 
 
 Without the aid of reason ; 
 For sense and reason (critics know it) 
 Have quitted every amorous poet, 
 
 Nor left a thought to seize on. 
 
 Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
 Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard, 
 
 Tiiat he, who sang before all, — 
 He who the lore of love expanded, — 
 By dire reviewers should be branded, 
 
 As vdid of wit and moral.* 
 
 And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
 Harmonious favourite of the Nine ! 
 
 Repine not at thy lot. 
 Thy soothing lays may still be read, 
 When Persecution's arm is dead, 
 
 And critics are forgot. 
 
 Still I must yield thoso worthies merit, 
 Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, 
 
 Bad rhymes, and those who write them ; 
 And though myself may be the next 
 By critic sarcasm to be vex'd, 
 
 I really will not fight them.f 
 
 Perhaps they would do quite as well 
 To break the rudely-sounding shell 
 Of such a young beginner. 
 
 • These stanxas were written soon after tho appearance of a severe critique. in a 
 northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon. 
 
 I A bard (horrceco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal cumbat. If this exnmple 
 becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped in the riv«r Stvx : lor what «U* 
 c*& bccure them, from the numerous host of their eurayed assailant* I 
 
 a 2 
 
$4 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 He who offends at pert nineteen, 
 Ere thirty may become, I ween, 
 A very harden' d sinner. 
 
 Now, Clare, I must return to you j 
 And, sure, apologies are due : 
 
 Accept, then, my concession. 
 In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's fligfet 
 I soar along from left to right ! 
 
 My muse admires digression. 
 
 1 think I said 'twould be your fate 
 To add one star to royal state ; — 
 
 May regal smiles attend you ! 
 And should a noble monarch reign, 
 You will not seek his smiles in vain, 
 
 If worth can recommend you. 
 
 Yet since in danger courts abound, 
 Where specious rivals glitter round, 
 
 From snares may saints preserve you ; 
 And grant your love or friendship ne'or 
 From any claim a kindred care, 
 
 But those who best deserve you ! 
 
 Mot for a moment may you stray 
 From truth's secure, unerring way ! 
 
 May no delights decoy ! 
 O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
 Your smiles be ever smiles of love, 
 
 Your tears be tears of joy ! 
 
 Oh ! if you wish that happiness 
 
 Your coming days and years may bless, 
 
 And virtues crown your brow ; 
 Be still as you were wont to be, 
 Spotless as you've been known to me, — 
 
 Be still as you are now. 
 
 And though some trifling share of praiafr. 
 To cheer my last declining days. 
 
 To me were doubly dear ; 
 Whilst blessing your beloved name, 
 I'd waive at once a poet's fame, 
 
 To prove a prophet here. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM IN THE CHURCH. 
 
 YARD OF HARROW. 
 
 ;SPOT of my youth ! whoso hoary branches sigh, 
 JSwept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky ; 
 Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
 With those I loved, the soft and verdant sod ; 
 
HOURS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 With those who, scatter'd far, perchance deploie, 
 
 Like me, the happy scenes they knew before : 
 
 Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
 
 Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
 
 Thou drooping elm ! beneath whose boughs I lay, 
 
 And frequent mused the twilight hours away ; 
 
 Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline. 
 
 But ah ! without the thoughts which then were mins 
 
 How do thy branches, moaning to the blast, 
 
 Invite the bosom to recall the past, 
 
 And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
 
 " Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell S * 
 
 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 hor power, — 
 To know some humbler 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 ; 
 For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shado, 
 Press'd by the turf whore once my childhood play'd J 
 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. 
 
 September Jani v ' 
 
 LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP FORMED FR0.V1 A 
 
 SKULL. 
 
 Start not — nor deem my spirit fled ; 
 
 In mo behold the only skull 
 From which, unlike a living head, 
 
 Whatever flows is never dull. 
 
 T Kvod, I loved, I quaff'd, like thee : 
 
 i died : let earth my bones resign: 
 Fill up — thou canst not injure me ; 
 
 The worm hath fouler lips than thine. 
 
 Better to hold the sparkling grape, 
 Than nurse the earth-worm's slimy brood ; 
 
 And circle in the goblet's shape 
 The drink of gods, than reptile's food. 
 
 Where once my wit, perchance, hath shoii^, 
 
 In aid of others' let me shine ; 
 And when, alas ! our brains are gone, 
 
 What nobler substitute than wine l 
 
BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 Quaff while thou canst : another race, 
 When thou and thine, like me, are sped, 
 
 May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
 And rhyme and revel with the dead. 
 
 Why not — since through life's little day 
 
 Our heads such sad effects produce ? 
 Redeem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
 
 This chance is theirs, to be of use. 
 
 Newstead Abbcj, 1808 
 
 ON REVISITING HARROW » 
 
 Here once engaged the stranger's view, 
 Young Friendship's record simply traced ; 
 
 Few were her words, but yet, though few, 
 Resentment's hand the line defaced. 
 
 Deeply she cut — but not erased, 
 
 The characters were still so plain, 
 That Friendship once return'd, and gazed, — 
 
 Till Memory hail'd the words again. 
 
 Repentance placed them as before ; 
 
 Forgiveness join'd her gentle name ; 
 bo fair the inscription seem'd once more, 
 
 That Friendship thought it still the same. 
 
 Thus might the record now have been : 
 But, ah ! in spite of Hope's endeavour, 
 
 Or Friendship's tears, Pride rush'd between, 
 And blotted out the line for ever.+ 
 
 * TThwe linos were suggested by finding the names of himself and a friend, which hfc& 
 Ocxm cut as a memorial, erased by that friend on account of some offence taken. 
 
 t " The recording angel dropp'd a tear upon tha word as he -??roto it, sxd blotted it o»t 
 dim — Sterne' a Story of Lofewrc. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS 
 
 AND 
 
 SCOTCH REVIEWERS 2 
 
 A SATIRE. 
 
 1 1 had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 
 Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers."— BSAXSfttflfe 
 
 " Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 'tis true. 
 There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." — Pop*. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 Am. my friends, learned and unlearned, have urged me not to publish 
 this satire with my name. If I were to be '* tum'd from the career of my 
 humour by quibbles quick, and paper bullets of the brain," I should have 
 complied with their counsel j but I am not to be terrified by abuse, or 
 bullied by reviewers, with or without arms. I can safely say that I have 
 attacked none personally who did not commence on the offensive. An 
 author's works are public property : he who purchases may judge, and 
 publish his opinion if he pleases ; and the authors I have endeavoured to 
 commemorate may do by me as I have done by them : I dare say they will 
 succeed better in condemning my scribblings, than in mending their own. 
 But my object is not to prove that I can write well, but, if possible, to 
 make others write better. 
 
 As the poem has met with far more success than I expected, I have 
 endeavoured in this edition to make some additions and alterations to 
 render it more worthy of public perusal. 
 
 In the first edition of this satire, published anonymously, fourteen 
 lines on the subject of Bowles's Pope were written and inserted at the 
 request of an ingenious friend of mine, who has now in the press a volume 
 of poetry. In the present edition they are erased, and some of my own 
 substituted in tlveir stead ; my only reason for this being, that, which 1 
 conceive would operate with any other person in the same manner— a 
 determination not to publish with my name any production which was 
 not entirely and exclusively my own composition. 
 
 With regard to the real talents of many of the poetical persons whose 
 performances are mentioned, or alluded to, in the following pages, it is 
 presumed by the author that there can be little difference of opinion in the 
 public at large ; though, like other sectaries, each has his separate taber- 
 nacle of proselytes, by whom his abilities are overrated, his faults over- 
 looked, and his metrical canons received without scruple and without 
 consideration. But the unquestionable possession of considerable genius 
 by several of the writers here censured, renders their mental prostitution 
 more to be regretted. Imbecility may be pitied, or, at worst, laughed at 
 and forgotten ; perverted powers demand the most decided reprehension. 
 No one can wish more than the author that some known and able writer 
 had undertaken their exposure ; but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to 
 Massinger, and in the absence of the regular physician, a country practi- 
 
88 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 tioner may, in cases of absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his 
 nostrum to prevent the extension of so deplorable an epidemic, provided 
 there be no quackery in his treatment of the malady. A caustic is here 
 offered, as it is to be feared nothing short of actual cautery can recover 
 the numerous patients afflicted with the present prevalent and distressing 
 rabies for rhyming. 
 
 As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would, indeed, require a Hercules 
 '•n crush the Hydra: but if the author succeeds in merely " brJsiiig one 
 of the heads of the serpent," though his own hand should suffer m th« 
 encounter, he will be amply satisfied. 
 
 ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS* 
 
 Still must I hear ? — shall hoarse Fitzgeraldf bawl 
 His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, 
 And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews 
 Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse? 
 Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or wrong ; 
 Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 
 
 Oh ! nature's noblest gift — my gray goose-quill ! 
 Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
 Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
 That mighty instrument of little men ! 
 The pon ! foredoom'd to aid the mental throes 
 Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose, 
 Though nymphs forsake, and critics may derido, 
 The lover's solace, and the author's pride. 
 What wits, what poets, dost thou daily raise ! 
 How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise ! 
 Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
 With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
 But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
 Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
 Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free 
 Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by mo : 
 Then let us soar to-day, no common theme, 
 No eastern vision, no distemper' d dream 
 Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is plain ; 
 Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. 
 
 • Written at Newstead in 1808. 
 
 Semper ego auditor tantum ? nunquamne reponam, 
 Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri ?— Juvenal, Satire 1. 
 Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the " Small Beer Poet," inflbt? fcV 
 "imual tribute of verse on the " Literary Fund :" not content with writing, he spout" 'n 
 person, after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable th~«9 
 to sustain the operation. 
 
 I Cid Ilamet Benengeli promises repose to his pen In the last chapter of " Don 
 Quixote." Oh ! that «ur voluminous gentry would follow the example of Cid 
 Benengeli. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Wh9n Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign swsy, 
 And men, through life her willing slaves, obey; 
 When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
 Unfolds her motley store to suit the time ; 
 When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail. 
 When Justice halts, and Right begins to fail ; 
 E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, 
 Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
 More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
 And shrink from ridicule, though not from la^r. 
 
 Such is the force of wit ! but not belong 
 To me the arrows of satiric song ; 
 The royal vices of our age demand 
 A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
 Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
 And yield at least amusement in the race : 
 Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame ; 
 The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
 Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and imaD, 
 Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all ! 
 I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time 
 1 pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
 A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blamo ; 
 I printed — older children do the same, 
 "lis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ; 
 A book's a book, although there's nothing in't. 
 Not that a title's sounding charm can savo 
 Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave : 
 This Lambe must own, sinco his patrician nam© 
 Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from sharao.* 
 No matter, George continues still to writc,t 
 Though now the name is veil'd from publb sight. 
 Moved by tho great example, I pursuo 
 Tho self- same road, but mako my own review ; 
 Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet like him will be 
 Self-constituted judge of poesy. 
 
 A man must servo his time to every 'rado 
 Savo censure — critics all are ready made. 
 Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by roto, 
 With just enough of learning to misquote ; 
 A mind well skill'd to find or forgo a fault ; 
 A turn for punning, — call it Attic salt ; 
 To Jeffrey go ; bo silent and discreet, 
 His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet. 
 Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit ; 
 Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit ; 
 Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest, 
 And stand a critic, hated yet caress' d. 
 
 Is ingenious youth 1b mentioned more particularly, with his pr^-.ict^a 
 %\ - Edinburgh Tleview.'* 
 
so 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And shall we own such judgment ? No — as soon 
 Seek roses in December — ice in June ; 
 Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff ; 
 Believe a woman, or an epitaph, 
 Or any other thing that's false, before 
 You trust in critics, who themselves are soro ; 
 Or yield one single thought to be misled 
 By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe's Boeotian head.* 
 To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced, 
 Combined usurpers on the throne of taste ; 
 To these, when authors bend in humble awe,*!* 
 And hail their voice as truth, their word as law- 
 While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare ; 
 While such are critics, why should I forbear ? 
 
 But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
 'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun ; 
 Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike, 
 Our bards and censors are so much alike. 
 
 Then should you ask me, why, I venture o'er X 
 The path that Pope and GifFord § trod before ; 
 If not yet sicken' d, you can still proceed : 
 Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
 
 u But hold !" exclaims a friend, — " here's some n«giect ; 
 This — that — and t'other line seem incorrect." 
 What then ? the self-same blunder Pope has got. 
 And careless Dryden — "Ay, but Pye has not." 
 Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith ! but what care I ? 
 Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 
 
 Time was, e'er yet in these degenerate days 
 Ignoble themes obtain' d mistaken praise, 
 When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
 No fabled graces, flourish' d side by side ; 
 From the same fount their inspiration drew, 
 And,' rear'd by taste, bloom' d fairer as they grew. 
 Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's pure strain 
 Sought the wrapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ; 
 A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
 And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
 Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, 
 In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong. 
 Then Congreve's || scenes could cheer, or Otway's^J mol: ; 
 For nature then an English audience felt. 
 
 • Meosrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the Alpha and Omega, the first and la3t, of the " CwJ o 
 
 Vnrgki iieview ;" the others are mentioned hereafter. 
 
 1 IlMTATION : — 
 
 Stulta est Clementia, cum tot ubiqu© 
 
 ■ occurras perituraa parcere chartse.— Juvenal, Satirt i, 
 
 X Imitation :— 
 
 Cur tamen hoc libeat potius decurrere campo 
 
 Per quern magnus equos Auruncae flexit alumnus : 
 
 Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam. — J ovenal, Satire 1. 
 
 § Author of the " Baviad" and " Masviad," and first editor of the " Quarterly RevioTr." 
 fie became, afterwards, the friend and Aristarchus of Lord Byron. 
 
 P The great wit of the Augustan age, author of ** Love for Love," &c. 4c. 
 
 % The most pathetic of all English writers of tragedy : author of " Venice FreMsrvtd," 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
 When all to feebler bards resign their place ? 
 Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
 "When taste and reason with those times are past. 
 Now look around, and turn each trifling page, 
 Survey the precious works thirst please the age ; 
 This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
 No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now : 
 The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
 And printers' devils shake their weary bones ; 
 While Southey's epics cram the creaking shclvcn, 
 And Little's* lyrics shine in hot-press'd twelves. 
 
 Thus saith the preacher : " Nought beneath the suaf 
 
 Is new ; " yet still from change to change we run ; 
 
 What varied wonders tempt us as they pass! 
 
 The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
 
 In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
 
 Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air ! 
 
 Nor less new schools of poetry arise, 
 
 Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
 
 O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail : 
 
 Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
 
 And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
 
 Erects a shrine and idol of its own ; 
 
 Some leaden calf — but whom it matters not, 
 
 From soaring Southey down to grovelling Stott. J 
 
 Behold ! in various throngs the scribbling crew, 
 For notice eager, pass in long review : 
 Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
 And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race ; 
 Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode ; 
 And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
 Immeasurable measures move along, 
 For simpering folly loves a varied song, 
 To strange mysterious dulness still the friend, 
 Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
 
 Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be the last ! §— 
 On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast ; 
 
 * 7. Moore'B early amatory poems wcro published under the name of Thomas Litths. 
 f RcclesiastoB, cap. 1. 
 
 I Stott, better known in the " Morning Post" by the name of Hafiz. This person Is «1 
 
 (•resent the most profound explorer of the bathos. I remember, when the reiguiug loia'ly 
 eft Portugal, a special ode of Master Stott's, beginning thus : 
 
 (Stott loquitur quoad HibomiaJ 
 
 Princely offspring of Brnganza, 
 
 Erin greets thee with a stanza," Ac. tc 
 
 A«eo a sonnet to rats, well worthy of the subject, and a most thundering ode, connasncicj 
 ao follows: — 
 
 " Oh 1 for a lay 1 lond as the surge 
 That lashes Lapland's sounding shore." 
 
 Lord hare mercy on us 1 the " Lay of the Last Minstrel " was nothing to this. 
 
 § Soe the " Iiiy of the Last Minstrel," passim. Never was any plan so lncongraone 
 and absurd aa the groundwork of this production. The entrance of Thunder and Light- 
 ning prologuizing to Bayes' Tragedy, unforiunatelj 'WJ'ns away the merit of originality 
 from the dialogue between Messieurs the Spirits of ilood and lell in the first canto. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
 That dames may listen to the sound at nights ; 
 And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood,* 
 Decoy young border nobles through the wood, 
 And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
 And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why ; 
 While hign-born ladies in their magic cell, 
 Forbidding knights to read who cannot spell. 
 Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
 And light with honest men to shield a knave. 
 
 Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, 
 The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
 Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, 
 Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight, 
 The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
 A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
 And think' st thou, Scott ! by vain conceit perchance, 
 On public taste to foist thy stale romance ? 
 Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
 To yield thy muse just half a crown per line ? 
 No ! when the sons of song descend to trade, 
 Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade. 
 Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
 Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame ; 
 Low may they sink to merited contempt, 
 And scorn remunerate the mean attempt ! 
 Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
 Of prostituted muse and hireling bard ! 
 For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
 And bid a long "good night to Marmion/'f 
 
 These are the themes that claim our plaudits now ; 
 These are the bards to whom the muse must bow : 
 While Milton, Dryden, Pope, alike forgot, 
 Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 
 
 The time has been, when yet the muse was young, 
 When Homer swept the lyre, and MaroJ sung, 
 An epic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
 While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic name ; 
 
 Then vre have the amiable William of Deloraine, " a stark mosstrooper," videlicet, "* 
 l»»ppy compound of poacher, sheep-stealer, and highwayman. The propriety of hu 
 Dr **{ical lady's injunction not to read can only be equalled by his candid acknowledging . 
 m Ms independence of the trammels of spelling, although, to use his own elegant phraaa 
 " 'twas his neck-verse at Harribee," i. e. the gallows. 
 
 • The biography of Gilpin Horner, and the marvellous pedestrian page, who travelled 
 twice as fast as his master's horse, without the aid of seven-leagued boots, are cheff 
 d'aeuvre in the improvement of taste. For incident we have the invisible, but by n" 
 means sparing, box on the ear, bestowed on the page, and the entrance of a knight an«« 
 sharger into the castle, under the very natural disguise of a wain of hay. Marmion, tli* 
 hero of the latter romance, is exactly what William of Deloraine would have been, had an 
 t*en able to read and write. The poem was manufactured for Messrs. Constable, Murray. 
 »'id Miller, worshipful booksellers, in consideration of the receipt of a sum of monoy ; 
 end truly, considering the inspiration, it is a very creditable production. If Mr. Sc >tt 
 will write for hire, let him do his best for his paymasters, but not disgrace his genius, 
 which is undoubtedly great, by a repetition of black letter ballad imitations. 
 
 t " Good night to Marmion " — the pathetic and also prophetic exclamaticn of Hen> 
 Blount, Esquire, on the death of honset Marmion, 
 
 I Virgil. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 The work of each immortal bard appears 
 
 The single wonder of a thousand years.* 
 
 Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
 
 Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, 
 
 Without the glory such a strain can give, 
 
 As even in ruin bids the language live. 
 
 Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
 
 On one great work a life of labour spent : 
 
 With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, 
 
 Behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
 
 To him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
 
 Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 
 
 First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
 The scourge of England, and the boast of Franco ! 
 Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch,t 
 Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
 Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
 A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,^ 
 Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wondrous son ; 
 Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
 More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
 Immortal hero ! all thy foes o'ercome, 
 For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb ! 
 Since startled metre fled before Hhy face, 
 Well wert thou doom'd the last of all thy race ! 
 Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, 
 Illustrious conqueror of common sense ! 
 Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
 Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales ; 
 Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
 More old than Mandeville's, and not so true.§ 
 Oh ! Southey, Southey, cease thy varied song !j| 
 A bard may chant too often and too long ; 
 As thou art strong in verse, in mercy spare ! 
 A fourth, alas ! were more than we could bear. 
 But if, in spite oi all the world can say, 
 Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 
 
 • As the " Odyssey" Is so closely connected with the story of the " Hiad," th»j mat 
 jimost be classed as one grand historical poem. In alluding to Milton and Tan.**., wc 
 consider the " Paradise Lost," and " Gierosalemme Liberata," as their standard efforts ; 
 since neither the " Jerusalem Conquered " of the Italian, nor the " Paradise Regained " 
 of the English bard, obtained a proportionate celebrity to their former poems. Query : 
 Which of Mr. Southey's will survive ? 
 
 f Some French authors now say that she was not burnt, and that her descendants are 
 all to to prove it. 
 
 X " Thalaba," Mr. Southey's second poem, is written in open defiance of precedent a»i 
 poetry. Mr. S. wished to produce something novel, and succeeded to a miracle. " Joan at 
 Are " was marvellous enough, but " Thalaba " was one of those poems " which," in the 
 words of Porson, " will be read when Homer and Virgil are forgotten, but — not till £&#/>.' 
 
 S A celebrated traveller, of very doubtful veracity. 
 
 If We beg Mr. Southey's pardon : " Madoc disdains the degraded title of epic." See his 
 preface. Why is Epic degraded ? and by whom ? Certainly the late romaunts of Masters 
 Cottle, Laureate Pye, Ogilvy, Hole, and gentle Mistress Cowley, have not exalted the 
 Epic Muse ; but as Mr. Soutney's poem " disdains the appellation," allow us to ask— has 
 he substituted anything better in its stead ? or must he be content to rival Sir Richard 
 Blackmore in the quantity as well as quality of his verse ? 
 
©4 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 If still in Berkeley ballads most uncivil, 
 Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,* 
 The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
 ''God help thee," Southey, and thy readers too.f 
 
 Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, 
 That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
 The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
 As soft as evening in his favourite May, 
 Who warns his friend " to shake off toil and trouble, 
 And quit his books, for fear of growing double ; "X 
 Who, both by precept and example, shows 
 That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose ; 
 Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
 Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
 And Christmas stories, tortured into rhyme, 
 Contain the essence of the true sublime. 
 Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, 
 The idiot mother of "an idiot boy," 
 A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, 
 And, like his bard, confounded night with day ;§ 
 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
 And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
 That all who view the "idiot in his glory," 
 Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 
 
 Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here, 
 To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear ? 
 Though therjies of innocence amuse him best, 
 Yet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
 If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
 To him who takes a pixy for a muse,|| 
 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
 The bard who soars to elegise an ass. 
 How well the subject suits his nobie mind ! 
 "A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind." 
 
 Oh ! wonder-working Lewis ! monk, or bard, 
 Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a churchyard ! 
 Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 
 Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou ! 
 
 • Bee, " The Old Woman of Berkeley," a ballad by Mr. Southey, wherein an aged gvw*- 
 &&woman is carried away by Beelzebub, on a " high trotting horse." 
 
 t The last line, " God help thee," is an evident plagiarism from the " Anti -Jacobin " in 
 Mr. Southey, on his Dactylics. " God help thee, silly one."— Poetry of the Anti- Jacobin. 
 jxtge 23. 
 
 X " Lyrical Ballads," page 4,—" The tables turned." Stanza I. 
 
 " Up, up, my friend, and clear your looks ; 
 Why all this toil and trouble ? 
 Up, up, my friend, and quit your books, 
 Or surely you'll grow double." 
 § Mr. W. in his preface labours hard to prove that prose and verse are much tne sara« j 
 and certainly his precepts and practice are strictly conformable. 
 *' And thus to Betty's question he 
 
 Made answer, like a traveller bold, 
 The cock did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, 
 And the sun did shine so cold," &c. &c. — Lyrical Ballads, page 12$, 
 fl Coleridge's Poems, p. 11, " Songs of the Pixies," i. e. Devonshire Fairies ; p. 421 <•* 
 have ** Lines to a Young Lady," and p. 52, " Lines to a Young Ass." 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, 
 
 By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band ; 
 
 Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, 
 
 To please the females of our modest age ; 
 
 All hail, M.P. ! from whose infernal brain* 
 
 Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 
 
 At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds, 
 
 And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, 
 
 With "small gray men," "wild yagers/' and what net. 
 
 To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott ! 
 
 Again all hail ! if tales like thine may please, 
 
 St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease : 
 
 Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell., 
 
 And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 
 
 Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir, 
 Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, 
 With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flush V. 
 Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hugh'dt 
 'Tis Little ! young Catullus of his day, 
 As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! 
 Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be just, 
 Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
 Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns ; 
 From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
 Yet, kind to youth, this expiation o'er, 
 She bids thee " mend thy line, and sin no moro." 
 
 For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
 To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
 Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of blue,f 
 And boasted locks of red, or auburn hue, 
 Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss admires, 
 And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, 
 Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, 
 Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
 Think' st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
 By dressing Camoens in a suit of lace ? 
 Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy taste ; 
 Be warm, but pure ; be amorous, but be chaste : 
 Cease to deceive ; thy pilfer' d harp restore, 
 Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 
 
 In many marble-cover'd volumes view 
 Hayley, in vain attempting something new ; 
 Whether he spin his comedies in rhyme, 
 Or scrawl, as Wood and Barclay walk, 'gainst tiiaa, 
 His style in youth or age is still the same, 
 For ever feeble and for ever tame. 
 
 * " For every one knows little Matt 'a an M.P." — See a Poem to Mr. Lewis, In tfc» 
 
 * Statesman," supposed to be written by Mr. Jekyll. 
 
 t The reader who may wish for an explanation of this, may refer to " Strangford's 
 Camoens," p. 127, note to page 5G or to the last page of the Edinburgh review of Strang- 
 ford's Camoens. 
 
 It is also to be remarked, that the tilings ftfven to the public as poems of Camoens, art 
 do more to be found in the original Portuguese, than In the Song of Solomon. 
 
ft BYRON ci POEMS. 
 
 Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" shinol 
 At least I'm sure they triumph'd over mine. 
 Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear. 
 That luckless music never triumph'd there.* 
 
 Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
 On dull devotion — Lo ! the Sabbath bard, 
 Sepulchral Grahame, pours his notes sublime, 
 In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme, 
 Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
 And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch ; 
 And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
 Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms. 1* 
 
 Hail, Sympathy ! thy soft idea brings 
 A thousand visions of a thousand things, 
 And shows, dissolved in thine own melting teara, 
 The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 
 And art thou not their prince, harmonious liowlea 1 
 Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
 Whether in sighing winds thou seek'si relief, 
 Or consolation in a yellow leaf ; 
 Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
 What merry sounds proceed from Oxford belb,^ 
 Or, still in bells delighting, finds a fi-iend 
 In every chime that jingled from Ostend ; 
 Ah ! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 
 If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
 Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still bleflj, 
 All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
 'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song, 
 To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 
 With thee our nursery damsels shed their tear;;, 
 Ere miss, as yet, completes her infant years ; 
 But in her teens thy whining powers are vain ; 
 She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain, • 
 Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
 The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
 " Awake a louder and a loftier strain,"§ 
 Such as none heard before, or will again ; 
 Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, 
 Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 
 
 • Hayley*s two most notorious verse productions, are " Triumphs of Tempei kixC 
 - Triumphs of Music." He has also written much comedy in rhyme, epistles, &c. 
 Am he is rather an elegant writer of notes and biography, let us recommend Pope's a<tvio© 
 to Wychevley, to Mr. H.'s consideration : viz. " to convert his poetry into prose," which 
 may easily be done by taking away the final syllable of each couplet. 
 
 t Mr. Grahame has poured forth two volumes of cant, under the name of " Sabbath 
 Walks," and " Biblical Pictures." 
 
 2 See Bowles's Sonnets, <fcc. — " Sonnet to Oxford," and " Stanzas on hearing the Bell* 
 of Ostend." 
 
 § " Awake a louder," Ac. Ac, Is the first line In Bowles's " Spirit of Discovery," a verv 
 aVJited and pretty dwarf epic. Among other exquisite lines we have the following . - 
 
 *• A kiss 
 
 Stole on the list'ning silence, never yet 
 Here heard ; they trembled even as if the power," Ac 
 
 *"hat is, the woods of Madeira trembled to a kiss, very much astonished, as wel 1 iL*t 
 i^Lt be, at such a phenomenon, 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. fc7 
 
 By more or less, are sung in every book, 
 
 From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook, 
 
 Nor this alone ; but, pausing on the road, 
 
 The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ;* 
 
 And gravely tells — attend, each beauteous mis3 ! 
 
 When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
 
 Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell, 
 
 Stick to thy sonnets, man ! — at least they sell. 
 
 But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, 
 
 Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scriho, 
 
 If chance some bard, though once by dunces fear'd. 
 
 Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
 
 If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, 
 
 Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst, 
 
 Do thou essay ; each fault, each failing scan : 
 
 The first of poets was, alas ! but man. 
 
 Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 
 
 Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll 
 
 Let all the scandals of a former age 
 
 Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 
 
 Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, 
 
 Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
 
 Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 
 
 And do from hate, what Mallet did for hire. J 
 
 Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 
 
 To rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to rhyme ;3 
 
 Throng' d with the rest around his living head, 
 
 Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, 
 
 A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gaine, 
 
 And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. |j 
 
 Another epic ! who inflicts again 
 More books of blank upon the sons of men ? 
 Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
 Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
 And sends his goods to market — all alive ! 
 Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty-five ! 
 Fresh fish from Helicon ! who'll buy ? who'll buy ? 
 The precious bargain 's cheap — in faith, not I. 
 Too much in turtle Bristol's sons delight, 
 Too much o'er bowls of rack prolong the night ! 
 If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
 And Amos Cottle* strikes the lyre in vain. 
 
 • The episode above alluded to, la the story of " Robert a Machin," and " Ar.ii* 
 t Arfet," a pair of constant lovers, who performed the kiss above mentioned, t)«at sUirtled 
 the woods of Madeira. 
 
 t Curll Is one of the heroes of the " Dunciad " and was a bookseller. Lord Fanny is the 
 poetical name of Lord Hervey, author of " Lines to the Imitator of Horace." 
 
 I Lord Bolingbroke hired Mallet to traduce Pope after his decease, because the pot- 1 
 dad retained some copies of a work by Lord Bolingbroke (the " Patriot King"), whk*l 
 that splendid but malignant genius had ordered to be destroyed. 
 
 § Dennis, the critic, and Ralph, the rhymester. 
 
 " Silence, ye wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, 
 
 Making night hideous ; answer him, ye owls ! " — Dunciad. 
 I See Bowles's late edition of Pope's works, for which he received 300 pounds : thai 
 Mr. ft. has experienced how much easier it is to profit by the reputCion of another, 
 U> elev»£« Mb own. 
 
 n 
 
b 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Tn him an author's luckless lot behold, 
 
 Condemn' d to mako the books which once he sold 
 
 Oh, Amos Cottle ! — Phoebus ! what a name, 
 
 To fill the speaking trump of future fame ! 
 
 Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
 
 What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
 
 When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
 
 Who will peruse thy prostituted reams * 
 
 Oh, pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
 
 Had Cottle still adorn'd the counter's side,* 
 
 Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 
 
 Been taught to make the paper which he soils. 
 
 Plough' d, delved, or plied the oar with lusty iimb, 
 
 He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 
 
 As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
 Rolls the huge rock, whose motions ne'er may sleep, 
 So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond ! heaves 
 Dull Maurice all his granite weight of leaves 
 Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
 The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
 That ere they reach the top fall lumbering back again. 
 
 With broken lyre, and cheek serenly pale, 
 Lo ! sad Alca^us wanders down the vale ; 
 Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd at last, 
 His hopes have perish' d by the northern blast : 
 Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, 
 His blossoms wither as the blast prevails ! 
 O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ; 
 May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! % 
 
 Yet, say ! why should the bard at once resign 
 His claim to favour from the sacred Nine ? 
 For ever startled by the mingled howl 
 Of northern wolves, that still in darkness prowl ; 
 A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
 By hellish instinct, all that cross their way ; 
 Aged or young, the living or the dead, 
 No mercy find — these harpies must be fed. 
 Why do the injured unresisting yield 
 The calm possession of their native field ? 
 Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
 Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's Seat ? § 
 
 Health to immortal Jeffrey ! once, in name, 
 England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
 
 • Mr. Cottle, Amos, Joseph, I don't know which, hut one or both, once sellers of books 
 ';&ey did not write, and now writers of books tnat do not sell, have published a pair of 
 .Vtcs. " Alfred" (poor Alfred I Pye has been at him too 1) " Alfred" and the " Fall 
 •rt Cambria." 
 
 t Mr. Maurice hath manufactured the component parts of a ponderous quarto, upon 
 tbe " Beauties of Richmond Hill," and the like ; — it also takes in a charming view of 
 Turnbam Green, Hammersmith, Brentford, Old and New, and the parts adjacent. 
 
 X Poor Montgomery 1 though praised by every English review, has been bitterly re.viled 
 oy the Edinburgh. After all, the bard of Sheffield is a man of considerable genius ; hi» 
 ' Wanderer of Switzerland " is worth a thousand " Lyrical Ballads," and at least fifty 
 '* degraded epics." 
 
 4 Arthur's Seat ; the hill which overhangs Edinburgh. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 1)9 
 
 In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
 Some think that Satan has resign' d his tni3t, 
 And given the spirit to the world again, 
 To sentence letters, as he sentenced mea. 
 With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
 With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
 JJred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
 &s yet hath taught him is to find a flaw. 
 Since well instructed in the patriot school 
 To rail at party, though a party tool, 
 Who knows, if chance his patrons should restore 
 Back to the sway they forfeited before, 
 His scribbling toils some recompense may meet, 
 And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat. 
 Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope, 
 And greeting thus, present him with a rope : 
 " Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind ! 
 Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
 This cord receive, for thee reserved with care, 
 To wield in judgment, and at length to wear." 
 
 Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve his life, 
 To nourish on tho fertile shores of Fife, 
 And guard it sacred in its future wars. 
 Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars ■ 
 Can none remember that eventful day, 
 That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 
 When Little's Icadless pistol met his eye, 
 And Bow Street myrmidons stood laughing by ?* 
 Oh, day disastrous ! on her firm-set rock, 
 Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock : 
 Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
 Low groan'd the startled whirlwinds of tho north ; 
 Tweed ruffled half his waves to form a tear, 
 The other half pursued its calm career ; + 
 Arthur's steep summit nodded to its base, 
 The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place ; 
 The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 
 On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
 The Tolbooth felt defrauded of his charms, 
 If Jeffrey died, except within her arms :£ 
 Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn, 
 The sixteenth story where himself was born, 
 
 ' In 180G, Messrs. Jeffrey and Moore met at Chalk Farm. The duel was prevented by 
 tne interference of the magistracy ; and, on examination, the balls of the pistols, uke 
 the courage of the combatants, were found to have evaporated. This incident gave occu- 
 ■ion to much waggery in the daily prints. 
 
 t The Tweed here behaved with proper decorum ; it would have been highly repre- 
 hensible in the English half of the river to have shown the smallest symptom of 
 apprehension. 
 
 X This display of sympathy on the part of the Tolbooth (the principal prison in Edin- 
 burgh), which truly Beems to have been most affected on this occasion, is much to be 
 commended. It was to be apprehended, that the many urfhappy criminals executed iu 
 tho front might have l'endered the edifice more callous. She is said to be of the Bofter 
 cox, l;ec:mso her delicacy of feeling on this day was truly feminine, though, like nioit 
 feminine impulses, perhaps a little Bullish. 
 
 H 2 
 
100 
 
 BYRON'S POEM8. 
 
 His patrimonial garret, foil to ground, 
 
 And pale Edina shudder' d at the sound : 
 
 Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white reams. 
 
 Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams ; 
 
 This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, 
 
 That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue ; 
 
 And all with justice deem'd the two combinod 
 
 The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
 
 But Caledonia's goddess hover' d o'er 
 
 The field, and saved him from the wrath of Moore ; 
 
 From either pistol snatch'd the vengeful lead, 
 
 And straight restored it to her favourite's head ; 
 
 That head, with greater than magnetic power, 
 
 Caught it, as Danae caught the golden shower, 
 
 And, though the thickening dross will scarce refine, 
 
 Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
 
 " My son," she cried, "ne'er thirst for gore again, 
 
 Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
 
 O'er politics and poesy preside, 
 
 Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 
 
 For long as Albion's heedless sons submit, 
 
 Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 
 
 So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 
 
 Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
 
 Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 
 
 And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
 
 First in the ranks illustrious shall be seen 
 
 The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen.* 
 
 Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer, + and sometimoa, 
 
 In gratitude, thou'lt praise his rugged rhymes, 
 
 Smug Sydney % too thy bitter page shall seek, 
 
 And classic Hallam, § much renown'd for Greek ; 
 
 Scott may perchance his name and influence lend, 
 
 And paltry Pillans || shall traduce his friend ; 
 
 While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe,!) 
 
 As he himself was damn'd, shall try to damn. 
 
 • His lordship has been much abroad, is a member of the Athenian Society, arwi r» 
 riewer of " Gell's Topography of Troy." 
 
 t Mr. Herbert is a translator of Icelandic and other poetry. One of the principal piwr* 
 Is a " Song on the Recovery of Thor's Hammer f the translation is a pleaaanc cb<tti' >i> 
 the vulvar tongue, and endeth thus : — 
 
 " Instead of money and rings, I wot, 
 The hammer's bruises were her lot ; 
 Thus Odin's son his hammer got." 
 
 t Tb» Reverend Sydney Smith, the reputed author of " Peter Plymley's Letters," an« 
 sundry criticisms. 
 
 § Mr Hallam reviewed Payne Knight's " Taste," and was exceedingly severe on some 
 Greek verses therein : it was not discovered that the lines were Pindar's till the press 
 rendered it impossible to cancel the critique, which still stands an everlasting monument 
 of Hallam's ingenuity. 
 
 The said Hallam is incensed, because he is falsely accused, seeing that he never dineth 
 at Holland House. If this be true, I am sorry— not for having said so, but on his 
 account, as I understand his lordship's feasts are preferable to his compositions. If he did 
 not review Lord Holland's performance, I am glad, because it must have been painful to 
 read, and irksome to praise it. If Mr. Hallam will tell me who did review it, the real 
 name shall find a place in the text; provided, nevertheless, the said name be of two 
 erthodox musical syllables, and will come into the verse ; till then, Hallam must stand 
 for want of a better. 
 
 d Pillans is a tutor at Eton. 
 
 S lbe Honourable G. Lam be reviewed Bereaford'a Miseries," and \» moreover auti^j 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AXD SCOTCH REVJ.EWER3 
 
 101 
 
 Known be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
 Thy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 
 Whilo grateful Britain yields the praise she owes 
 To Holland's hirelings and to learning's foes. 
 Yet mark one caution, ere thy next review 
 Spread its light wings of saffron and of blue, 
 Beware lest blundering Brougham* destroy the sal©, 
 Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail." 
 Thus having said, the kilted goddess kiss'd 
 Her son, and vanish'd in a Scottish mist.*t* 
 
 Illustrious Hollan d ! hard would be his lot, 
 His hirelings mention 'd, and himself forgot ! 
 Holland, with Henry Petty:}: at his back, 
 The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
 Blest bo the banquets spread at Holland House, 
 Where Scotchmen feed and critics may carouse ! 
 Long, long beneath that hospitable roof, 
 Shall Grub Street dine, while duns are kept aloof. 
 Seo honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 
 Resume his pen, review his lordship's work, 
 And, grateful to the founder of the feast, 
 Declare his landlord can translate at least ;§ 
 Dunodin ! view thy children with delight, 
 They writo for food — and feed becauso they wi ito : 
 And lest, when heated with the unusual grape, 
 Some glowing thoughts should to the press escape, 
 And tinge with red the female reader's cheek, 
 My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
 Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
 Reforms each error, and refines the whole. || 
 
 Now to the Drama turn — Oh ! motley sight, 
 What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite ! 
 Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent,^j 
 And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content.** 
 
 of a farce enacted with much applause at the Priory, Stanmore ; and damned with greM 
 expedition at the late theatre, Coven t Garden. It was entitled " Whistle for It." 
 
 * Mr. Brougham, in No. XXV of the " Edinburgh Review," throughout the aiiifJe 
 concerning Don Pedro de Cevahos, has displayed more politics than policy; many of 
 the worthy burgesses of Edinburgh being so Incensed at the infamous principles it evinces, 
 as to have withdrawn their subscriptions. 
 
 It seems that Mr. Brougham is not a Pict, as I supposed, but a Borderer, and his name 
 is p'onounced Broom, from Treut to Tay : — So be it. 
 
 * i ought to apologize to the worthy deities for introducing a new goddess with short 
 petticoats to their notice : but alas I what was to be done? I could not say Caledonia's 
 failing, it being well known the»a no genius to be found from Clackmannan to Caith- 
 ness ; yet without sui>ernatural agency, how was Jeffrey to bo saved f The national 
 ** kelpies," &c. are too unpoetical, and the " brownies " and " gude neighbours " (spirits 
 of * uood disposition) refused to extricate him. A goddess, therefore, has been called for 
 thr purpose, and groat ought to be the gratitude of Jeffrey, seeing it is the only commu- 
 nicatioti he ever held, or U likely to hold, with anything heavenly. 
 
 ! Marquis of Lansdowne. 
 
 «} Lord H. has translated some specimens of Lope de Vega, inserted in his life of the 
 author : both are bepraised by his disinterested guests. 
 
 II Certain it is, her ladyship is suspected of having displayed her matchless wit in the 
 " Edinburgh Review." However that may be, we know, from good authority, that th« 
 manuscripts are submitted to her perusal — no doubt for correction. 
 
 ^ In the melo-drama of " Tekeli," that heroic prince is clapt into a barrel on t\* 
 tVice ; a new asylum lor distressed heroes. 
 
 Thomas Dibdin, author of " The Cabinet," " English Fleet," " Mother Gocee, *«• 
 •feu of the great English lyrist. 
 
1G2 
 
 btkon's poems. 
 
 Though now, thank Heaven ! the Rosciomanitt 'a o'er,* 
 And full-grown actors are endured once more ; 
 Yet what avail their vain attempts to please, 
 While British critics suffer scenes like these ? 
 While Reynolds vents his " dammes ! " "poohs !" and 
 
 "zounds !"f 
 And common-place and common sense confounds ? 
 While Kenney^ "World" just suffer'd to proceed, 
 Proclaims the audience very kind indeed ! 
 And Beaumont's pilfer' d Caratach affords 
 A tragedy complete in all but words ? § 
 Who but must mourn, while these are all the rage, 
 The degradation of our vaunted stage ? 
 Heavens ! is all sense of shame, and talent gone ? 
 Have we no living bard of merit ? — none ? 
 Awake, George Colman ! Cumberland, awake ! 
 Ring the alarum-bell ! let folly quake ! 
 Oh, Sheridan ! if aught can move thy pen, 
 Let Comedy resume her throne again ; 
 Abjure the mummery of German schools, 
 Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
 Give, as thy last memorial to the age, 
 One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
 Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
 Where Garrick trod, and Kemble lives to tread ? 
 On those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask, 
 And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
 Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
 From Cherry, Skeffington, and Mother Goose ? 
 While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, forgot, 
 On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot ? 
 Lo t with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
 The rival candidates for Attic fame ! 
 In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
 Still Skeffington and Goose divide the prize. 
 And sure great Skeffington must claim our praise, 
 For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
 Renown' d alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
 Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ;|| 
 Nor sleeps with "Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
 In five facetious acts comes thundering on,^ 
 While poor John Bull, bewilder'd with the scene, 
 Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean ; 
 But as some hands applaud — a venal few — 
 Rather than sleep, why J ohn applauds it too. 
 
 • Master Betty had made his fortune, and waB gone to school, as a boy cf hi* *£c 
 ibould. 
 
 f All these are favourite expressions of Mr. R, and prominent in his comedies, lifin^ 
 and defunct. 
 
 I Author of the excellent farce of " Raising the Wind," and other clever pieces. 
 
 § Air. T. Sheridan, the new manager of Drury Lone Theatre, stripped the tragedy o1 
 ** Bonduca " of the dialogue, and exhibited the scenes as the spectacle of Caractaciia. 
 Was this worthy of his sire ? or of himself ? 
 
 I Mr. Greenwood is, we believe, scene-painter to Drury Lane theatre — as such, Mr. S. 
 Is much indebted to him. 
 
 *f Mr. S. is the illustrious author of the 14 Sleeping Beauty ;" and some comedies, parti- 
 cularly " Maids and Bachelors f Baccalaurii baculo magis quam lauro digni. 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Such are we now. Ah ! wherefore should we turn 
 To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
 Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
 Or, kind to dulness, do you fear to blame ? 
 Well may the nobles of our present race 
 Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face ; 
 Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
 And worship Catalani's pantaloons,* 
 Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
 Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 
 
 Then let Ausonia, skill'd in every art 
 To soften manners, but corrupt the heart, 
 Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 
 To sanction vice, and hunt decorum down : 
 Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes, 
 And bless the promise which his form displays : 
 While Gayton bounds before th' enraptured looka 
 Of hoary marquises and stripling dukes ; 
 Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
 Twirl her light limbs, that spurn tho needless veil ; 
 Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
 Wave the white arm, and point the pliant toe ■ 
 Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
 Strain her fair neck, and charm the listening throng ! 
 Raise not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ! 
 Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
 By whose decrees, our sinful souls to save, 
 No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave ; 
 And beer undrawn, and beards unmown, display 
 Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 
 
 Or, hail at once the patron and the pile 
 Of vice and folly, Greville and Argyle \ f 
 Where yon proud palace, fashion's hallow* d fane, 
 Spreads wide her portals for the motley train, 
 Behold the new Petronius of the day,£ 
 The arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
 There the hired eunuch, the Hesperian choir, 
 The melting lute, the soft lascivious lyre, 
 The song from Italy, the step from France, 
 The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
 
 • Ji Aldl and Catalani require little notice,— for the visage of the one and th* ia!ary ol 
 tlhe otber will enable us long to recollect these amusing vagabonds ; besides, w_ *ro Btlll 
 bbvk and blue from the squeeze on the first night of the lady's appearance in tr omen. 
 
 \ To prevent any blunder, such as mistaking a street for a man, I beg leave to state 
 that it is the institution, and not the duke of that name, which is here alluded to. 
 
 a gentleman, with whom I am slightly acquainted, lost in the Argyle Rooms several 
 thousand pounds at backgammon : it is but Justice to the manager in this instance to Bay, 
 that some degree of disapprobation was manifested ; but why are the implements ot 
 gaming allowed in a place devoted to the society of both sexes ? A pleasant thing for the 
 wives and daughters of those who are blest or curst with such connections, to hear th* 
 billiard -tables rattling In one room, and the dice in another 1 That this is the case, f 
 myself can testify, as a late unworthy member of an institution which materially affects 
 the morals of the higher orders, while the lower may not even move to the sound of a 
 tabor and fiddle without the chance of indictment for riotous behaviour. 
 
 I Petronius, " Arbiter elegantiarum " to Nero, " and a very pretty fellow in his day," 
 aa Mr. Congre ve's " Old Bachelor " saith. 
 
104 
 
 ET RON'S POEMS. 
 
 The smile of beauty, and the flush of wine, 
 
 For fops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords combine : 
 
 Each to his humour — Comus all allows ; 
 
 Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's spouse. 
 
 Talk not to us, ye starving sons of trade ! 
 
 Ot piteous ruin, which ourselves have made ; 
 
 In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
 
 Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 
 
 "When for the night some lately titled ass 
 
 Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
 
 The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, 
 
 The audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
 
 Now round the room the circling dow'gers sweep, 
 
 Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap : 
 
 The first in length en'd line majestic swim, 
 
 The last display the free, unfetter'd limb ! 
 
 Those for Hibernia's lusty sons repair 
 
 With art the charms which nature could not sparo , 
 
 These after husbands wing their eager flight, 
 
 Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 
 
 Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
 Where, all forgotten but the power to please, 
 Each maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
 Each swain may teach new systems, or be taught : 
 There the blithe youngster, just return'd from Spain, 
 Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
 The jovial caster 's set, and seven 's the nick, 
 Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
 If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
 And all your hope or wish is to expire, 
 Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
 And, kinder still, a Paget for your wife : 
 Fit consummation of an earthly race, 
 Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
 While none but menials o'er the bed of death, 
 Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering breath ; 
 Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, 
 \ The mangled victim of a drunken brawl,* 
 
 To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall.f 
 
 Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide his hand, 
 To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
 E'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
 Just skill' d to know the right and choose the wrong, 
 
 • Lord Falkland was killed in a duel by Captain Powell, 
 
 t Mutato nomine de te 
 Fabula narratur. 
 
 I knew the late Lord Falkland well. On Sunday night I beheld him presldirfi' »t. r.i» 
 own table, in all the honest pride of hospitality; on Wednesday morning, at three 
 o'cloett, I saw stretched before me all that remained of courage, feeling, and a host of 
 passions. He was a gallant and successful officer: his faults were the faults of a sailor ; 
 as such, Britons will forgive them. He died like a brave man in a better cause ; for had 
 be fallen in like manner on the deck of the frigate to which he was just appointed, hU 
 last moments would have been held up by his countrymen as an example to succeeding 
 haroes. 
 
ENGLISH BANDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 105 
 
 Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost. 
 To fight my course through passion's countless host, 
 Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
 Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
 E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
 Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal : 
 Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
 "What art thou better, meddling fool, than they!" 
 And every brother rake will smile to see 
 That miracle, a moralist in me. 
 No matter : when some bard in virtue strong — . 
 Gifford perchance — shall raise the chastening song, 
 Then sleep my pen for ever ; and my voice 
 Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
 Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
 May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 
 
 As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals, 
 From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles,* 
 Why should we call them from their dark abode, 
 In broad St. Giles's or in Tottenham-road ! 
 Or (since some men of fashion nobly daro 
 To scrawl in verse) from Bond Street or the Squar3 ? 
 If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
 Most wisely doom'd to shun the public sight, 
 What harm ? In spite of every critic elf, 
 Sir T. may read his stanzas to himself; 
 Miles Andrews still his strength in couplets try, 
 And live in prologues, though his dramas die. 
 Lords too are bards, such things at times befall, 
 And 'tis some praise in peers to write at all. 
 Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 
 Ah ! who would take their titles with their rhymes 1 
 Roscommon ! Sheffield ! with your spirits fled, 
 No future laurels deck a noble head ; 
 No muse will cheer, with renovating smile, 
 The paralytic puling of Carlisle : 
 The puny schoolboy and his early lay 
 Men pardon, if his follies pass away : 
 But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse, 
 Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow wor&3 ? 
 What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
 Lord, rhymester, petit-maltre, pamphleteer !+ 
 So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
 His scenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage ; 
 But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough ! 
 Nor drugg'd their audience with the tragic stuff. 
 Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 
 And case his volumes in congenial calf : 
 
 • What wcmld be the sentiments of the Persian Anacreon, Hafiz, oould he rise from hU 
 
 ilendid sepulchre at Sheeraz, where he reposes with Ferdousi and Sadi, the Oriental 
 <nner and Catullus, and behold his name assumed by one Stott of Dromore, the moat 
 apudent and execrable of literary poachers for the daily prints. 
 
 t The Bar] of Carlisle has lately published an eighteen-penny pamphlet on the state of 
 e stage, and otters his plan for building a new theatre : it is to be hoped his lordship 
 111 be permitted to bring forward anything for the stage— except his own tragedies. 
 
106 
 
 BY/tON'S POEMS. 
 
 Yes ! doff that covering, where morocco shine» 5 
 And hang a calf -skin on those recreant lines.* 
 
 With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead, 
 Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
 With you I war not : Gifford's heavy hand 
 Has crush' d, without remorse, your numerous band 
 On "all the talents" vent your venal spleen ; 
 Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
 Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
 And Melville's Mantle prove a blanket too. 
 One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, 
 And, peace be with you ! 'tis your best reward. 
 Such damning fame as Dunciads only give, 
 Could bid your lines beyond a mornmg live ; 
 But now at once your fleeting labours close, 
 With names of greater note in blest repose. 
 Far be't from me unkindly to upbraid 
 The lovely Kosa's prose in masquerade, 
 Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind, 
 Leave wondering comprehension far behind.* 1 ' 
 Though Bell has lost his nightingales and owls, 
 Matilda snivels still, and Hafiz howls ; 
 And Crusca's spirit, rising from the dead, 
 Kevives in Laura, Quiz, and X. Y.Z.lJ: 
 
 When some brisk youth, the tenant of a stall, 
 Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, 
 Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
 St. Crispin quits, and cobbles for the muse, 
 Heavens ! how the vulgar stare ! how crowds applaud ! 
 How ladies read, and literati laud ! 
 If chance some wicked wag should pass his jest, 
 'Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know best ? 
 Genius must guide when wits admire the rhyme, 
 And Capel Lofft declares 'tis quite sublime. § 
 Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade ! 
 Swains ! quit the plough, resign the useless spade ! 
 Lo ! Burns and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
 Gifford was born beneath an adverse star, 
 Forsook the labours of a servile state, 
 Stemm'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over fate : 
 Then why no more ? if Phoebus smiled on you, 
 Bloomfield ! why not on brother Nathan too f 
 
 • " Doff that lion's hide, 
 
 . And hang a calf -skin on those recreant limbs." — Shaks. King John. 
 
 Lord C/« works most resplendently bound, form a conspicuous ornament to his book- 
 shelves. 
 
 " The rest is all but leather and prunella." 
 
 f This lively little Jessica, the daughter of the noted Jew K , seems to be a follower 
 
 of the Delia Crusca school, and has published two volumes of very respectable absurdities 
 In rhyme, as times go ; besides sundry novels in the style of the first edition of" Th«, 
 Monk." 
 
 I These are the signatures of various worthies who figure in the poetical departments of 
 the newspapers. 
 
 § Capel Lofft, Esq., the Maecenas of shoemakers, and preface-writer-general to dis- 
 tressed versemen ; a kind of gratis accoucheur to those who wish to be delivered of rb vcj» 
 but do not know how to briny f<H*h, 
 
ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 107 
 
 Him too the mama, not the muse, has seized ; 
 
 Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : 
 
 And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
 
 No common be inclosed, without an ode.* 
 
 Oh ! since increased refinement deigns to smile 
 
 On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
 
 Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 
 
 Alike the rustic and mechanic soul. 
 
 Ye tuneful cobblers ! still your notes prolong, 
 
 Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
 
 So shall the fair your handiwork peruse, 
 
 Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your shoe; 
 
 May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill,"!* 
 
 And tailors' lays be longer than their bill ! 
 
 While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, 
 
 And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 
 
 To the famed throng now paid the tribute due, 
 Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. 
 Come forth, 0 Campbell ! give thy talents scope # 
 Who dares aspire if thou must cease to hope ? 
 And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last, 
 Recall the pleasing memory of the past ; 
 Arise ! let blest remembrance still inspire, 
 And strik* to wonted tones thy hallow'd lyre ; 
 Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 
 Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 
 What ! must deserted poesy still weep 
 Where her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep ? 
 Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns 
 To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel, Burns ! 
 No ! though contempt hath mark'd the spurious brood. 
 The race who rhyme from folly, or for food, 
 Yet still some genuine sons 'tis hers to boast, 
 Who, least affecting, still affect the most : 
 Feel as they write, and write but as they feel — 
 Bear witness Gifford, Sotheby, Macneil.jj 
 
 " Why slumbers Gifford ?" once was ask'd in vain ! 11 
 Why slumbers Gifford ? let us ask again. 
 Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 
 Are there no fools whose backs demand the scourge ? 
 Are there no sins for satire's bard to greet ? 
 Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street ? 
 
 • Bee Nathaniel Bloomfleld's ode, elegy, or whatever he or any one oh e chooses to eaL' 
 U, on the inclosure of" Honington Green." 
 
 f Vide " Recollections of a Weaver in the Moorlands of Staffordshire.'* 
 
 X It would be superfluous to recall to the mind of the reader the authors of " Th* 
 Pleasures of Memory " and " The Pleasiires of Hope," the most beautiful didactic poena 
 in our language, if we except Pope's " Essay on Man ;" but so many poetasters have 
 started up, that even the names of Campbell and Rogers become strange. 
 
 § Gifford, author of the " Baviad and Maeviad," the first satires of the day, and trans- 
 lator of Juvenal. 
 
 Sotheby, translator of Wieland's " Oberon " and Virgil's " Georgics," and author of 
 " Saul," an epic poem. 
 
 Macneil, whose poems are deservedly popular ; particularly " Scotland's Scaith, or the 
 Waes of War," of which ten thousand copies were sold in one month. 
 
 1| Mr. Gifford promised publicly that the " Baviad and Maeviad " should not be hio hut 
 original works ; let him remember " Mox in reluctantes draconei." 
 
108 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, 
 And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath ? 
 Nor blaze with guilty glare through future tin:®, 
 Eternal beacons of consummate crime ? 
 Arouse thee, Gifford ! be thy promise claim' d, 
 Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 
 
 Unhappy White ! while life was in its spring,* 
 And thy young muse just waved her joyous win^, 
 The spoiler came ; and all thy promise fair 
 Has sought the grave, to sleep for ever there. 
 Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone, 
 When Science' self destroy' d her favourite son ! 
 Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
 She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the fruit. 
 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
 And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : 
 So the struck oagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart ; 
 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, 
 He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel ; 
 While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, 
 Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. + 
 
 There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days, 
 That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ; 
 That strain' d invention, ever on the wing, 
 Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 
 Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who write, 
 Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
 Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, 
 And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
 This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest ; 
 Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 
 
 And here let Shee and genius find a place, £ 
 Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace : 
 To guide whose hands the sister arts combine, 
 And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
 Whose magic touch can bid the canvas glow, 
 Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious mow, 
 While honours, doubly merited, attend 
 The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 
 
 Blest is the man who dares approach the bovver 
 Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour ; 
 
 Henry Kirke White died at Cambridge, in October, 1806, in consequence o! rrv> rr-nrh 
 rtion in the pursuit of studies that would have matured a mind which dise.ne wi<i 
 poverty could not impair, and which death itself destroyed rather thnn subdued. His 
 poems abound in such beauties as must impress the reader with the liveliest regret Hint so 
 short a period was allotted to talents which would have dignified even the sacred fui .-ctiona 
 he was destined to assume. 
 
 f This is one of the finest images in all Lord Byron's works : whether quitt orijiuallj 
 kit own I will not be bound to say. 
 I Mr. Shee, author of " Rhymed on Art," and " Elements of Art." 
 
fiXGLISH 3ARD3 AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 1G& 
 
 Whose steps have press' d, whose eye has mark'd afar. 
 The clime that nursed the sons 01 song and war, 
 The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
 Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
 But doubly blest is he, whose heart expands 
 With hallow'd feelings for those classic lands ; 
 Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
 And views their remnants with a poet's eye. 
 Wright !* 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
 Those shores of glory, and to sing them toe ; 
 And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
 To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 
 
 And you, associate bards ! who snatch'd to liplitt 
 Those gems too long withheld from modern sigh t ; 
 Whose mingling taste combined to cull the wreath 
 Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, 
 And all their renovated fragrance flung, 
 To grace the beauties of your native tongue ; 
 Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
 The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
 Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone : 
 Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 
 
 Let these, or such as these, with just applause, 
 Restore the muse's violated laws ; 
 But not in flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
 That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme ; 
 Whose gilded cymbals, more adom'd than clear, 
 The eye delighted, but fatigued the ear ; 
 In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
 But now, worn down, appear in native brass ; 
 While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
 Evaporate in similes and sound : 
 Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die : 
 False glare attracts, but more offends the eye.^I 
 
 Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth stoop, 
 The meanest object of the lowly group, 
 Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
 Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Lloyd :§ 
 Let them — but hold, my muse, nor dare to teach 
 A strain, far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
 The native genius with their being given 
 Will point the path, and peal their notes to heaven. 
 
 And thou too, Scott, || resign to minstrels rude 
 The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
 
 • Mr. Wright, late consul-general for the Seven Islanis, ia author of a very beautiful 
 ooein just published : it is entitled" Horse Ionicae," and is descriptive of the isles and 
 Adjacent coast of Greece. 
 
 t The translators of the " Anthology " have since published separate poems, which 
 •vinee genius that only requires opportunity to attain eminence. 
 
 J The neglect of the " Botanic Garden " is some proof of returning taste : the ice-aery 
 U its sole recommendation. 
 
 5> Messrs. Lambe and Lloyd, the most ignoble followers of Southey and Co. 
 
 f By the bye, I hope that in Mr. Scott's next poem, his hero or heroine wHl be less 
 addicted to " Gramarye," and more to ^ainmar, than the Lady of the Lay, and her 
 br&vc William of Delorainu. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Let others spin their meagre lines for hiro , 
 
 Enough for genius, if itself inspire ! 
 
 Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
 
 Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; 
 
 Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish vers©, 
 
 And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse ; 
 
 Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 
 
 To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
 
 Let Moore be lewd : let Strangford steal from Moors 
 
 And swear that Camoens sang such notes of yoro ; 
 
 Let Hayley hobble on ; Montgomery rave ; 
 
 And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave ; 
 
 Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
 
 And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line ; 
 
 Let Stott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest* 
 
 Of Grub Street, and of Grosvenor Place the best, 
 
 Scrawl on, till death release us from the strain 
 
 Or Common Sense assert her rights again. 
 
 But thou, with powers that mock the aid of praise, 
 
 Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lays : 
 
 Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
 
 Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine. 
 
 Say ! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
 
 The glorious record of some nobler field, 
 
 Than the wild foray of a plundering clan, 
 
 Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name of man ? 
 
 Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
 
 For outlaw'd Sherwood's tales of Robin Hood ? 
 
 Scotland ! still proudly claim thy native bard, 
 
 And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
 
 Yet not with thee alone his name should live, 
 
 But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
 
 Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more, 
 
 And tell the tale of what she was before ; 
 
 To future times her faded fame recall, 
 
 And save her glory, though his country fall. 
 
 * It may be asked why I have censured the Earl of Carlisle, my guardian and relative, 
 to whom I dedicated a volume of puerile poems a few years ago. The guardianship v, , 
 nominal, at least as far as I have been able to discover ; the relationship I cannot help, 
 and am very sorry for it ; but as his lordship seemed to forget it on a very essential 
 occasion tc me, I shall not burden my memory with the recollection. I donottiniak 
 tnat personal differences sanction the unjust condemnation of a brother scribbler ; but I 
 see no reason why they should act as a preventive, when the author, noble or ignot>)t, 
 has, for a series of years, beguiled a " discerning public " (as the advertisements have it) 
 with divers reams of most orthodox, imperial nonsense. Besides, I do not step asde to 
 vituperate the earl : no — his works come fairly in review with those of other patneiau 
 literati. If, before I escaped from my teens, I said anything in favour of his lordship's 
 paper books, it was in the way of dutiful dedication, and more from the advice of others 
 than my own judgment, and I seize the first opportunity of pronouncing my sincere 
 recantation. I have heard that some persons conceive me to be under obligations to Lord 
 Carlisle ; if so, I shall be most particularly happy to learn what they are, and when 
 conferred, that they may be duly appreciated, and publicly acknowledged. What I have' 
 humbly advanced as an opinion on his printed things, I am prepared to support, if neces- 
 sary, by quotations from elegies, eulogies, odes, episodes, and certain facetious anJ 
 dainty tragedies bearing his name and mark : — 
 
 " What can ennoble knaves, ox fools, or cowards J 
 Alas 1 not all the blood of all the Howards 1 " 
 
 So says Pope. Aman ! 
 
2NGL1SH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Yet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
 To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
 New eras spread their wings, new nations rise, 
 And other victors fill the applauding skies ;* 
 A few brief generations fleet along, 
 Whose sons forget the poet and his song : 
 E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce may claim 
 The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
 When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest blast, 
 Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last ; 
 And glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, 
 Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires. 
 
 Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
 Expert in science, more expert at puns ? 
 Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she fiie3, 
 And even spurns the great Seatonian prize ; 
 Though printers condescend the press to soil 
 With rhyme by Hoare, and epic blank by Hoyle : 
 Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
 Requires no sacred theme to bid us list.t 
 Ye ! who in Granta's honours would surpass, 
 Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass ; 
 A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
 Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 
 
 There Clarke, still striving piteously " to please," 
 Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
 A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
 A monthly scribbler of somo low lampoon, 
 Comdemn'd to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
 And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, 
 Devotes to scandal his congenial mind ; 
 Himself a iiving libel on mankind.^ 
 
 Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race ! § 
 At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ; 
 So sunk in dulness, and so lost to shame, 
 That Smythe and Hodgson scarce redeem thy fame ! || 
 But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 
 The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
 On her green banks a greener wreath is wove, 
 To crown the bards that ii&unt her classic grove ; 
 
 * " Tollere humo, victorque virum volitare per or:i."— Virgil. 
 
 t The" Gain** of Hoyle," well known to the votaries of whist, chess, Ac, are not U> 
 be superseded by the vagaries of his poetical namesake, whose poem comprised, as ex- 
 pressly stated in the advertisement, all the " plagues of Egypt." 
 
 t This lwrson, who has lately betrayed the most rabid symptoms of confirmed author 
 ship, is writer of a poem denominated the " Art of Pleasing," as " lucus a non lucendo " 
 containing Little pleasantry, and less poetry. He also acts as monthly stipendiary and 
 collector of calumnies for the " Satirist." If this unfortunate young man would exchange 
 the magazines for the mathematics, and endeavour to take a decent degree in his univer- 
 sity, it might eventually prove more serviceable than his present salary. 
 
 § " Into Cambridgeshire the emperor Probus transported a considerable body d 
 Vandals."— Gibbon's " Decline and Fall," vol. ii. page 83. There is no reason to doubt 
 the truth of this assertion ; the breed is still in high perfection. 
 
 H Mr. Hodgson's name requires no praise ; the man who in translation displays unques- 
 tionable genius, may well be expected to excel in original composition, of which it u »* 
 be hoped we shall soon see a splendid specimen. 
 
112 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Where Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
 And modern Britons justly praise their sires,* 
 
 For me, who, thus unask'd, have dared to toll 
 My country, what her sons should know too well, 
 Zeal for her honour bade me here engage 
 The host of idiots that infest her age ; 
 No just applause her honour' d name shall lose, 
 As first in freedom, dearest to the muse. 
 Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
 And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name ! 
 What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
 What Tyre appear'd in her meridian hour, 
 'Tis thine at once, fair Albion ! to have been — 
 Earth's chief dictatress, ocean's mighty queen : 
 But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the p].ain, 
 And Tyre's proud piers lie shatter' d in the main : 
 Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin huiTd, 
 And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
 But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate,f 
 With warning ever scoff' d at, till too late ; 
 To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
 And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. 
 
 Then, hapless Britain ! be thy rulers blest, 
 The senate's oracles, thy people's jest, 
 Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
 The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
 While Canning's colleagues hate him for his wit, 
 And old dame Fortland J fills the place of Pitt. 
 
 Yet once again, adieu ! ere this the sail 
 That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale ; 
 And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height, § 
 And Stamboul's || minarets must greet my sight : 
 Thence shall I stray through beauty's native clime,^[ 
 Where Kaff ** is clad in rocks, and crown'd with snows su bli 
 But should I back return, no letter'd rage 
 Shall drag my common -place book on the stage. 
 Let vain Valentia+i* rival luckless Carr, 
 And equal him whose work he sought to mar ; 
 Let Aberdeen and Elgin£; still pursue 
 The shade of fame through regions of virtti ; 
 
 • The " Aboriginal Britons," an excellent poem by Richards, 
 i The mad, prophetic daughter of Priam, whose predictions were never bellevetf. 
 % A friend of mine being asked why his Grace of P. was likened to an old wcraan ! 
 replied, " he supposed it was because he was past bearing." 
 § Calpe is the ancient name of Gibraltar, 
 f Stamboul is the Turkish word for Constantinople. 
 5 Georgia, remarkable for the beauty of its inhabitants. 
 Mount Caucasus. 
 
 ♦t Lord Valentia (whose tremendous travels are forthcoming with due decorations, 
 graphical, topographical, and typographical) deposed, on Sir John Carr's unlucky suit, 
 that Dubois's satire prevented his purchase of the " Stranger in Ireland."— Oh, fie, my 
 lord 1 has your lordship no more feeling for a fellow-tourist t " But two of a trade," 
 they say, &c. 
 
 XX Lord Elgin would fain persuade us that all the figures, with and without nosot, ia 
 hi* stone -shop, are the work of Phidias { " Credat Judaeua I" 
 
JSaiUUSH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 
 9 
 
 Waste useless thousands on their Phidian freaks, 
 Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques ; 
 And make their grand saloons a general mart 
 For all the mutilated blocks of art. 
 Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
 I leave topography to classic Gell ;* 
 A nd, quite content, no more shall interpose 
 To stun mankind with poesy or prose. 
 
 Thus far I've held my undisturb'd career, 
 Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfish fear ; 
 This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 
 Though not obtrusive, yet not quite unknown, 
 My voice was heard again, though not so loud, 
 My page, though nameless, never disavow'd ; 
 And now at once I tear the veil away : — 
 Cheer on the pack — the quarry stands at bay, 
 Unscared by all the din of Melbourne House, 
 Hy Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
 By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
 Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
 Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
 And feel they too " are penetrable stuff :" 
 And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
 Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
 The time hath been, when no harsh sound would fall 
 From lips that now may seem imbued with gall ; 
 Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
 The meanest thing that crawl' d beneath my eyes ; 
 But now, so callous grown, so changed since youth, 
 I've learn'd to think, and sternly speak the truth ; 
 Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 
 And break him on the wheel he meant for me ; 
 To spurn the rod a scribbler bids mo kiss, 
 Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss ; 
 Nay more, though till my rival rhymesters frown, 
 I, too, can hunt a poetaster down ; 
 And, arm'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at on^-e 
 To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
 Thus much I've dared to do ; how far my lay 
 Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let others say : 
 This, let the world, which knows not how to spare, 
 Yet rarely blames unjustly, now declare. 
 
 • Mr. Gell's " Topography of Troy aDd Ithaca " cannot fail to insure the •ppmbatlo 
 •very man possessed of classical taste, as well for the information Mr. G. conveys \s 
 mind of tb^ reader, as for the ability and research the respective works disomy- 
 
*ffc BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 POSTSCRIPT. 
 
 I have been informed, since the present edition went to the pres3, th&? 
 my trusty and well-beloved cousins, the Edinburgh Reviewers, are pre- 
 paring a most vehement critique on my poor, gentle, unresisting Muse, 
 whom they have already so bedevilled with their ungodly ribaldry 
 
 ** Tantsene animis cselestibus irae ! " 
 
 I suppose T must say of Jeffrey as Sir Andrew Aguecneek saith, " An I had 
 known he was so cunning of fence, I had seen him damned ere I had 
 fought him." What a pity it is that I shall be beyond the Bosphorus 
 before the next number has passed the Tweed. But I yet hope to light 
 my pipe with it in Persia. 
 
 My Northern friends have accused me, with justice, of personality 
 towards their great literary Anthropophagus, Jeffrey ; but what else was 
 to be done with him and his dirty pack, who feed by " lying and slander- 
 ing," and slake their thirst by "evil speaking?" I have adduced facts 
 already well known, and of Jeffrey's mind I have stated my free opinion, 
 nor has he thence sustained any injury; — what scavenger was ever soiled 
 by being pelted with mud? It may be said that I quit England because J 
 have censured there 14 persons of honour and wit about town;" but I am 
 coming back again, and their vengeance will keep hot till my return. 
 Those who know me can testify that my motives for leaving England are 
 very different from fears, literary or personal ; those who do not, may one 
 day be convinced. Since the publication of this thing, my name has not 
 been concealed ; I have been mostly in London, ready to answer for my 
 transgressions, and in daily expectation of sundry cartels ; but, alas ! 
 ** the age of chivalry is over," or in the vulgar tongue, there is no spirit 
 nowadays. 
 
 There is a youth yclept Hewson Clarke (subaudi, Esquire) a Sizer of 
 Emanuel College, and I believe a denizen of Berwick-upon-Tweed, whom 
 I have introduced in these pages to much better company than he has 
 been accustomed to meet; he is, notwithstanding, a very sad dog, and 
 for no reason that I can discover, except a personal quarrel with a bear 
 kept by me at Cambridge to sit for a fellowship, and whom the jealousy oi 
 his Trinity contemporaries prevented from success, has been abusing me, 
 and what is worse, the defenceless innocent above mentioned, in the 
 " Satirist," for one year and some months. I am utterly unconscious of 
 having given him any provocation; indeed, I am guiltless of having heard 
 his name till coupled with the " Satirist." He has therefore no reason to 
 complain, and I dare say that, like Sir Fretful Plagiary, he is rather pleased 
 than otherwise. I have now mentioned all who have done me the honour 
 to notice me and mine, that is, my ear band my book, except the editor 
 pf the " Satirist," who, it seems, is a gentleman, God wot! 1 wish he 
 could impart a little of his gentility to his subordinate scribblers. I hear 
 that Mr. Jerningham is about to take up the cudgels for his Maecenas, 
 Lord Carlisle. 1 hope not : he was one of the few, in the very short inter- 
 course I had with him, treated me with kindness when a boy ; and what- 
 ever he may say or do, " pour on, I will endure." I have nothing further 
 to add, save a general note of thanksgiving to readers, purchasers, and 
 »'ab.lisfcer ; and in the words of Scott, I wish 
 
 " To all and each a fair good night, 
 And rosy dreams and slumbers Ugh*, 1 " 
 
 • 
 
TO FLORENCE. 
 
 115 
 
 1NES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM AT MALTA. 
 
 As o'er the cold sepulchral stone 
 
 Some name arrests the passer by ; 
 Thus, when thou view'st this page alone, 
 
 May mine attract thy pensive eye ! 
 
 And when by thee that name is read, 
 Perchance in some succeeding year, 
 
 Reflect on me as on the dead, 
 And think my heart is buried here. 
 
 September 11, 180» 
 
 TO FLORENCE. 
 
 UH Lady ! when I left the shoro, 
 The distant shore which gave me birth, 
 
 I hardly thought to grieve once more, 
 To quit another spot on earth : 
 
 Yet here, amidst this barren isle, 
 
 Where panting Nature droops the head, 
 
 Where only thou art seen to smile, 
 I view my parting hour with dread. 
 
 Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 
 
 Divided by the dark blue main, 
 A few, brief, rolling seasons o'er, 
 
 Perchance I view her cliffs again : 
 
 But wheresoe'er I now may roam, 
 
 Thiough scorching clinie and varied sea, 
 
 Though Time restore me to my home, 
 I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee : 
 
 On thee, in whom at once conspire 
 
 All charms, which heedless hearts can movs, 
 Whom but to see is to admire, 
 
 And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 
 
 Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
 With such a word can more offend ; 
 
 And since thy heart I cannot share, 
 Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 
 
 And who so cold as look on thee, 
 Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less ? 
 
 Nor be, what man should ever be, 
 The friend of beauty in distress ? 
 
 Ah ! who would think that form had pass'd 
 Through Danger's most destructive path, 
 
 Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's blast, 
 And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath '? 
 I 2 
 
110 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Lady ! when I shall view the walls 
 
 Where free Byzantium once arose, 
 And Stamboul's Oriental halls 
 
 The Turkish tyrants now inclose ; 
 
 Though mightiest in the lists of fame, 
 
 That glorious city still shall be ; 
 On me 'twill hold a dearer claim, 
 
 As spot of thy nativity : 
 
 And though I bid thee now farewell, 
 
 When I behold that wondrous scene, 
 Since where thou art I may not dwell, 
 
 'Twill soothe to be where thou hast been. 
 
 September, IfsOB 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 70HF02ED DURING A THUNDER-STORM, AND WHILE BETiILDEREJi 
 NEAR MOUNT PINDUS, IN ALBANIA. 
 
 Chill and mirk is the nightly blast, 
 
 Where Pindus' mountains rise, 
 And angry clouds are pouring fast 
 
 The vengeance of the skies. 
 
 Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 
 
 And lightnings, as they play, 
 But show where rocks our path have cross'd 
 
 Or gild the torrent's spray. 
 
 Is yon a cot I saw, though low ? 
 
 When lightning broke the gloom — 
 How welcome were its shade ! — ah, no ! 
 
 'Tis but a Turkish tomb. 
 
 Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 
 ^ I hear a voice exclaim — 
 
 My way-worn countryman, who calls 
 On distant England's name. 
 
 A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 
 
 Another — 'tis to tell 
 The mountain-peasants to descend, 
 
 And lead us where they dwell. 
 
 Oh ! who in such a night will dare 
 
 To tempt the wilderness ? 
 And who 'mid thunder-peals can hear 
 
 Our signal of distress ? 
 
 And who that heard our shouts would ris€ 
 
 To try the dubious road ? 
 Nor rather deem from nightly cries 
 
 That outlaws were abroad. 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hour ! 
 
 More fiercely pours the storm ! 
 Yet here one though* has still the power 
 
 To keep my bosom warm. 
 
 While wand'ring through each broken pa'h, 
 
 O'er brake and craggy brow ; 
 While elements exhaust their wrath, 
 
 Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 
 
 Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
 Thy bark hath long been gone : 
 
 Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 
 Bow down my head alone ! 
 
 Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 
 
 When last I press'd thy lip ; 
 And long ere now, with foaming shock, 
 
 Impell'd thy gallant ship. 
 
 Now thou art safe ; nay, long ere now 
 
 Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 
 'Twero hard if aught so fair as thou 
 
 Should linger on the main. 
 
 And since I now remember thee 
 
 In darkness and in dread, 
 As in those hours of revelry 
 
 Which mirth and music sped ; 
 
 Do thou, amid the fair white walls, 
 
 If Cadiz yet bo free, 
 At times, from out her latticed hallo, 
 
 Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 
 
 Then think upon Calypso's isles, 
 
 Endear'd by days gone by ; 
 To others givo a thousand smiles, 
 
 To me a single sigh. 
 
 And when the admiring circle mark 
 
 The paleness of thy face, 
 A hall-form'd tear, a transient spark 
 
 Of melancholy grace, 
 
 Again thou'lt smile, and blushing shun 
 
 Some coxcomb's raillery ; 
 Nor own for once thou thought'st on gzlc. 
 
 Who ever thinks on thee. 
 
 Tnough smile and sigh alike are vain, 
 
 When sever'd hearts repine, 
 My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 
 
 And mourns in search of thine. 
 
113 
 
 BYRON'S POKMb. 
 
 STANZAS 
 
 WRITTEN ON PASSING THE AMBRACIAN GULF.* 
 
 Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
 Full beams the moon on Actium's coast ; 
 
 And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
 The ancient world was won and lost. 
 
 And now upon the scene I look, 
 
 The azure grave of many a Roman ; 
 Where stern ambition once forsook 
 
 His wavering crown to follow woman, 
 
 Florence ! whom I will love as well 
 
 As ever yet was said or sung, 
 (Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell), 
 
 Whilst thou art fair and I am young ; 
 
 Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 
 When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes : 
 
 Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
 Thy charms might raise new Antonies. 
 
 Though Fate forbids such things to be, 
 Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curl'd ! 
 
 I cannot lose a world for thee, 
 But would not lose thee for a world. 
 
 November 14. 1505. 
 
 THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM IS FLOWN ! 
 
 WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. 
 
 The spell is broke, the charm is flown ! 
 
 Thus is it with life's fitful fever : 
 We madly smile when we should groan ; 
 
 Delirium is our best deceiver. 
 
 Each lucid interval of thought 
 
 Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 
 And he that acts as wise men ought, 
 
 But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 
 
 • The lady referred to in this and the two following pieces— the wife of ier. Speneor 
 Smith, and daughter of Baron Herbert, Austrian ambassador at Constantinople, where 
 the was born — was a very remarkable person, and experienced a variety of striking 
 ad ventures. She was unhappy in her marriage, yet of unblemished reputation ; had 
 ei) gaged in some plots against Bonaparte, which excited his vengeance; was made 
 prisoner, but subsequently escaped ; afterwards suffered shipwreck— and all before she 
 was twenty-five years of age. The poet met her at Malta, on her way to England to join 
 her husband ; and these poems, and a reference to her in " Childe Harold/' are memo* 
 rial* of their brief acquaintance. 
 
MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART, 
 
 119 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVELLERS' BOOK £T 
 
 ORCHOMENUS. 
 
 IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN : — 
 
 *' Fair Albion, smiling, cee3 her son depart, 
 To trace the birth and nursery of art : 
 Noble his object, glorious is his aim ; 
 He comes to Athens, and he writes his name 1" 
 
 BENEAtSf WHICH LORD BYRON INSERTED THE FOLLOWING 
 
 The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
 Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
 Bu; yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse. 
 His name would bring more credit than his verso. 
 
 k 1 • 
 
 SAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. 
 
 Zturj novf aas li^airiia. 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart ! 
 Or, since that has left my breast, 
 Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
 • Hear my vow before I go, 
 Zwrj /.toi), crag ayairu).* 
 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each iEgean wind ; 
 By those lids whoso jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming ti r.go ; 
 By thoso wild eyes like the roe, 
 Tiioi] $i* v, crag dyairCb, 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 
 &y that zone-encircled waist ; 
 
 By all the token-flowers that tell t 
 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 
 By love's alternate joy and woo, 
 
 Zmj ijlov, vag dyairco. 
 
 4 Maid of Athens ! I am gono : 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 
 * Romaic erpressm of tenderness : if I translate it, I shall afTront the gentlemen, aa 
 if. inny seetn that Isuppoeed they could not ; and if I do not, I may affront tbe ladies. 
 Kor fear ol any mitonstruction on the part of the latter, I shall do so, begging pardon of 
 the lcamsd. It mans, "My life, I love you!" which sounds very prettily In all 
 languages, and is a much in fashion in Greece at this day, as, Juvenal tells ma, the two 
 first word* were anmgst the Human ladies, whose erotic expressions were all IMIenized. 
 
 T In the East (wlsre ladies are not taught to write, lest they should scribble assigna- 
 tions) flowers, ciilers, pebbles, &c, couvey the sentiments of the parties, by that 
 universal deputy oMercury — an old woman. A cinder says, " I burn for thee ;" a bunch 
 of flowers tied win hair, " Take mo and fiy ;" but » pebble declare*— what nothing 
 •Lis can. 
 
120 
 
 BYRON'S PO£MS. 
 
 Though I fly to Istambol,* 
 Athens holds my heart and soul : 
 Can I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 Zwrj /xou, (rag aycnrit). 
 
 JLttans 1818. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM SESTOSTO ABYDOS.t 
 
 If, in the month of dark December, 
 
 Leander, who was nightly wont 
 (What maid will not the tale remember ?) 
 
 To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 
 
 If, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 
 
 He sped to Hero, nothing loath, 
 And thus of old thy current pour'd, 
 
 Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 
 
 For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
 Though in the genial month of May, 
 
 My dripping limbs I faintly stretch, 
 And think I've done a feat to-day. 
 
 But since he cross' d the rapid tide, 
 
 According to the doubtful story, 
 To woo — and — Lord knows what beside 
 
 And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 
 
 'Twere hard to say who fared the best 
 
 Sad mortals ! thus the gods still plagfie you ! 
 
 He lost his labour, I my jest ; 
 For ho was drown' d. and I've the 
 
 a£ie 
 
 LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A PICltlRE. 
 
 Dear object of defeated care ! 
 
 Though now of love and thee bereft, 
 To reconcile me with despair, 
 
 Thine image and my tears are left. 
 
 • Constantinople. 
 
 f On the 3rd of May, 1810, while the " Sal9ette - (Captain Bathurs 
 Dardanelles, Lieutenant Ekenhead of that frigate and the writer of \ 
 from the European shore to the Asiatic— by tl.e bye, from Abydus t< 
 
 been more correct. The whole distance from the place whence we sta ted to our landing 
 
 , was computed by 
 he actual breadth 
 ow directly across, 
 he whole distance 
 
 on the other side, including the length we were carried by the currer 
 those on board the frigate at upwards of four English miles ; though 
 is barely one. The rapidity of the current is such that no boat can 
 and it may, in some measure, be estimated from the circumstance of 
 being accomplished by one of the parties in an hour and five, andby the other in an 
 Qour and ten minutes. The water was extremely cold, from the melt ig of the mountain 
 snows. About three weeks before, in April, we had made an attempt 
 all the way from the Troad the same morning, and the water being 
 we found it necessary to postpone the completion till the frigate 
 
 o&stles, when we swam the straits, as just stated ; entering a considerble way above the 
 
 May 9, 1810. 
 
 was lying In ths 
 
 lese rhymes swam 
 Sestos would have 
 
 but having ridden 
 f an icy dullness, 
 ichored below the 
 
 Euiopean, and landing below the Asiatic, fort. Chevalier says that 
 tie same distance for his mistress; and Oliver mentions its haviij; 
 Neapolitan ; but our consul, Tarragona, remembered neither of these 
 iried to dissuade us from the attempt. A number of the " Salsette's ' 
 
 young Jew swam 
 been done by a 
 ireumstances, and 
 crew were known 
 
 to have accomplished a greater distance ; and the only thing that surp sed me wa.«, that, 
 
 as doubts had been entertained of the truth of Leandor's story, no 
 •jidsavoursd to ascertain its practicability. 
 
 rav«U«r hurl ov«j 
 
TRANSLATION OP THE FAMOUS GREEK. WAR SONQ. 
 
 1 
 
 'Tis said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 
 
 But this, I feel can ne'er be true ; 
 For by the death-blow of my Hope 
 
 My Memory immortal grew. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS GREEK WAR SONCl 
 
 " AeuT€ ircude? twv 'LWt'ivaJv."* 
 
 Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 
 
 The glorious hour *a gone forth, 
 And, worthy of such ties, 
 
 Display who gave us birth. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Sons of Greeks ! let us 
 In arms against the foe, 
 Till the hated blood shall flow 
 In a river past our feet. 
 
 Then manfully despising 
 
 The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 
 Let your country see you rising, 
 
 And all her chains are broke. 
 Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 
 
 Behold the coming strife ! 
 Hellenes of past ages, 
 
 Oh, start ag;iin to life ! 
 At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 
 
 Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
 And the seven-hhTd city seeking^ 
 
 Fight, conquer, till we're free. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, Lo. 
 
 Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 
 
 Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
 Awake, and join thy numbers 
 
 With Athens, old ally I 
 Leonidas recalling, 
 
 That chief of ancient song. 
 Who saved ye oiice from falling, 
 
 The terrible ! the strong ! 
 WTio made that bold diversion 
 
 In old Thermopylae, 
 And warring with the Persian 
 
 To keep his country free ; 
 With his three hundred waging 
 
 The battle, long he stood, 
 And like a non raging, 
 
 Expired in seas of blood. 
 
 Sons of Greeks, kc. 
 
 Ths song waa written by Riga, vrho perished in the attempt to revolutionize Oie- 
 fills kX&aslatliVl Is na literal as the author could make it in ver«. It U ol lb* in 
 measure as that of the original, 
 t Ccntuntmopla 
 
BYRON'S FOEMS. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC SONCK 
 
 " Mwevu) /xcr 'to-' irepifio?*** 
 *apai6rart) Xarjdr/," &C* 
 
 1 enter thy garden of roses, 
 
 Beloved and fair Haidee, 
 Each morning where Flora reposes, 
 
 For surely I see her in thee. 
 Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee, 
 
 Receive this fond truth from my tongue, 
 Which utters its song to adore thee, 
 
 Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
 A.s the branch at the bidding of Nature, 
 
 Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
 Through her eyes, through her every feature, 
 
 Shines the soul of the young Haide'e. 
 
 But the loveliest garden grows hateful 
 
 When love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
 Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungrateful, 
 
 That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
 The poison, when pour'd from the chalice, 
 
 Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
 But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 
 
 The draught shall be sweet to my soul. 
 Too cruel ! in vain I implore thee 
 
 My heart from these horrors to save : 
 Will nought to my bosom restore thee ? 
 
 Then open the gates of the grave. 
 
 As the chief who to combat advances 
 
 Secure of his conquest before, 
 Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 
 
 Hast piereed through my heart to its core. 
 Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 
 
 By pangs which a smile would dispel ? 
 Would the hope, which thou once bad'st me cherk!a 
 
 For torture repay me too well ? 
 Now sad is the garden of roses, 
 
 Beloved but false Haide'e ! 
 There Flora all wither' d reposes, 
 
 And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 
 
 Th« song from which this is taken is a great favourite with the young girls of Athena 
 of all clauses. Their manner of singing it is by verses in rotation, the whole &ua» chss 
 present joining in the chorus. The air is plaintive and pretty. 
 
THE CURSE OF MINERVA * 
 
 'Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas 
 Immolat, et pcenam scelerato ex sanguine auinit."— j£r.3i& t Mfc. fife 
 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
 Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
 Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
 But one unclouded blaze of living light ; 
 O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throwi, 
 Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows s 
 On old JEgina's rock and Hydra's isle 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine, 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
 More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
 Till darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
 When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
 That closed their murder'd sage's \ latest day; 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes ; 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
 The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
 But ere he sunk below Cithaeron's head, 
 The cup of woe was quaff'd — the spirit fled ; 
 The soul of him that scorn'd to fear or fly, 
 Who lived and died as none can live or die. 
 
 But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign ; £ 
 No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
 Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing fcorm. 
 
 • This severe animadversion upon Lord Elgin for bringing to England the treasures A 
 v^o Parthenon was suppressed by Lord Byron, but the opening lines are in tho "Corsair. - 
 
 f Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution),, no* 
 withstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down. — B. 
 
 \ The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country ; the days in wiaiu 
 are longer, but in sumiuw of leas duration.—/?. 
 
124 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams play* 
 There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
 And bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
 Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : 
 The groves of olive scatter' d dark and wide, 
 Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
 The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,* 
 And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
 Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
 All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
 And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 Again the Mgesm, heard no more afar, 
 Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
 Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
 That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 
 
 As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane,1* 
 I mark'd the beauties of the land and main, 
 Alone, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
 Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore ; 
 Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, 
 Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, 
 The past return' d, the present seem'd to cease, 
 And glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 
 
 Hours rolled along, and Dian's orb on high 
 Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
 And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
 O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god : 
 But chiefly, Pallas ! thine ; when Hecate's glaro, 
 Check' d by thy columns, fell more sadly fair 
 O'er the chill marble, where the startling trea< I 
 Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 
 Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
 The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
 When, lo ! a giant form before me strode, 
 And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! 
 
 Yes, 'twas Minerva's self ; but, ah ! how changed 
 Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged ; 
 Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
 Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand : 
 Gone were the terrors of her awful brow, 
 Her idle aegis bora no Gorgon now ; 
 Her nelm was dinted, and the broken lance 
 Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance ; 
 The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp, 
 Shrunk from her toueii, and wither' d in her grasp ; 
 
 • The kiosk is a Turkish summer-house ; the palm is without the present -w<ih n 
 ithens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall iiiter 
 eenes. Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all. — B. 
 
 f The Parthenon, or Temple of Minerva. 
 
t&E CURSE OF MINERVA. 
 
 125 
 
 And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
 Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
 Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
 And mourn' d his mistress with a shriek of woe ! 
 
 "Mortal !" — 'twas thus she spake — "that blush of eham? 
 Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name ; 
 First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
 Now honour' d less by all, and least by me : 
 Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
 Seek'st thou the cause of loathing ? — look around. 
 Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
 I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
 'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth, 
 Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
 Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
 Recount the relicp. torn that yet remain : 
 These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn'd,* 
 That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science mourn'd. 
 "What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
 Know Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
 That all may learn from whence the plunderer came, 
 The insulted wall sustains his hated name ; 
 For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
 Below, his name — above, behold his deeds ! 
 Be ever hail'd with equal honour here 
 The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer : 
 Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
 But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
 So when the lion quits his fell repast, 
 Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last : 
 Flesh, limbs, and blood the former make their own, 
 The last poor brute securely gnaws the bone. 
 Yet still the gods are just, and crimes are cross'd : 
 See here what Elgin won, and what he lost ! 
 Another name with his pollutes my shrine : 
 Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine !. 
 Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
 When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame. "1* 
 
 She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply, 
 To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye : 
 u Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
 A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
 Frown not on England ; England owns him not : 
 Athena, no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 
 Ask'st thou the difference ? From fair Phylo's towora 
 Survey Boeotia ; — Caledonia 's ours. 
 
 • Thi» is spoken of the city in general, and not of the Acropolis in particular. Ths 
 Kmple of Jupiter Olympius, by some supposed the Parthenon, was finished by Hadrian ; 
 aixteen columns are standing, of the most beautiful marble architect'ure. — B. 
 
 \ His lordship's name, and that of one who no longer bears it. are carved conspicuously 
 on the Parthenon ; above, in a part not far distant, are the torn reiuuauU of the biuM* 
 relievos, destroyed in % "-.in attempt to remove them. — U. 
 
123 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And well I know within that bastard land* 
 
 Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command j 
 
 A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined 
 
 To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
 
 Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
 
 Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth • 
 
 Each genial influence nurtured to resist ; 
 
 A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
 
 Each breeze from foggy mount and marshy plana 
 
 Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 
 
 Till, burst at length, each watery head o'erflows, 
 
 Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
 
 Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
 
 Despatch her scheming children far and wide : 
 
 Some east, some west ; some everywhere but nortb, 
 
 In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
 
 And thus — accursed be the day and year ! — 
 
 She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
 
 Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, 
 
 As dull Boeotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
 
 So may her few, the letter' d and the brave, 
 
 Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave, 
 
 Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 
 
 And shine like children of a happier strand ; 
 
 As once of yore in some obnoxious place, 
 
 Ten names (if found) had saved a wretched race." 
 
 "Mortal ! " the blue-eyed maid resumed, u once mott 
 Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
 Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine, 
 To turn my counsels far from lands like thine. 
 Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest ; 
 Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest. 
 
 " First on the head of him who did this deed 
 My curse shall light, on him and all his seed ; 
 Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
 Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
 If one with wit the parent brood disgrace, 
 Believe him bastard of a brighter race : 
 Still with his hireling artists let him prate, 
 And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
 Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 
 Whose noblesk, native gusto is — to sell : 
 To sell, and make — may shame record the day !-— 
 The state receiver of his pilfer'd prey. 
 Meantime, the flattering, feeble dotard, West, 
 Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 
 With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er, 
 And own himself an infant of fourscore, f 
 
 * " Irish bastards," according to Sir Callaghan O'Brallaghan.— B. 
 Mr. West, on seeing the " Elgin Collection" (I suppose we shall hear of the " Afc*r 
 tawr " and " Jack Shephard " collection), declares himself " a mere tyro " in 
 
TEE CURSE OP MINERVA. 127 
 
 Be all the bruisers cull'd from all St. Giles', 
 
 That art and nature may compare their styles ; 
 
 While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
 
 And marvel at his lordship's * stone shop '* there. 
 
 Round the thronged gate shall sauntering coxcombs creep, 
 
 To lounge and lucubrate, to prate and peep ; 
 
 While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
 
 On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
 
 The room with transient glance appears to skim, 
 
 Yet marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
 
 Mourns o'er the difference of now and then ; 
 
 Exclaims, ' These Greeks indeed were proper men ! 1 
 
 Draws sly comparisons of these with those, 
 
 And onvi«s Lais all her Attic beaux. 
 
 When shall a modern maid have swains like theee ! 
 
 Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
 
 And last of all, amidst the gaping crew, 
 
 Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
 
 In silent indignation mix'd with grief, 
 
 Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 
 
 Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 
 
 May hate pursue his sacrilegious lust ! 
 
 Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian dome, 
 
 Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb. 
 
 And Eratostratusf and Elgin shine 
 
 In many a branding page and burning line ; 
 
 Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed, 
 
 Perchance the second blacker than the first. 
 
 "So let him stand, through ages yet unborn, 
 Fix'd statue on the pedestal of scorn ; 
 Though not for him alone revenge shall wait, 
 But fits thy country for her coming fate ; 
 Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless god 
 To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
 Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
 Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war. 
 Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
 Or break the compact which herself had mado ; 
 Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
 She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield ; 
 A fatal gift, that, turn'd your friends to stone, 
 And left lost Albion hated and alone. 
 
 u Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthy race 
 Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base ; 
 Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
 And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
 Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, 
 And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
 
 • Poor Cnbb was sadly puzzled when the marbles were first exhibited at KUfto Tiauia ; 
 »»• asked if it was not " a stone shop I" — He was right : it ft a shop. — B. 
 t Ue who gained immortality by setting fire to the temple of Diana at EphKu*. 
 
1*23 BYRON'S FOKH.5. 
 
 m ■ 
 
 So may ye perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
 Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave.* 
 
 " Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the hand she Ivc.tc* 
 But boldly clasps, and thrusts you from her gates. 
 Bear witness, bright Barossa ! thou canst tell 
 Whose were the sons that bravely fought and fell. 
 But Lusitania, kind and dear ally, 
 Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
 Oh, glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
 The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
 But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
 Retrieved three long Olympiads of defeat ? 
 
 " Look last at home — ye love not to look there ; 
 On the grim smile of comfortless despair : 
 Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls, 
 Here Famine faints, and yonder Rapine prowls. 
 See all alike, of more or less bereft ; 
 No misers tremble when there's nothing left. 
 ' Blest paper credit, + who shall dare to sing ? 
 It clogs like lead Corruption's weary wing. 
 Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
 Who geds and men alike disdain'd to hear ; 
 But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
 On Pallas calls, — but calls, alas ! too late *. 
 Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
 Though he and Pallas never yet were friends. 
 Him senates hear, whom never yet they hco-rcS, 
 Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
 So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
 Swore faith and fealty to his sovereign * log.' 
 Thus hail'd your rulers their patrician clod, 
 As Egypt chose an onion for a god. 
 
 "Now fare ye well ! enjoy your little hour ; 
 Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish' d power ; 
 Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme ; 
 X~our strength a name, your bloated wealth a drecia 
 irone is that gold the marvel of mankind, 
 . A.nd pirate's barter all that's left behind. X 
 No more the hirelings, purchased near and far, 
 Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war ; 
 The idle merchant on the useless quay 
 Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 
 Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
 Rot piecemeal on his own encumber'd shores : 
 The starved mechanic breaks his rusting loom, 
 And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming doom. 
 Then in the senate of your sinking state 
 Show me the man whose counsels may have weight. 
 Vain is each voice where tones could once command \ 
 E'en factions cease to charm a factious land : 
 
 * Late events might prove his lordship a prophet as well as a poet, 
 f " Blest paper credit ! last and best supply, 
 
 That lends Corruption lighter wings to fly !"— Pcrc— B. 
 I The Deal and Dover traffickers in specie.— &. 
 
ON PARTING. 
 
 Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
 
 And light with maddening hands the mutual pile. 
 
 " 'Tis done, 'tis past, since Pallas warns in vain ; 
 The Furies seize her abdicated reign ; 
 Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling bran 
 And wring her vitals with their fiery hands . 
 But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
 And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
 The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering files, 
 O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles ; 
 Tho brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
 That bid tho foe defiance ere they come ; 
 Tho hero bounding at his country's call, 
 The glorious death that consecrates his fall. 
 Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
 And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
 But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, 
 With death alone are laurels cheaply bought : 
 Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
 His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
 But when the field is fought, the battle won, 
 Though drench'd with gore, his woes are but begun 
 His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
 The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish' d dame, 
 The rifled mansion and the foo-reap'd field, 
 111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
 Say with what eye along the distant down 
 Would flying burghers mark the blazing town ? 
 How view the column of ascending flames 
 Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames? 
 Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thin© 
 That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine : 
 Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
 Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
 The law of heaven and earth is life for life, 
 And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife." 
 
 ON PARTING. 
 
 The kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 
 
 Shall never part from mine, 
 Till happier hours restore the gift 
 
 Untainted back to thine. 
 
 Thy parting glance, which fondly beams. 
 
 An equal love may see : 
 The tear that from thine eyelid streami 
 
 Can weep no change in me. 
 
 I ask no pledge to make me blest 
 
 I n gazing when alone ; 
 Nor one memorial for a breast 
 
 Whose thoughts are all thine owa. 
 I 
 
130 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Nor need I write — to tell the tale 
 
 My pen were doubly weak : 
 Oh ! what can idle words avail, 
 
 Unless the heart could speak I 
 
 By day or night, in weal or woe, 
 
 That heart, no longer free, 
 Must bear the love it cannot show, 
 
 And silent, ache for thee. 
 
 Marc!*, I Ell 
 
 TO THYEZA. 
 
 WITHOUT a stone to mark the spot, 
 And say, what Truth might well have said. 
 
 By all, save one, perchance forgot, 
 Ah ! wherefore art thou lowly laid ? 
 
 By many a shore and many a sea 
 
 Divided, yet beloved in vain ! 
 The past, the future fled to thee, 
 
 To bid us meet — no — ne'er again ! 
 
 Could this have been — a word, a look, 
 That softly said, " We part in peace," 
 
 Had taught my bosom how to brook, 
 With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 
 
 And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
 Prepared a light and pangless dart, 
 
 Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, 
 Who held, and holds thee in his heart ? 
 
 Oh ! who like him had watcn'd thee hero ? 
 
 Or sadly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
 In that dread hour ere death appear, 
 
 When silent sorrow fears to sigh. 
 
 Till all was past ! But when no more 
 'Twas thine to reck of human woe, 
 
 Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
 Had flow'd as fast— as now they flow. 
 
 Shall they not flow, when many a day 
 In these, to me, deserted towers, 
 
 Ere call'd but for a time away, 
 Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 
 
4 WAY, A WAT, TE NOTES OF WOE. 
 
 I'M 
 
 Ours too the glance none saw beside ; 
 
 The smile none else might understand ; 
 The whisper' d thought of hearts allied, 
 
 The pressure of the thrilling hand ; 
 
 The kiss, so guiltless and refined, 
 That Love each warmer wish forbore ; 
 
 Those eyes proclaim' d so pure a mind, 
 Even passion blush' d to plead for more. 
 
 The tone, that taught me to rejoice, 
 
 When prone, unlike thee, to repine ; 
 The song, celestial from thy voice, 
 
 But sweet to me from none but thine ; 
 
 The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 
 
 But where is thine ? — Ah ! where art thou ? 
 
 Oft- have I borne the weight of ill, 
 But never bent beneath till now ! 
 
 Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 
 
 The cup of woe for me to drain. 
 If rest alone be in the tomb, 
 
 I would not wish thee here again ; 
 
 But if in worlds more blest than this 
 
 Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 
 Impart some portion of thy bliss, 
 
 To wean me from mine anguish here. 
 
 Teach me — too early taught by thee ! 
 
 To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
 On earth thy love was such to me, 
 
 It fain would form my hope in heaven ! 
 
 October 11, 1811 
 
 AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE. 
 
 Away, away, ye notes of woe ! 
 
 Bo silent, thou once soothing strain, 
 Or I must flee from hence — for, oh ! 
 
 I dare not trust those sounds again. 
 To me they speak of brighter days — 
 
 But lull the chords ; for now, alas ! 
 I must not think, I may not gaze, 
 
 On what I am— on what I was. 
 
 The voice that made those sounds more sweet 
 
 Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled ; 
 And now their softest notes repeat 
 
 A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead ! 
 Yes, Thyrza ! yes, they breathe of thee, 
 
 Beloved dust ! since dust thou art ; 
 And all that once was harmony 
 
 Is worse than discord to my heart. 
 E 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 'Tis silent all ! — but on my ear 
 
 The well-remember'd echoes thrill, 
 1 hear a voice I would not hear, 
 
 A voice that now might well be still, 
 let oft ray doubting soul 'twill shake ; 
 
 Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 
 Till consciousness will vainly wako 
 
 To listen, though the dream be flown. 
 
 Sweet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep, 
 
 Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
 A star that trembled o'er the deep, 
 
 Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
 But he who through life's dreary way 
 
 Must pass when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 
 Will long lament the vanish'd ray 
 
 That scatter'd gladness o'er his path. 
 
 December 6, 1SL 
 
 ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM FREE. 
 
 One struggle more, and I am free 
 
 From pangs that rend my heart in twain ; 
 One last long sigh to love and thee, 
 
 Then back to busy life again. 
 It suits me well to mingle now 
 
 With things that never pleased before : 
 Though every joy is fled below, 
 
 What future grief can touch me more ? 
 
 Then bring me wine, the banquet bring ! 
 
 Man was not form'd to live alone ; 
 I'll be that light, unmeaning thing, 
 
 That smiles with all, and weeps with nons. 
 It was not thus in days more dear, 
 
 It never wouki have been, but thou 
 Kast fled, and left me lonely here ; 
 
 Thou'rt nothing — all are nothing now. 
 
 In vain my lyre would lightly breathe ! 
 
 The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
 But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 
 
 Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
 Though gay companious o'er the bowl 
 
 Dispel awhile the sense of ill 
 Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 
 
 The heart — the heart is lonely still ! 
 
 On many a lone and lovely night 
 It soothed to gaze upon the sky ; 
 
 For then I deem'd the heavenly light 
 Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye : 
 
 A.nd oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 
 When sailing o'er the ^Egean wave, 
 Now Thyrza gazes on that moon"-~ 
 Alas, it gleam' d upon her grave ! 
 
EUTHANASIA. 
 
 When stretch' d on fever's sleepless bed, 
 
 And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
 "'Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 
 
 " That Thyrza cannot know my pains : " 
 Liko freedom to the time-worn slave, 
 
 A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
 Relenting Nature vainly gave 
 
 My life, when Thyrza ceased to live ! 
 
 My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 
 
 When love and life alike were new « 
 How different now thou mect'st my gaze ! 
 
 How tinged by time with sorrow's hue ! 
 The heart that gave itself witli thee 
 
 Is silent — ah, were mine as still ! 
 Though cold as e'en the dead can be, 
 
 It feels, it sickens with the chill. 
 
 Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 
 
 Though painful, welcome to my breast ! 
 Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 
 
 Or break the heart to which thou'rt press' d t 
 Time tempers love, but not removes, 
 
 More hallow'd when its hope is fled : 
 Oh ! what are thousand living loves 
 
 To that which cannot quit the dead ? 
 
 EUTHANASIA. 
 
 WHEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
 The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 
 
 Oblivion ! may thy languid wing 
 Wave gently o'er my dying bed ! 
 
 No band of friends or heirs be there, 
 To weep or wish the coming blow ; 
 
 No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 
 To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 
 
 But silent let me sink to earth, 
 With no officious mourners near ; 
 
 I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
 Nor startle friendship with a tear. 
 
 Yet Love, if Love in such an hour 
 Could nobly check its useless signs, 
 
 Might then exert its latest power 
 In her who lives and him who dieo. 
 
 'Twere sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
 Thy features still serene to see : 
 
 Forgetful of its struggles post, 
 E'en Pain itself should smile on thea. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But vain the wish — for Beauty still 
 Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath ; 
 
 And woman's tears, produced at will, 
 Deceive in life, unman in death. 
 
 Then lonely be my latest hour, 
 Without regret, without a groan ; 
 
 For thousands Death hath ceased to lowci , 
 And pain been transient or unknown. 
 
 "Ay, but to die, and go," alas ! 
 
 Where all have gone, and all must go \ 
 To be the nothing that I was 
 
 Ere born to life and living woe. 
 
 Count o'er the joys thine hours have seen, 
 Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 
 
 And know, whatever thou hast been, 
 'Tis something better not to be. 
 
 AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAIR 
 
 " Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui memimsae I " 
 
 And thou art dead, as young and fair, 
 
 As aught of mortal birth ; 
 And form so soft, and charms so rare, 
 
 Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
 Though Earth received them in her bed, 
 And o'er the spot tiie crowd may tread 
 
 In carelessness or mirth, 
 There is an eye which could not brook 
 A moment on that grave to look. 
 
 I will not ask where thou liest low, 
 
 Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
 There flowers or weeds at will may grow, 
 
 So I behold them not : 
 It is enough for me to prove 
 That what I loved, and long must lovo. 
 
 Like common earth can rot ; 
 To me there needs no stone to tell, 
 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 
 
 Yet did I love thee to the last 
 
 As fervently as thou, 
 Who didst not change through all the p&cl, 
 
 And canst not alter now. 
 The love where Death has set his seal, 
 Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 
 
 Nor falsehood disavow : 
 And, what were worse, thou canst not seo 
 Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 
 
AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG AS FAIR, 
 
 135 
 
 The better days of life were ours ; 
 
 The worst can be but mine : 
 The sun that cheers, the storm that lowers, 
 
 Shall never more be thine. 
 The silence of that dreamless sleep 
 I envy now too much to weep ; 
 
 Nor need I to repine 
 That all those charms have pass'd away ; 
 I might have watch' d through long decay, 
 
 The flower in ripen' d bloom unmatch'd 
 
 Must fall the earliest prey ; 
 Though by no hand untimely snatch' 
 
 The leaves must drop away : 
 And yet it were a greater grief 
 To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 
 
 Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
 Since earthly eye but ill but bear 
 To trace the change to foul from fair., 
 
 I know not if I could have borno 
 
 To see thy beauties fade ; 
 The night that follow'd such a morn 
 
 Had worn a deeper shade : 
 Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd,, 
 And thou wert lovely to the last : 
 
 Extinguish' d, not decay* d ; 
 As stars that shoot along the sky 
 Shine brightest as they fall from high. 
 
 As once I wept, if I could weep, 
 
 My tears might well be shed, 
 To think I was not near to keep 
 
 One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
 To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
 To fold thee in a faint embraoe, 
 
 Uphold thy drooping head ; 
 And show that love, however vain, 
 Nor thou nor I can feel again. 
 
 Yet how much less it were to gain, 
 
 Though thou hast left me free, 
 The loveliest things that still remain, 
 
 Than thus remember thee ! 
 The all of thine that cannot die 
 Through dark and dread Eternity 
 
 Returns again to me, 
 And more thy buried love endears 
 Than aught, except its living years. 
 
bykon's poems. 
 
 IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS OF MEN, 
 
 If sometimes in the haunts of men 
 
 Thine image from my breast ma} r fade, 
 The lonely hour presents again 
 
 The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
 A nd now that sad and silent hour 
 
 Thus much of thee can still restore, 
 And sorrow unobserved may pour 
 
 The plaint she dare not speak beforo. 
 
 Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 
 
 I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
 And, self-condemn'd, appear to smile, 
 
 Unfaithful to thy memory ! 
 Nor deem that memory less dear, 
 
 That then I seem not to repine ; 
 I would not fools should overhear 
 
 One sigh that should be wholly thine. 
 
 If not the goblet pass unquaff 'd, 
 
 It is not drain'd to banish care ; 
 The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 
 
 That brings a Lethe for despair. 
 And could Oblivion set my soul 
 
 From all her troubled visions free, 
 I'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 
 
 That drown' d a single thought of thea 
 
 For wert thou vanish'd from my mind, 
 
 Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
 And who would then remain behind 
 
 To honour thine abandon'd Urn ? 
 No, no — it is my sorrow's pride 
 
 That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
 Though all the world forget beside, 
 
 'Tis meet that I remember still. 
 
 For well I know, that such had been 
 
 Thy gentle care for him, who now 
 Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 
 
 Where none regarded him, but thou : 
 And, oh ! I feel in that was given 
 
 A blessing never meant for me ; 
 Thou wert too like a dream of heaven, 
 
 For earthly Love to merit thee. 
 
 MareL 11, LSI* 
 
BYRON'3 poems. 
 
 ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH WAS BROKEN. 
 
 Ill-fated Heart ! and can it be, 
 
 That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 
 
 Have years of care for thine and thee 
 Alike been all employ'd in vain ? 
 
 Yet precious seems each shatter' d part, 
 
 And every fragment dearer grown, 
 Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
 
 A fitter emblem of his own. 
 
 LINES TO A LADY WEEPING."* 
 
 Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
 
 A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 
 Ah ! happy if each tear of thine 
 
 Could wash a fathers fault away ! 
 
 Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
 
 Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 
 And be each drop in future years 
 
 Repaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 
 
 Marrfc, 1811 
 
 THE CHAIN I GAVE. 
 
 FROM THE TURKISH. 
 
 THE chain I gave was fair to view, 
 The lute I added sweet in sound ; 
 
 The heart that offer' d both was true, 
 And ill deserved the fate it found. 
 
 These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 
 Thy truth in absence to divine ; 
 
 And they have done their duty well, — 
 Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 
 
 That chain was firm in every link, 
 But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 
 
 That lute was sweet — till thou couldst thici 
 In other hands its notes were such. 
 
 Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
 The chain which shiver' d in his grasp, 
 
 Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
 Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 
 
 When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 
 
 The chain is broke, the music mute. 
 Tis past — to them and thee adieu — 
 
 False heart, frail chain, and silent lute, 
 
 • The Princess CharlotU. 
 
138 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. 
 
 Absent or present, still to thee, 
 My friend, what magic spells belong ! 
 
 As all can tell, who share, like me, 
 In turn thy converse and thy song. 
 
 But when the dreaded hour shall come, 
 By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 
 
 And "Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 
 Shall weep that aught of thee can die, 
 
 How fondly will she then repay 
 
 Thy homage offer'd at her shrine, 
 And blend, while ages roll away, 
 
 Her name immortally with thine I 
 
 April Id, 1313 
 
 ADDRESS, 
 
 SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OP DRURY-LANE THEATRE, SATURDAY, 
 
 OCTOBER 10, 1812. 
 
 In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
 Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride ; 
 In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
 Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 
 
 Ye who beheld (oh ! sight admired and mourn'd, 
 Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn' d !) 
 Through clouds of fire the massive fragments riven, 
 Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven ; 
 Saw the long column of revolving flames 
 Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 
 While thousands, throng'd around the burning dome, 
 Shrank back appall' d, and trembled for their home, 
 As glared the volumn'd blaze, and ghastly shone 
 The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, 
 Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
 Usurp' d the Muse's realm, and mark'd her fall ; 
 Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
 Rear'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
 Know the same favour which the former knew, 
 A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you $ 
 
 Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
 Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame $ 
 On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
 And bids the Drama be where she hath been : 
 This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
 Indulge our honest pride, and say, How well t 
 
 As soars this fane to emulate the last, 
 Oh ! might we draw our omens from the past, 
 
ADDRESS. 
 
 Some hour propitious to our prayetps may boast 
 Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
 On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
 O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm' d the sternest heart. 
 On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
 Here your last tears retiring Roscius drew, 
 Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu ; 
 But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, 
 That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
 Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor you refuse 
 One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
 With garlands deck your own Menander's head ! * 
 Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead ! 
 
 Dear are the days which made our annals bright, 
 Ere Garrick fled, or Brinsley ceased to write. 
 Heirs to their labours, like all high-born heirs, 
 Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs ; 
 While thus Remembrance borrows Banquo's gluas 
 To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
 And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
 Immortal names, emblazon' d on our line, 
 Pause — ere their feebler offspring you condemn, 
 Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 
 
 Friends of the stage ! to whom both Players and Piays 
 Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
 Whose judging voice and eye alone direct 
 The boundless power to cherish or reject ; 
 If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
 And made us blush that you forbore to blame ; 
 If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
 To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend . 
 All past reproach may present scenes refute, 
 And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 
 Oh ! since your fiat stamps the Drama's laws, 
 Forbear to mock us wren mispiaced applause ; 
 So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers, 
 And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 
 
 This greeting o'er, the ancient rule obey'd, 
 The Drama's homage by ner nerald paid, 
 Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
 Springs from our hearts, and fain would win your own, 
 The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
 Scenes not unworthy Drury's days of old ! 
 Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, 
 Still may we please — long, long may you preside I 
 
t4( 
 
 BYRON'S POEMB. 
 
 VERSES FOUND IN A SUMMER-HOUSE AT 
 HALES-OWEN. 
 
 When Dry den's fool,* " unknowing what he sought,*' 
 
 His hours in whistling spent, " for want of thought," 
 
 This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense 
 
 Supplied, and amply too, by innocence. 
 
 Did modern swains, possess'd of Cymon's powers, 
 
 In Cymon's manner waste their leisure hours, 
 
 The offended guests would not, with blushing, sec 
 
 These fair green walks disgraced by infamy. 
 
 Severe the fate of modern fools, alas ! 
 
 When vice and folly mark them as they pass, 
 
 Like noxious reptiles o'er the whiten'd wall, 
 
 The filth they leave still points out where they crawl. 1* 
 
 • " Cymon, a clown, who ne'er had dreamt of love." — 
 
 Dryden's Modernization of Chaucer. 
 
 t At Hales-Owen the poet Shenstone was buried, and " The Leasowes " was immediately 
 contiguous to it. It was probably some desecration of the poet's tomb, or of his work* at 
 fcute, that gave birth to these lines. 
 
 * 
 
THE WALTZ : 
 
 AN APOSTEOPHIC HYMN. 
 
 ** Quails in EuroUe ripis, aut r*er juga Cynthi, 
 Exercet Diana choros." Virgil. 
 
 • Such on Eu rota's banks, or Cynthia'B height, 
 Diana seems : and so she charms the sight, 
 When in the dance the graceful goddess leads 
 The quire of nymphs, and overtops their heads."— DRVDia'a Virgil. 
 
 TO THE PUBLISHER. 
 
 Sifi,— I am a country gentleman of a midland county. I might have 
 been a parliament-man tor a certain borough, having had the offer of as 
 many votes as General T. at the general election in 1812.* But I was all 
 for domestic happiness ; as, fifteen years ago, on a visit to London, I 
 married a middle-aged maid of honour. We lived happily at Hornem 
 Hall till last season, when my wife and I were invited by the Countess of 
 Waltzaway (a distant relation of my spouse) to pass the winter in town. 
 
 Thinking no harm, and our girls being come to a marriageable (or, 
 as they call it, marketable) age, and having besides a Chancery suit 
 inveterately entailed upon the family estate, we came up in our old 
 chariot, of which, by the bye, my wife grew so much ashamed in less 
 than a week, that I was obliged to buy a second-hand barouche, of which 
 I might mount the box, Mrs. H. says, if I could drive, but never see the 
 inside — that place being reserved for the Honourable Augustus Tiptoe, 
 her partner-general and opera-knight. Hearing great praises of Mrs. H.'s 
 dancing (she was famous for birthnight minuets in the latter end of the last 
 century), I unbooted, and went to a ball at the Countess's, expecting to see 
 a country dance, or, at most, cotillons, reels, and all the old paces to the 
 newest tunes. But judge of my surprise, on arriving, to see poor dear 
 Mrs. Hornem with her arms half round the loins of a huge hussar-looking 
 gentleman I never set eyes on before ; and his, to say truth, rather more 
 than half round her waist, turning round, and round, and round, to a 
 
 d d see-saw up-and-down sort of tune, that reminded me of the 
 
 "Black joke," only more "affettuoso," till it made me quite giddy with 
 wondering they were not so. By-and-by they stopped a bit, and 1 
 thought they would sit or fall down . — but no ; with Mrs. H.'s hand on his 
 shoulder, "quam familiarxter" t (as Terence said when I was at school), 
 they walked about a minute, and then at it again, like two cockchafers 
 spitted upon the same bodkin. I asked what all this meant, when, with 
 a loud laugh, a child no older than our Wilhelmina (a name I never heard 
 but in the Vicar of Wakefield, though her mother would call her after the 
 Princess of Swappenbach) said, 44 Lord, Mr. Hornem, can't you see they are 
 valtzing ! " or waltzing ( I forget which) ; and then up she got, and her 
 mother and sister, and away they went, and round-abouted it till supper- 
 time. Now, that I know what it is, I like it of all things, and so does 
 
 • State of the poll (last day), 5. 
 
 f My Latin is all forgotten, if a man can be said to have forgotten what he never 
 remembered ; but I bought my title-page motto of a Catholic priest for a three-shilling 
 bank token, after much haggling for the even sixpence. I grudged the money to a papist, 
 being all for the memory of Perceval and " No popery," and quite regretting the downfall 
 of the pope, because we can't burn him any a >re. 
 
142 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Mrs. H. (though I have broken my shins, and four times overturned Mrs. 
 Hornem's maid, in practising the preliminary steps in a morning). Indeed 
 so much do I like it, that having a turn for rhyme, tastily displayed in 
 some election ballads, and songs in honour of all the victories (but till 
 lately I have had little practice in that way), I sat down, and, with the aid 
 of William Fitzgerald, Esq., and a few hints from Dr. Busby (whose 
 recitations 1 attend, and am monstrous fond of Master Busby's manner of 
 delivering his father's late successful "Drury Lane Address"), I composed 
 tie following hymn, wherewithal to make my sentiments known to the 
 "Ublic ; whom nevertheless, I heartily despise, as well as the critic» . 
 
 I am, Sir, yours, &c. &c. 
 
 HORACE HORNED 
 
 THE WALTZ. 
 
 ■ e * 
 
 MUSE of the many-twinkling feet ! whose charms* 
 Are now extended up from legs to arms ; 
 Terpsichore ! — too long misdeem' d a maid — 
 Reproachful term — bestow'd but to upbraid — 
 Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, 
 The least a vestal of the virgin Nine. 
 Far be from thee and thine the name of prude ; 
 Mock'd, yet triumphant ; sneer'd at, unsubdued ; 
 Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, 
 If but thy coats are reasonably high ; 
 Thy breast — if bare enough — requires no shield ; 
 Dance forth, — sans armour thou shalt take the field, 
 And own — impregnable to most assaults, 
 Thy not too lawfully begotten " Waltz." 
 
 Hail, nimble nymph ! to whom the young hussar, 
 The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, 
 His night devotes, despite of spur and boots ; 
 A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes : 
 Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz ! — beneath whose banners 
 A modern hero fought for modish manners ; 
 On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame,*!* 
 Cock'd — fired — and miss'd his man — but gain'd his aim ; 
 
 • *' Glance their many-twinkling feet."— Gray. 
 
 f To rival Lord Wellesley's, or his nephew's, as the reader pleases : — the one gained ( 
 pretty woman, whom he deserved, hy fighting for ; and the other, has been fighting if 
 the Peninsula many a long day, " by Shrewsbury clock," without gaining anything in 
 that country but the title of " ^he Great Lord ;" and " the Lord ;" which savours of pro- 
 fanation, having been hitherto pplied only to that Being to whom " Te Deumt" for 
 carnage are the rankest blasphemy. It is to be presumed that the general will one day 
 return to his Sabine farm ; there 
 
 " To tame the genius of the stubborn plain, 
 Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain 1" 
 The Lord Peterborough conquered continents in a summer ; we do more — we contrive 
 both to conquer and lose them in a shorter season. If the " great Lord's" Cincinnatian 
 progress in agriculture be no speedier than the proportional average of time in Pope's 
 couplet, it will, according to the farmer's proverb, be " ploughing with dogs." 
 By the bye— one of this illustrious person's new titles is forgotten— it Is, however. 
 
THE WALTZ, 
 
 143 
 
 Hail, moving Muse ! to whom the fail one's breast 
 
 Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest. 
 
 Oh ! for the flow of Busby, or of Fitz, 
 
 The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, 
 
 To u energize the object I pursue," 
 
 And give both Belial and his dance their due 1 
 
 Imperial Waltz ! imported from the Rhine 
 (Famed for the growth of pedigrees and wine), 
 Long be thine import from all duty free, 
 And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee : 
 In some few qualities alike — for hock 
 Improves our cellar — thou our living stock. 
 The head to hock belongs — thy subtler art 
 Intoxicates alone the heedless heart : 
 Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, 
 And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs. 
 
 Oh, Germany, how much to thee we owe, 
 As heaven-born Pitt can testify below, 
 Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, 
 
 And only left us thy d d debts and dancos ! 
 
 Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, 
 
 We bless thee still — for George the Third is left ! 
 
 Of kings the best — and last, not least in worth, 
 
 For graciously begetting George the Fourth. 
 
 To Germany, and highnesses serene, 
 
 Who owe us millions — don't we owe the Queen ? 
 
 To Germany, what owe we not besides ? 
 
 So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides ; 
 
 Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, 
 
 Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud ; 
 
 Who sent us — so be pardon' d all her faults — 
 
 A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen — and Waltz. 
 
 But peace to her — her emperor and diet, 
 Though now transferr'd to Buonaparte's " fiat ! " 
 Back to my theme — 0 Muse of Motion ! say, 
 How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way ? 
 
 Borne on the breath of hyperborean gales, 
 From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had mails) 
 Ere yet unlucky fame — compell'd to creep 
 To snowy Gottenburg — was chill' d to sleep ; 
 Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, 
 Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies ; 
 
 worth remembering — " Salvador del mundo ! " credite potteri t If this be the appella- 
 tion annexed by the inhabitants of the Peninsula to the name of a man who has not yet 
 saved them — query, are they worth saving, even in this world ? for, according to tbe 
 mildest modifications of any Christian creed, those three words make the odds much 
 igainst them in the next. " Saviour of the world," quotha I— it were to be wished that 
 he, or any one else, could save a corner of it — his country. Yet this stupid misnomer, 
 although it shows the near connection between superstition and impiety, so far has its 
 use, that it proves there can be little to dread from those Catholics (inquisitorial Catho- 
 lics too) who can confer such an appellation on a Protestant. I suppose next year he will 
 be entitled the " Virgin Mary ;" if so, Lord George Gordon himself would have nothing 
 vo object to such liberal bastards of our Lady of Babylon. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 While unburn t Moscow yet had news to send,* 
 
 Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend, 
 
 She came — Waltz came — and with her certain seU 
 
 Of true despatches, and as true gazettes : 
 
 Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, 
 
 Which Moniteur nor Morning Post can match ; 
 
 And — almost crush'd beneath the glorious news — 
 
 Ten plays — and forty tales of Kotzebue's ; 
 
 One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, 
 
 And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs ; 
 
 Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, 
 
 Like Lapland witches to insure a wind ; 
 
 Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, 
 
 Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet. 
 
 Fraught with this cargo — and her fairest freight, 
 Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, 
 The welcome vessel reach' d the genial strand, 
 And round her flock'd tne daughters of the land. 
 Not decent David, when, before the ark, 
 His grand pas-seul excited some remark ; 
 Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought 
 The knight's fandango friskier than it ought ; 
 Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, 
 Her nimble feet danced off another's head ; 
 Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, 
 Display'd so much of leg, or more of neclc, 
 Than thou, ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon 
 Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune ! 
 
 To you, ye husbands of ten years ! whose brows 
 Ache with the annual tributes of a spouse ; 
 To you of nine years less, who only bear 
 The budding sprouts of those that you shall wear, 
 With added ornaments around them roil'd 
 Of native brass, or law-awarded gold ; 
 To you, ye matrons, ever on the watch 
 To mar a son's, or make a daughter's match ; 
 To you, ye children of — whom chance accords- — 
 Always the ladies, and sometimes the lords ; 
 To you, ye single gentlemen, who seek 
 Torments for life, or pleasures for a week ; 
 As Love or Hymen your endeavours guide, 
 To gain your own, or snatch another's bride ; — 
 
 * The patriotic arson of our amiable allies cannot be sufficiently commended— no? 
 robecribed for. Amongst other details omitted in the various despatches of our eloquent 
 
 ambassador, he did not state (being too much occupied with the exploits of Colonel C , 
 
 in swimming rivers frozen, and galloping over roads impassable) that one entire province 
 perished by famine in the most melancholy manner, as follows : — In General Rostopchin's 
 consummate conflagration, the consumption of tallow and train oil was bo great, that th© 
 market was inadequate to the demand ; and thus one hundred and thirty-three thousand 
 persona were starved to death, by being reduced to wholesome diet. The lamplighters of 
 London have since subscribed a pint (of oil) apiece, and the tallow-chandlers have 
 unanimously voted a quantity of the best moulds (four to the pound), to the relief of the 
 surviving Scythians ; — the scarcity will soon, by such exertions, and a proper attention to 
 the quality rather than the quantity of provision, be totally alleviated. It is said, in 
 return, that the untouched Ukraine has subscribed sixty thousand beeves for a day's meaJ 
 to our suffering manufacturers. 
 
THE WALTZ. 
 
 146 
 
 To one and all the lovely stranger came, 
 And every ball-room echoes with her name. 
 
 Endearing Waltz ! — to thy more melting tune 
 Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon. 
 Scotch reels, avaunt ! and country-dance, forego 
 Your future claims to each fantastic toe ! 
 "Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands. 
 Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands ; 
 Hands which may freely range in public sight 
 Where ne'er before — but — pray " put out the light." 
 Methlnks the glare of yonder chandelier 
 Shines much too far — or I am much too near ; 
 And true, though strange — Waltz whispers this remark, 
 " My slippery steps are safest in the dark ! " 
 But here the Muse with due decorum halts, 
 And lends her longest petticoat to Waltz. 
 
 Observant travellers of every time ! 
 Ye quartos publish'd upon every clime ! 
 Oh, say, shall dull Romaika's heavy round, 
 Fandango's wriggle, or Bolero's bound ; 
 Can Egypt's Almas* — tantalizing group — 
 Columbia's caperers to the warlike whoop — 
 Can aught from cold Kamschatka to Cape Horn 
 With Waltz compare, or after Waltz bo borne \ 
 Ah, no ! from Morier's pages down to Gait's, 
 Each tourist pens a paragraph for " Waltz." 
 
 Shades of those belles whose reign began of yore, 
 With George the Third's, and ended long before ! 
 Though in your daughters' daughters yet you thrive, 
 Burst from your lead, and be yourselves alive ! 
 Back to the bali-room speed your spectred host ; 
 Fool's Paradise is dull to that you lost. 
 No treacherous powder bids conjecture quake ; 
 No stiff-starch'd stays make meddling fingers ache 
 (Transferr'd to those ambiguous things that ape 
 Goats in their visage, women in their shape) if 
 No damsel faints when rather closely press' d, 
 But more caressing seems when most caress' d ; 
 Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, 
 Both banish'd by the sovereign cordial "Waltz." 
 
 • Dancing-giils — who do for hire what Waltz doth gratia. 
 
 t It cannot be complained now, aa in the Lady Baussicre's time, of the " Sieur de la 
 Croix," that there be *' no whiskers ;" but how far these are indications of valour in the 
 field, or «lsewhere,may still bo questionable. Much may be, and hath been, avouched ou 
 both sides. In the olden time, philosophers had whiskers, and soldiers none — Scipio 
 himself was shaven — Hannibal thought his one eye handsome enough without a beard ; 
 but Adrian, the emperor, wore a beard (having warts on his chin, which neither the 
 empress Sabina nor even the courtiers could abide) — Turenne had whiskers, MarlDorough 
 none — Buonaparte is xxnwhiskered, the Regent whiskered ; " argal" greatness of mind 
 and whiskers may or may not go together ; but certainly the different occurrences, since 
 the growth of the last mentioned, go further in behalf of whiskers than the anathema of 
 Anselm did against long hair in the reign of Henry I. Formerly, red was a favourite 
 colour. See Lodowick Barry's comedy of Ram Alley, 1661, Act i. scene 1. 
 
 " Taffeta. — Now for a wager— What coloured beard comes next by the window t 
 
 *' Adriana. — A black man's, I think. 
 
 '* Taffeta. — I think not so : I think a red, for that is most in fashion." 
 There is " nothing new under the sun ;" but red, then a favourite, has now subsided 
 tato a favourite's colour. 
 
 L 
 
K6 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS* 
 
 Seductive Waltz ! — though on thy native shore 
 Even Werter's self proclaim'd thee half a whore ; 
 Werter — to decent vice though much inclined, 
 Yet warm, not wanton ; dazzled, but not blind — 
 Though gentle Genlis, in her strife with Stael, 
 Would e'en proscribe thee from a Paris ball ; 
 Thee fashion hails — from countesses to queens, 
 And maids and valets waltz behind the scenes ; 
 Wide and more wide thy witching circle spreads, 
 And turns — if nothing else — at least our heads ; 
 With thee even clumsy cits attempt to bounce, 
 And cockneys practise what they can't pronounce. 
 God ! how the glorious theme my strain exalts, 
 And rhyme finds partner rhyme in praise of Waltz ! 
 
 Blest was the time Waltz chose for her debut ; 
 The court, the Regent, like herself were new ;* 
 New face for friends, for foes some new rewards ; 
 New ornaments for black and royal guards ; 
 New laws to hang the rogues that roar'd for bread ; 
 New coins (most new) to follow those that fled ;t 
 New victories — nor can we prize them less, 
 Though J enkyj wonders at his own success ; 
 New wars, because the old succeed so well, 
 That most survivors envy those who fell ; 
 New mistresses — no, old — and yet 'tis true, 
 Though they be old, the thing is something new ; 
 Each new, quits new — (except some ancient tricks), § 
 New white-sticks, gold-sticks, broom-sticks, all new sticks ! 
 With vests or ribbons deck'd alike in hue, 
 New troopers strut, new turncoats blush in blue ; 
 
 So saith the muse : my , what say you ?|| 
 
 Such was the time when Waltz might best maintain 
 Her new preferments in this novel reign ; 
 Such was the time, nor ever yet was such ; 
 Hoops are no more, and petticoats not much ; 
 Morals and minuets, virtue and her stays, 
 And tell-tale powder — all have had their days. 
 The ball begins — the honours of the house 
 First duly done by daughter or by spouse, 
 
 • An anachronism — Waltz and the battle of Austerlitz are before said to have opened 
 the ball together ; the hard means (if he means anything), Waltz was not so much in 
 vogue till the Regent attained the acme of his popularity. Waltz, the comet, whiskers, 
 and the new government, illuminated heaven and earth, in all their glory, much about 
 fiie same time ; of these the comet only has disappeared ; the other three continue to 
 astonish us still. — Printer 's Devil. 
 
 f Amongst others a new ninepence — a creditable coin now forthcoming, worth a pound, 
 in paper, at the fairest calculation. 
 
 J Jenkinson. 
 
 $5 " Oh that right should thus overcome might /" Who does not remember the * delicate 
 Investigation" in the " Merry Wives of Windsor?" — 
 
 " Ford.— Pray you, come near : if I suspect without cause, why then make sport at 
 me : then let me be your jest ; I deserve it. How now ? whither bear you this ? 
 
 " Mrs. Ford. — What have you to do whither they bear it?— you were best meddle with 
 buck-washing." 
 
 || The genile, or ferocious, reader may fill up the blank as he pleases — there are several 
 dissyllabic names at his service (being already in the Regent's) ; it would not be fair to 
 back any peculiar initial against the alphabet, as every month will add to the list now 
 entered for the sweepstakes :— a distinguished consonant ia said to be the favourite, muck 
 against the wishes of the knowing one*. 
 
THE WALTZ. 
 
 H7 
 
 Some potentate — or royal or serene — 
 
 With Kent's gay grace, or sapient Gloster's mien, 
 
 Leads forth the ready dame, whose rising flush 
 
 Might once have been mistaken for a blush. 
 
 From where the garb just leaves the bosom free, 
 
 That spot where hearts were once supposed to be ;* 
 
 Round all the confines of the yielded waist, 
 
 The stranger's hand may wander undisplaced ; 
 
 The lady's in return may grasp as much 
 
 As princely paunches offer to her touch. 
 
 Pleased round the chalky floor how well they trip, 
 
 One hand reposing on the royal hip ; 
 
 The other to the shoulder no less royal 
 
 Ascending with affection truly loyal ! 
 
 Thus front to front the partners move or stand, 
 
 The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand ; 
 
 And all in turn may follow in their rank, 
 
 The Earl of — Asterisk, and Lady — Blank ; 
 
 Sir — Such-a-ono — with those of fashion's host, 
 
 For whose blest surnames — vide " Morning Post " 
 
 (Or if for that impartial print too late, 
 
 Search Doctors' Commons six months from my date). 
 
 Thus all and each, in movements swift or slow, 
 
 The genial contact gently undergo ; 
 
 Till some might marvel, with the modest Turk, 
 
 If " nothing follows all this palming work ? "*t* 
 
 True, honest Mirza ! — you may trust my rhyme — 
 
 Something does follow at a fitter time ; 
 
 The breast thus publicly resign' d to man 
 
 In private may resist him if it can. 
 
 0 ye who loved our grandmothers of yore, 
 Fitzpatrick, Sheridan, and many more ! 
 And thou, my Prince ! whose sovereign tasto and will 
 It is to love the lovely beldames still ! 
 Thou ghost of Queensbury ! whose judging sprite 
 Satan may spare to peep a single night, 
 Pronounce — if ever in your days of bliss 
 Asmodeus struck so bright a stroke as this ? 
 To teach the young ideas how to rise, 
 Flush in the cheek, and languish in the eyes ; 
 Rush to the heart, and lighten through the frame, 
 With half- told wish and ill-dissembled flame : 
 For prurient nature still will storm the breast — 
 Who, tempted thus, can answer for the rest ? 
 
 But ye — who never felt a single thought 
 For what our morals are to be, or ought ; 
 
 * *• We have changed all that," says the Mock Doctor — 'tis all gone— Asrnodem ftncnn 
 where. After all, it is of no great importance how women's hearts are disposed of ; tliey 
 have nature's privilege to distribute them as absurdly as possible. But tbero are alao 
 some men with hearts bo thoroughly bad, as to remind us of those phenoBaen* often 
 mentioned in nature* history ; viz. a mass of solid stone — only to be opened by force*— and 
 when divided, you find a toad in the centre, lively, and with the reputation of teeing 
 venomous. 
 
 t In Turkey a pertinent, here an impertinent and superfluous, question — literally 
 put, as iu the text, by a Persian to Morier, on seeing ft waltz in Pera.— yjd* M»rier'§ 
 fr— t l i , 
 
 L U 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Who wisely wish the charms you view to reap, 
 Say — would you make those beauties quite so cheap 
 Hot from the hands promiscuously applied, 
 Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side, 
 Where were the rapture then to clasp the form 
 From this lewd grasp and lawless contact warm i 
 At once love's most endearing thought resign, 
 To press the hand so press' d by none but thine ; 
 'To gaze upon that eye which never met 
 Another'* ardent look without regret ; 
 Approach the lip which all, without restraint, 
 Come near enough — if not to touch — to taint ; 
 If such thou lovest — love her then no more, 
 Or give — like her — caresses to a score ; 
 Her mind with these is gone, and with it go 
 The little left behind it to bestow. 
 
 Voluptuous Waltz ! and dare I thus blasphema ? 
 Thy bard forgot thy praises were his theme. 
 Terpsichore, forgive ! — at every ball 
 My wife now waltzes and my daughters shall; 
 My son — (or stop — 'tis needless to inquire — 
 These little accidents should ne'er transpire ; 
 Some ages hence our genealogic tree 
 Will wear as green a bough for him as me) — 
 Waltzing shall rear, to make our name amends, 
 Grandsons for me — in heirs to all his friends. 
 
 TIME ! on whose arbitrary wing 
 The varying hours must flag or fly. 
 
 Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 
 But drag or drive us on to die — 
 
 Hail, thou ! who on my birth bestow' d 
 Those boons to all that know thee known * 
 
 Vet better I sustain thy load, 
 For now I bear the weight alone. 
 
 I would not one fond heart should share 
 The bitter moments thou hast given ; 
 
 And pardon thee, since thou couldst spare 
 All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 
 
 To them be joy or rest, on mo 
 
 Thy future ills shall press in vain : 
 
 I nothing owe but years to thee, 
 A debt already paid in pain. 
 
 Yet even that pain was some relief ; 
 
 It felt, but still forgot thy power : 
 The active agony of grief 
 
 Retardsj but never counts the hour. 
 
 TO TIME. 
 
rJTOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. 
 
 In joy I've sigh'd to think thy flight 
 Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 
 
 Thy cloud could overcast the light, 
 But could not add a.night to woe ; 
 
 For then, however drear and dark, 
 My soul was suited to thy sky ; 
 
 One star alone shot forth a spark 
 To prove thee not — Eternity. 
 
 That beam hath sunk, and now thou art 
 A blank, — a thing to count and curse, 
 
 Through each dull tedious trifling part, 
 Which all regret, yet all rehearse. 
 
 One scene even thou canst not deform ; 
 
 The limit of thy sloth or speed, 
 When future wanderers bear the storm 
 
 Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 
 
 And I can smile to think how weak 
 Thine efforts shortly shall be shown, 
 
 When all the vengeance thou canst wreak 
 Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 
 
 THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. 
 
 Thou art not false, but thou art fickle, 
 
 To those thyself so fondly sought ; 
 The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
 
 Are doubly bitter from that thought : 
 'Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 
 Too well thou lov'st — too soon thou lea vest. 
 
 The wholly false the heart despises, 
 
 And spurns deceiver and deceit : 
 But she who not a thought disguises, 
 
 Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 
 When she can change who loved so truly, 
 It feels what mine has felt so newly. 
 
 To dream of joy and wake to sorrow, 
 
 Is doom'd to all who love or live ; 
 And if, when conscious on the morrow, 
 
 We scarce our fancy can forgive, 
 That cheated us in slumber only, 
 To leave the waking soul more lonely. 
 
 What must they feel whom no false vision, 
 But truest, tenderest passion warm'd ; 
 
 Sincere, but swift in sad transition, 
 As if a dream alone had charm' d ? 
 
 Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 
 
 And all thy change can be but dwanrtng f 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER, 
 
 Remember him, whom passion's power 
 
 Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
 Remember thou that dangerous hour 
 
 When neither fell, though both were loved, 
 
 That yielding breast, that melting eye, 
 
 Too much invited to be bless'd ; 
 That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 
 
 The wilder wish reproved, repressed. 
 
 Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 
 But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 
 
 And blush for every pang it cost 
 To spare the vain remorse of years. 
 
 Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
 Whose busy accents whisper blame, 
 
 Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
 And brand a nearly blighted name. 
 
 Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
 Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : 
 
 I bless thy purer soul even now, 
 Even now, in midnight solitude. 
 
 Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 
 
 Our hearts as fond, thy hand more fre© ; 
 
 When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
 And I been less unworthy thee. 
 
 Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
 From this our gaudy world be pass'd ! 
 
 And that too bitter moment o'er, 
 Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 
 
 This heart, alas ! perverted long, 
 Itself destroy'd, might thee destroy ; 
 
 To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
 Would wake Presumption's hope of joy e 
 
 Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
 Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 
 
 That world resign — such scenes forego, 
 Where those who feel must surely fall. 
 
 Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
 Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 
 
 From what even here hath pass'd, may guesa 
 What there thy bosom must endure. 
 
SEMEMBliR HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER. 
 
 Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
 Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 
 
 ^ffy frenzy drew from eyes no dear ; 
 For me they shall not weep again. 
 
 Though long and mournful must it be, 
 The thought that we no more may meol. ; 
 
 Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
 And almost deem the sentence sweet. 
 
 Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
 Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 
 
 \t felt not half so much to part, 
 As if its guilt had made thee mine. 
 
THE GIAOUR :• 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws 
 
 Jta bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
 
 To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, 
 
 For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting." — Mookj; 
 
 TO 
 
 SAMUEL KOGERS, ESQ., 
 
 kfi k SLIGHT BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOB HIS GENIU8 V 
 RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED AND 
 
 AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, 
 
 London, May, 1813. BYRON. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The tale which these disjointed fragments present, is founded upon 
 circumstances now less common in the East than formerly; either because 
 the ladies are more circumspect than in the "olden time," or because the 
 Christians have better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, when entire, 
 contained the adventures of a female slave, who was thrown, in the 
 Mussulman manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young 1 
 Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possessed by the 
 Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten back from the 
 Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian 
 invasion. The desertion of the Mainotes, on being- refused the plunder of 
 Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and to the desolation 
 of the Morea, during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was 
 unparalleled even in the annals of the faithful. 
 
 • This worcl, immortalized by Byron lu this poem, and not leas by Bechford in 
 " Vathek," meant " inGdel," and ia pronounced Djiur, like Qiamtchid and ethsr 
 Eastern uaxne*. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 No breath of air to break the wave 
 That rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
 That tomb which, gleaming o'er the clifJ,* 
 First greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
 High o'er the land he saved in vain ; 
 When shall such hero live again ? 
 * • * • • 
 
 Fair clime ! where every season smi'si 
 
 Benignant o'er those blessed isles, 
 
 Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
 
 Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 
 
 And lend to loneliness delight. 
 
 There mildly dimpling, Ocean's check 
 
 Reflects the tints of many a peak 
 
 Caught by the laughing tides that lavo 
 
 These Edens of the Eastern wave : 
 
 And if at times a transient breeze 
 
 Break the blue crystal of the seas, 
 
 Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
 
 How welcome is each gentle air 
 
 That wakes and wafts the odours thero ! 
 
 For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, 
 
 Sultana of the Nightingale,*!" 
 The maid for whom his melody, 
 His thousand songs are heard on high, 
 
 Blooms blushing to her lover's tale ; 
 
 His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, 
 
 Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, 
 
 Far from the winters of the West, 
 
 By every breeze and season blest, 
 
 Returns the sweets by nature given 
 
 In softest incense back to heaven ; 
 
 And grateful yields that smiling sky 
 
 Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
 
 And many a summer flower is there, 
 
 And many a shade that love might staaro. 
 
 And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
 
 That holds the pirate for a guest ; 
 
 • A tomb above the rocks on the promontory, by some supposed the sepu!>^>» 'A 
 Themistocles.— B. 
 
 t The attachment of the nightingale to the rose is a well-known Persian fable Ii! I 
 mistake not, the " Bitibul of a thousand tales " is one of hi* appellations. — B, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Whose bark in sheltering cove below 
 Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, 
 Till the gay mariner's guitar* 
 Is heard, and seen the evening star ; 
 Then stealing with the muffled oar. 
 Far shaded by the rocky shore, 
 Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
 And turn to groans his roundelay. 
 Strange — that where Nature loved to tracs» 
 As if for Gods, a dwelling-place, 
 And every charm and grace hi»'lh mix'd 
 "Within the paradise she fix'd, 
 There man, enamour' d of distress, 
 Should mar it into wilderness, 
 And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 
 That tasks not one laborious hour ; 
 Nor claims the culture of his hand 
 To bloom along the fairy land, 
 But springs as to preclude his care, 
 And sweetly woos him — but to spare ! 
 Strange — that where all is peace beside, 
 There passion riots in her pride, 
 And lust and rapine wildly reign 
 To darken o'er the fair domain. 
 : It is as though the fiends prevail'd 
 Against the seraphs they assail'd, 
 And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 
 The freed inheritors of hell ; 
 So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, 
 So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 
 
 He who hath bent him o'er the dead 
 ' Ere the first day of death is fled, 
 
 The first dark day of nothingness, 
 
 The last of danger and distress, 
 
 (Before Decay's effacing fingers 
 
 Have swept the lines where beauty lingers), 
 
 And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
 
 The rapture of repose that's there, 
 
 The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
 
 The languor of the placid cheek, 
 
 And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps nob now, 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
 
 Where cold Obstruction's apathyt 
 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
 
 As if to him it could impart 
 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 
 Yes, but for these and these alone, 
 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power ; 
 
 « Tho guitar is the constant amusement of the Greek sailor by night : with a sU^dy foiu 
 wind, and during a calm, it is accompanied always by the voice, and often by dancing. 
 f " Ay, but to die and go we know not where. 
 
 To lie In cold obstruction,"— Measure /or Measure, Act iii. Sc. & 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 155 
 
 So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 
 
 The first, last look by death reveal'd !* 
 
 Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
 
 Tis Greece, but living Greece no more ! 
 
 So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
 
 We start, for soul is wanting there. 
 
 Hers is the loveliness in death, 
 
 That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
 
 But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
 
 That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
 
 Expression's last receding ray, 
 
 A gilded halo hovering round decay, 
 
 The farewell beam of Feeling past away ! 
 &park of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, 
 Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish' d earth i 
 
 Clime of the unforgotten brave ! f 
 Whose land from plain to mountain -cave 
 Was Freedom's home, or Glory's grave ! 
 Shrine of the mighty ! can it be 
 That this is all remains of thee ? 
 Approach, thou craven crouching slave : 
 
 Say, is not this Thermopylae ? 
 These waters blue that round you lave, 
 
 Oh servile offspring of the free — 
 Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? 
 The gulf, the rock of Salamis ! 
 These scenes, their story not unknown, 
 Arise, and make again your own ; 
 Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
 The embers of their former fires ; 
 And he who in the strife expires 
 Will add to theirs a name of fear 
 That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
 And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
 They too will rather die than shame : 
 For Freedom's battle once begun, 
 Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
 Though baffled oft is ever won. 
 Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
 Attest it many a deathless age ! 
 While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
 Have left a nameless pyramid, 
 Thy heroes, though the general doom 
 Hath swept the column from their tomb, 
 
 • 3 trust that few of my readers have ever had an opportunity of witnessing what tt 
 her© attempted in description ; but those who have will probably retain a painful remem- 
 brance of that singular beauty which pervades, with few exceptions, the features of the 
 dead, a few hours, and but for a few hours, after " the spirit is not there." It is to be 
 remarked in cases of violent death by gun-shot wounds, the expression is alwayB that of 
 languor, whatever the natural energy of the sufferer's character ; but in death from a stab, 
 the countenance preserves its traits of feeling or ferocity, and the mind its bias, to the 
 last,— B. 
 
 t It is the fact of Grecian history and poetry having been the studies of the brignt 
 morning of our youth that imparts such a charm to all that belongs to this country. Its 
 poetry and arts, still, it is true, preserve their supremacy ; but in practical lessons, the 
 history of our own immortal 17th century, and that of the Netherlands, are quite as 
 abundant. 
 
155 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 A mightier monument command, 
 The mountains of their native land ! 
 There points thy muse to stranger's eye- 
 The graves of those that cannot die ! 
 'Twere long to tell, and sad to trace, 
 Each step from splendour to disgrace : 
 Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
 Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
 Yes ! Self-abasement paved the way 
 To villain-bonds and despot sway. 
 
 What can he tell who treads thy shore ? 
 
 No legend of thine olden time, 
 No theme on which the muse might soar, 
 High as thine own in days of yore, 
 
 When man was worthy of thy clime. 
 The hearts within thy valleys bred, 
 The fiery souls that might have led 
 
 Thy sons to deeds sublime, 
 Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
 Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave,* 
 
 And callous, save to crime ; 
 Stain'd with each evil that pollutes 
 Mankind, where least above the brutes ; 
 Without even savage virtue blest, 
 Without one free or valiant breast. 
 Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 
 Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft ; 
 In this the subtle Greek is found, 
 For this, and this alone, renown'd. 
 In vain might Liberty invoke 
 The spirit to its bondage broke, 
 Or raise the neck that courts the yoke . 
 No more her sorrows I bewail, 
 Yet this will be a mournful tale, 
 And they who listen may believe, 
 Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 
 
 * # * * » 
 
 Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 
 The shadows of the rocks advancing, 
 Start on the fisher's eye like boat 
 Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 
 And fearful for his light caique, 
 He shuns the near but doubtful creek : 
 Though worn and weary with his toil, 
 And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 
 Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 
 Till Port Leone's safer shore 
 
 • Athens is the property of the Kislar Aga (the slave of the seraglio and guardian of th* 
 women), who appoint? theWaywode. A pander and eunuch— these are not polito yut 
 true appellations — now governs the governor of Athens. — B. 
 
 Such was the case when Byron wrote this note, and Lady Morgan wrote " Ida of A thens." 
 Since then the powers of Europe have made Greece a kingdom, and given her a. monarch? 
 whether she has reason to be proud in either case, we can hardly say. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 157 
 
 Receives him by the lovely light 
 That best becomes an Eastern night. 
 
 -»**»« 
 
 Who thundering comes on blackest steed. 
 With slacken' d bit and hoof of speed ! 
 Beneath the clattering iron's sound 
 The cavern'd echoes wake around 
 In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 
 The loam that streaks the courser's side 
 Seems gather' d from the ocean- tido : 
 Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 
 There's none within his rider's breast ; 
 And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 
 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour ! 
 I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 
 But in thy lineaments I trace 
 What time shall strengthen, not efface : 
 Though young and pale, that sallow front 
 Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt ; 
 Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 
 As meteor-like thou glidest by, 
 Right well I view and deem thee one 
 Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. 
 
 On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 
 My gaze of wonder as he flew : 
 Though like a demon of the night 
 He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, 
 His aspect and his air impress'd 
 A troubled memory on my breast. 
 And long upon my startled ear 
 Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 
 Ho spurn his steed ; he nears the steep, 
 That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 
 He winds around ; he hurries by ; 
 The rock relieves him from mine eye ; 
 For well I vreen unwelcome he 
 Whose glance is fix'd on those that flee ; 
 And not a star but shines too bright 
 On him who takes such timeless flight. 
 He wound along ; but ere he pass'd, 
 
 One glance he snatch' d, as if his last, 1 
 
 A moment check'd his wheeling steed, 
 
 A moment breathed him from his speed, 
 
 A moment on his stirrup stood — 
 
 Why looks he o'er the olive wood ? 
 
 The crescent glimmers on the hill, 
 
 The mosque's high lamps are quivering sua : 
 
 Though too remote for sound to wake 
 
 In echoes of the far tophaike,* 
 
 • "Tophaike," musket.— The Bairam is announced by Ihe cannon at sunset; the Illu- 
 mination of the mosques, and the firing of all kinds of small arms, loaded with bali» 
 proclaims it during the night— B 
 
58 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 The flashes of each joyous peal 
 Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal. 
 To-night, set Khamazani's sun ; 
 To-night, the Bairam feast 's begun ; 
 To-night — but who and what art thou, 
 Of foreign garb and fearful brow ? 
 And what are these to thine or thee, 
 That thou shouldst either pause or flee ? 
 
 He stood — some dread was on his face, 
 Soon Hatred settled in its place • 
 It rose not with the reddening flush 
 Of transient Anger's hasty blush, 
 But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 
 Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 
 His brow was bent, his eye was glazed ; 
 He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
 And sternly shook his hand on high, 
 As doubting to return or fly : 
 Impatient of his flight delay'd, 
 Here loud his raven charger neigh'd — 
 Down glanced that hand, and grasp'd his blado 5 
 That sound had burst his waking dream, 
 As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 
 The spur hath lanced his courser's sides ; 
 Away, away, for life he rides : 
 Swift as the hurl'd on high j erreed * 
 Springs to the touch his startled steed ; 
 The rock is doubled, and the shore 
 Shakes with the clattering tramp no more ; 
 The crag is won, no more is seen 
 His Christian crest and haughty mien. 
 'Twas but an instant he restrain'd 
 That fiery barb so sternly rein'd ; 
 'Twas but a moment that he stood, 
 Then sped as if by death pursued : 
 But in that instant o'er his soul 
 Winters of Memory seem'd to roll, 
 And gather in that drop of time 
 A life of pain, an age of crime. 
 O'er him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
 Such moment pours the grief of years : 
 What felt he then, at once oppress'd 
 By all that most distracts the breast ? 
 That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 
 Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
 Though in Time's record nearly nought, 
 It was Eternity to Thought ! 
 For infinite as boundless spaco 
 The thought that Conscience must embrace, 
 
 • Jerreed, or Djerrid, a blunted Turkish javelin, which is darted from horseback wilk 
 great force and precision. It is a favourite excercise of the Mussulmans ; but I know not 
 tf it can be called a manly one, since the most expert in the art are the black eunuchs of 
 Constantinople. I think, next to these, a Mamlouk at Smyrna was the most skilful 
 that came within my observation.— B, 
 
He raised his arm, and fiercely raised, 
 And sternly shook his hand on high. 
 
 The Giaour. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Which in itself can comprehend 
 Woe without name, or hope, or end. 
 
 The hour is past, the Giaour is gone ; 
 And did he fly or fall alone ? 
 Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
 The curso for Hassan's sin was sent 
 To turn a palace to a tomb : 
 Be came, he went, like the simoom,* 
 That harbinger of fate and gloom, 
 Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
 The very cypress droops to death — 
 Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
 The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 
 
 The steed is vanish'd from the stall ; 
 No serf is seen in Hassan's hall ; 
 The lonely Spider's thin gray pall 
 Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
 The Bat builds in his Haram bower, 
 And in the fortress of his power 
 The Owl usurps the beacon-tower ; 
 The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
 With baffled thirst, and famine grim ; 
 For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
 Where the weeds and the desolate dust aro spread. 
 'Twas sweet of yore to see it play 
 And chase the sultriness of day, 
 As springing high the silver dew 
 In whirls fantastically flew, 
 And flung luxurious coolness round 
 The air, and verdure o'er the ground. 
 'Twas sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 
 To view the wave of watery light, 
 And hear its melody by night. 
 And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd 
 Around the verge of that cascade ; 
 And oft upon his mother's breast 
 That sound had harmonized his rest ; 
 And oft had Hassan's Youth along 
 Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song ; 
 And softer seem'd each melting tono 
 Of Music mingled with its own. 
 But ne'er shall Hassan's Age repose 
 Along the brink at twilight's close : 
 The stream that fill'd that font is fled — 
 The blood that warm'd his heart is shed 1 
 And here no more shall human voico 
 Bo heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 
 The last sad note that swell'd the gale 
 Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 
 That quench'd in silence, all is still, 
 But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shrill ; 
 
 • The blast of the dewrt, fatal to everything living, and often alludotf to in oaattra 
 
BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 Though raves the gust, and floods the r&ia, 
 
 No hand shall close its clasp again. 
 
 On desert sands 'twere joy to scan 
 
 The rudest steps of fellow man ; 
 
 So here the very voice of Grief 
 
 Might wake an Echo like relief — 
 
 At least 'twould say, "All are not gone ; 
 
 There lingers Life, though but in one" — 
 
 For many a gilded chamber 's there, 
 
 Which Solitude might well forbear ; 
 
 Within that dome as yet Decay 
 
 Hath slowly work'd her cankering way— 
 
 JBut gloom is gather 'd o'er the gate, 
 
 ' Nor there the Fakir's self will wait ; 
 
 Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 
 
 For bounty cheers not his delay ; 
 
 Nor there will weary stranger halt 
 
 To bless the sacred "bread and salt/' * 
 
 Alike must Wealth and Poverty 
 
 Pass heedless and unheeded by, 
 
 For Courtesy and Pity died 
 
 With Hassan on the mountain side. 
 
 His roof, that refuge unto men, 
 
 Is Desolation's hungry den. 
 
 The guest flies the hall, and the vassal from labour, 
 
 Since his turban was cleft by the Infidel's sabre ! f 
 ***** 
 
 I hear the sound of coming feet, 
 But not a voice mine ear to greet ; 
 More near — each turban I can scan, 
 And silver-sheathed ataghan 
 The foremost of the band is seen 
 An Emir by his garb of green : § 
 "Ho ! who art thou?"—" This low salam || 
 Beplies of Moslem faith I am." 
 " The burthen ye so gently bear 
 Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
 And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
 My humble bark would gladly wait." 
 
 u Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoor, 
 And waft us from the silent shore ; 
 
 * To partake of food, to break bread and salt with your host, insures the safety of thi 
 guest : even though an enemy, his person from that moment is sacred. — B. 
 
 t I need hardly observe, that charity and hospitality are the first duties enjoined by 
 Mahomet ; and to say truth, very generally practised by his disciples. The first praise 
 that can be bestowed on a chief, is a panegyric on his bounty ; the next, on his valour.—/?. 
 
 I The ataghan, a long dagger worn with pistols in the belt, in a metal scabbard, 
 generally of silver ; and, among the wealthier, gilt, or of gold. — B. 
 
 § Green is the privileged colour of the Prophet's numerous pretended descendants ; with 
 them, as here, faith (the family inheritance) is supposed to supersede the necessity of 
 good works : they are the worst of a very indifferent brood. — B. 
 
 || " Salam aleikoum 1 aleikoum salam I" — " Peace be with you ; be with you peace" — 
 the salutation reserved for the faithful: — to a Christian, " Urlarula 1" — " A good 
 journey ;" or, " Saban hiresem, saban serula " — " Good morn, good even ; " and some- 
 times, " May your end be happy/' are the usual salutes.— B. 
 
TEE GIAOUR. 
 
 $ay, leave the sail still furl'd, and ply 
 The nearest oar that's scatter' d by, 
 And midway to those rocks where sleep 
 The channell'd waters dark and deep. 
 Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
 Our course has be'jn right swiftly run ; 
 Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
 That one of M * * • 
 
 Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
 The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
 I watch'd it as it sank : methought 
 Some motion from the current caught 
 Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 
 That checker'd o'er the living stream : 
 I gazed, till vanishing from view, 
 Like lessening pebble it withdrew ; 
 Still less and less, a speck of white 
 That gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight ; 
 And all its hidden secrets sleep, 
 Known but to Genii of the deep, 
 Which, trembling in their coral caveg, 
 They dare not whisper to the waves. 
 
 • * * * • 
 
 As rising on its purple wing 
 The insect-queen of eastern spring,* 
 O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
 Invites the young pursuer near, 
 And leads him on from flower to flower, 
 A weary chase and wasted hour, 
 Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
 With panting heart and tearful eye : 
 So Beauty lures the full-grown child, 
 With hue as bright, and wing as wild ; 
 A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
 Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
 If won, to equal ills betray' d, 
 Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
 A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
 From infant's play and man's caprice ; 
 The lovely toy so fiercely sought, 
 Hath lost its charm by being caught, 
 For every touch that woo'd its stay 
 Hath brush'd its brightest hues away, 
 Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
 'Tis left to fly or fall alone. 
 With wounded wing or bleeding breast, 
 Ah ! where shall either victim rest ? 
 Can this with faded pinion soar 
 From rose to tulip as before ? 
 
 -wing»d butterfly of Kashmeer, the most rare and beautiful cf the spec!** 
 
 M 
 
16? BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, 
 Find joy within her broken bower ? 
 No : gayer insects fluttering by 
 Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that dio* 
 And lovelier things have mercy shown 
 To every failing but their own, 
 And every woe a tear can claim, 
 Except an erring sister's shame. 
 ***•*« 
 
 The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woe®, 
 
 Is like the Scorpion girt by fire, 
 In circle narrowing as it glows, 
 The flames around their captive close, 
 Till inly search'd by thousand throes, 
 
 And maddening in her ire, 
 One sad and sole relief she knows, 
 The sting she nourish' d for her foes, 
 Whose venom never yet was vain, 
 Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
 And darts into her desperate brain : 
 So do the dark in soul expire, 
 Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ;* 
 So writhes the mind Kemorse hath rivoa, 
 Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
 Darkness above, despair beneath, 
 Around it flame, within it death ! 
 
 * * * * *> 
 
 Black Hassan from the Haram flies, 
 Nor bends on woman's form his eyes ; 
 The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
 Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
 Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
 When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
 Doth Leila there no longer dwell ? 
 That tale can only Hassan tell : 
 Strange rumours in our city say 
 Upon that eve she fled away 
 When Rhamasan's last sun was set,*f* 
 And flashing from each minaret 
 Millions of lamps proclaim 'd the feast 
 Of Bairam through the boundless East. 
 'Twas then she went as to the bath, 
 Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
 For she was flown her master's rage, j 
 In likeness of a Georgian page, 
 And far beyond the Moslem's power 
 Had wrong*d him with the faithless Giaour. 
 
 * Alluding to the dubious suicide of the scorpion, so p^ced for experiment by gents* 
 
 Ehilosophers. Some maintain that the position of the sting, when turned towards the 
 aad, is merely a convulsive movement ; but others have actually brought in the v»»dict # 
 *' Felo de se." The scorpions are t-urely interested in a speedy decision of the question j | 
 m, if once fairly established as insect Catos, they will probably be allowed to live as lonj 
 %£ they think proper, without being martyred for the sake of an hypothesis.— B. 
 t The cannon at sunset close the Rhamazan. See antd. note. p. 157. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 Somewhat of this had Hassan deem'd 
 But still so fond, so fair she seem'd, 
 Too well he trusted to the slave 
 Whose treachery deserved a grave : 
 And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
 And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
 Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
 Who did not watch their charge too well ; 
 But others say, that on that night, 
 By pale Phingari's* trembling light, 
 The Giaour upon his jet-black steed 
 Was seen, but seen alone, to speed 
 With bloody spur along the shore, 
 Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 
 * * # ♦ • 
 
 Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
 But gaze on that of the Gazelle, 
 It will assist thy fancy well ; 
 As largo, as languishingly dark, 
 But Soul beam'd forth in every spark 
 That darted from beneath the lid, 
 Bright as the jewel of Giamschid.+ 
 Yea, Soul, and should our Prophet say 
 That form was nought but breathing clay, 
 By Alia ! I would answer nay ; 
 Though on Al-Sirat's £ arch I stood, 
 Which totters o'er the fiery flood, 
 With Paradise within my view, 
 And all his Houris beckoning through. 
 Oh ! who young Leila's glance could read 
 And keep that portion of his creed, § 
 Which saith that woman is but dust, 
 A soulless toy for tyrant's lust ? 
 On her might Muftis gaze, and own 
 That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 
 On her fair cheek's unfading hue 
 The young pomegranate's blossoms strew f| t 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 
 % 
 
 • Phingari, the moon.— B. 
 
 f The celebrated fabulous ruby of Sultan Glamschid, the embellisher of Istakhar ; from 
 Its splendour, named Schebgerog, " the Torch of Night ;" also, the " Cup of the Sun," Ac. 
 In the first edition, " Giamschid " was written as a word of three syllables ; so D'Herbelot 
 has it ; but I am told Richardson reduces it to a dissyllable, and writes " Jamshid." I 
 have left in the text the orthography of the one, with the pronunciation of the other.— R. 
 
 Most writers now would prefix a D, which reconciles the Eastern with the Italian 
 pronunciation. 
 
 X Al-Slrat, the bridge of breadth, less than the thread of a famished spider, over which 
 the Mussulmans must skate into Paradise, to which it is the only entrance ; but this is 
 not the worst, the river beneath being hell itself, into which, as may be expected, the 
 unskilful and tender of foot contrive to tumble with a " facilis descensus Averni," not 
 very pleasing in prospect tc ihe next passenger. There is a shorter cut downwards to the 
 Jews and Christians. — B. 
 
 § A vulgar error : the Koran allots at least a third of Paradise to weli-Dehaved women 
 tout by far the greater number of Mussulmans interpret the text their own way, and 
 exclude their moieties from heaven. Being enemies to Platonics, they cannot discern 
 " any fitness of things " in *- souls of the other sex, conceiving them to be superseded 
 oy the Houries.— B. 
 
 V An oriental simUe, which \j, perhaps, though fairly stolen, be deemed " plu# 
 urabe qu'en Arabio."— B. 
 
 u 2 
 
164 
 
 SYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Her hair in hyacinthino flow,* 
 When left to roll its folds below, 
 As midst her handmaids in the hail 
 She stood superior to them all, 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet, 
 Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
 It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 
 The cygnet nobly walks the water ; 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
 The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! + 
 As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride^ 
 When pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound her tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
 Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise : 
 Thus high and graceful was her gait ; 
 Her heart as tender to her mate ; 
 Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he ? 
 Alas I that name was not for thee ! 
 
 * * * * « 
 
 Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
 With twenty vassals in his train, 
 Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
 With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
 The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
 Bears in his belt the scimitar 
 Stain' d with the best of Arnaut blood, 
 When in the pass the rebels stood, 
 And few return'd to tell the tale 
 Of what befell in Parne's vale. 
 The pistols which his girdle bore 
 Wei e those that once a pacha wore, 
 Wh ch still, though gemm'd and boss'd with gold, 
 Even robbers tremble to behold. 
 'Tis said he goes to woo a bride 
 More true than her who left his side ; 
 The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
 And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 The sun's last rays are on the hill, 
 And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
 Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
 Draw blessings from the mountaineer ; 
 Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
 Find that repose 'twere vain to seek] 
 
 Hyatiathlne, in Arabic '* Sunbul;" as common a thought in the eastern yoito « It 
 m among the Greeks. — B. 
 i " Franguestan," Circaisia,- -S. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 160 
 
 In cities, lodged too near his lord, 
 And trembling for his secret hoard — 
 Hero may he rest where none can teo, 
 In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
 And with forbidden wine may stain 
 The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 
 * * * * # 
 
 TLe foremost Tartar 's in the gap, 
 
 Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
 
 The rest in lengthening lino the while i 
 Wind slowly through the long defile : 
 Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
 Where vultures whet tho thirsty beak ; 
 And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
 Shall tempt them down ere morrow's light ; 
 Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
 Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
 And loft a channel bleak and bare, 
 Save shrubs that spring to perish there : 
 Each side the midway path there lay 
 Small broken crags of granite gray, 
 By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
 From summits clad in mists of heaven ; 
 For where is he that hath beheld 
 The peak of Liakura unveil'd ? 
 #■*#*• 
 
 They reach the grove of pine at last : 
 " Bismillah ! * now the peril 's past ; 
 For yonder view the opening plain, 
 And there we'll prick our steeds amain : w 
 The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
 A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
 The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 
 
 Scarce had they time to check the rein, 
 Swift from their steeds the riders bound ; 
 
 But three shall never mount again : 
 Unseen the foes that gave the wound, 
 
 The crying ask revenge in vain. 
 With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent. 
 Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 
 
 Half sheltered by the steed ; 
 Some fly behind the nearest rock, 
 And there await the coming shock, 
 
 Nor tamely stand to bleed 
 Beneath the shaft of foes unseen, 
 Who dare not quit their craggy screen. 
 Stern Hassan only from his horse 
 Disdains to light, and keeps his course, 
 Till fiery flashes in the van 
 Proclaim too sure the robber-clan 
 
 KUraillah— " in the name of God ;" the commencement ol all the cfc?.ptcn of Uy 
 ■Coran but one, and of prayer and thanksgiving.— A 
 
m 
 
 BYRON"S POEMS 
 
 Have well secured the only way 
 Could now avail the promised prey ; 
 Then curl'd his very beard with ire,* 
 And glared his eye with fiercer fire : 
 " Though far and near the bullets hiss 
 I've 'scaped a bloodier hour than this/' 
 And now the foe their covert quit, 
 And call his vassals to submit ; 
 But Hassan's fro?ni and furious word 
 Are dreaded more than hostile sword, 
 Nor of his little band a man 
 Resign'd carbine or ataghan, 
 Nor raised the craven cry, Amaun !f 
 In fuller sight more near and near, 
 The lately ambush'd foes appear, 
 And, issuing from the grove, advance 
 Some who on battle charger prance. 
 "Who leads them on with foreign brand, 
 Far flashing in his red right hand ? 
 '"Tis he ! 'tis he ! I know him now ; 
 I know him by his pallid brow ; 
 I know him by the evil eye J 
 That aids his envious treacheiy ; 
 I know him by his jet-black barb ; 
 Though now array* d in Arnaut garb, 
 Apostate from his own vile faith, 
 It shall not save aim from the death : 
 'Tis he ! well met in any hour, 
 Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour ! M 
 
 As rolls the river into ocean, 
 In sable torrent wildly streaming ; 
 
 As the sea-tide's opposing motion, 
 In azure column proudly gleaming, 
 Beats back the current many a rood, 
 In curling foam and mingling flood, 
 While eddying whirl, and breaking wave, 
 Roused by the blasts of winter, rave ; 
 Through sparkling spray, in thundering clash, 
 The lightnings of the waters flash 
 In awful whiteness o'er the shore, . 
 That shines and shakes beneath the roar ; ■ 
 Thus — as the stream and ocean greet, 
 With waves that madden as they meet — 
 Thus join the bands, whom mutual wrong, 
 And fate, and fury, drive along. 
 
 ° A phenomenon not uncommon with an angry Mussulman. In 1809, the Capitals 
 Pacha's whiskers at a diplomatic audience were no less lively with indignation than a 
 tiger cat's, to the horror of all the dragomans ; the portentous mustachios twisted, they 
 stood erect of their own accord, and were expected every moment to change their colour, 
 but at last condescended to subside, which, probably saved more heads than they con- 
 tained heirs.*— B. 
 
 f " Amaun," quarter, pardon. — B. 
 
 * The " evil eye," a common superstition In the Levant, and of which the Imaginary 
 ctiacls are yet very singular on those who conceive themselves affected.*-/?. 
 
THE GIAOUR: 
 
 The bickering sabres' shivering jar ; 
 And, pealing wide or ringing near, 
 Its echoes on the throbbing ear, 
 The deathshot hissing from afar ; 
 The shock, the shout, the groan of war, 
 Reverberate along that vale, 
 More suited to the shepherd's tale : 
 Though few the numbers — theirs the strife,, 
 That neither spares nor speaks for life ! 
 Ah ! fondly youthful hearts can press, 
 To seize and share the dear caress ; 
 But love itself could never pant 
 For all that Beauty sighs to grant. 
 With half the fervour Hate bestows 
 Upon the last embrace of foes, 
 When grappling in the fight they fold 
 Those arms that ne'er shall lose their hold : 
 Friends meet to part ; Love laughs at faith 
 True foes, once met, are join'd till death I 
 ***** 
 
 With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
 Yet strain'd within the sever' d hand 
 Which quivers round that faithless brand ; 
 His turban far behind him roll'd, 
 And cleft in twain its firmest fold ; 
 His flowing robe by falchion torn, 
 And crimson as those clouds of morn 
 That, streak'd with dusky red, portend 
 The day shall have a stormy end ; 
 A stain on every bush that bore 
 A fragment of his palampore,* 
 His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven, 
 His back to earth, his face to heaven, 
 Fall'n Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
 Yet lowering on his enemy, 
 As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
 Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
 And o'er him bends that toe, with brow 
 As dark as his that bled below. — 
 * * * * 
 
 " Yes, Leila sleeps beneath the wave, 
 But his shall be a redder grave ; 
 Her spirit pointed well the steel 
 Which taught that felon heart to feel. 
 He call'd the Prophet, but his power 
 Was vain against the vengeful Giaour : 
 He call'd on Alia — but the word 
 Arose unheeded or unheard. 
 Thou Paynim fool ! could Leila's prayer 
 Bo pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
 
 • The flowered shawls generally worn by persons of rank.— j 
 
BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 I watch'd my time, I leagued with those, 
 The traitor in his turn to seize ; \ 
 My wrath is wreak' d, the deed is dfcne, 
 And now I go — but go alone." 
 
 • * * * • 
 
 The browsing camels 5 bells are tinkling : 
 His Mother look'd from her lattice high — 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling 
 The pasture green beneath her eye, 
 
 She saw the planets faintly twinkling : 
 u 'Tis twilight— sure his train is nigh." 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 But gazed through the grate of his steepest tower : 
 " Why comes he not ? his steeds are fleet, 
 Nor shrink they from the summer heat ; 
 Why sends not the bridegroom his promised gift ? 
 Is his heart more cold, or his barb less swift ? 
 Oh, false reproach ; yon Tartar now 
 Has gain'd our nearest mountain's brow, 
 And warily the steep descends, 
 And now within the valley bends ; 
 And he bears the gift at his saddle bow- 
 How could I deem his courser slow ? 
 Right well my largess shall repay 
 His welcome speed, and weary way." 
 
 The Tartar lighted at the gate, 
 But scarce upheld his fainting weight ; 
 His swarthy visage spake distress, 
 But this might be from weariness ; 
 His garb with sanguine spots was dyed, 
 But these might be from his courser's side . 
 He drew the token from his vest — 
 Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crept } 
 His calpac* rent — his caftan red — 
 " Lady, a fearful bride thy Son hath wad : 
 Me, not from mercy, did they spare, 
 But this empurpled pledge to bear. 
 Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt ; 
 Woe to the Giaour ! for his the guilt." 
 
 A turban carved in coarsest stone,+ 
 A pillar with rank weeds o'ergrown, 
 Whereon can now be scarcely read 
 The Koran verse that mourns the dead, 
 Point out the spot where Hassan fell 
 A victim in that lonely delL 
 
 • The calpac is the solid cap or centre part of the head-dress ; the shawl is wound re and 
 it, and forms the turban.—/?. 
 
 t The turban, pillar, and inscriptive verse, decorate the tombs of the Osmanlles, 
 whether in the cemetery or the wilderness. In the mountains you frequently pass similar 
 mementos ; and on inquiry you are informed that they record some victim of rebellion, 
 plunder, or revenge — £. 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 109 
 
 There sleeps as true an Osmanlie 
 
 As e'er at Mecca bent the knee ; 
 
 As ever scorn'd forbidden wine, 
 
 Or pray'd with face towards the shrine, 
 
 In orisons resumed anew 
 
 At solemn sound of " Alia Hu ! " * 
 
 Yet died he by a stranger's hand, 
 
 And stranger in his native land ; 
 
 Yet died he as in arms he stood, 
 
 And unavenged, at least in blood. 
 
 But him the maids ef Paradise 
 
 Impatient to their halls invite, 
 And the dark heaven of Houris' eyes 
 
 On him shall glance for ever bright ; 
 They come — their kerchiefs green they wave,^ 
 And welcome with a kiss the brave ! 
 Who falls in battle 'gainst a Giaour 
 Is worthiest an immortal bower. 
 
 ***** 
 
 But thou, false Infidel ! shall writhe 
 Beneath avenging Monkir's scythe ; X 
 And from its torments 'scape alone 
 To wander round lost Eblis' § throne ; 
 And fire, unquench'd, unquenchable, 
 Around, within, thy heart shall dwell ; 
 Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell 
 The tortures of that inward hell ! 
 But first, on earth as Vampire sent || 
 Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent : 
 Then ghastly haunt thy native place, 
 And suck the blood of all thy race ; 
 There from thy daughter, sister, wife, 
 At midnight drain the stream of life ; 
 Yet loath the banquet which perforce 
 Must feed thy livid living corse : 
 Thy victims, ere they yet expire, 
 Shall know the demon for their sire, 
 
 • " Alia Hu I " the concluding words of the Muezzin's call to prayer from the highest 
 gallery on the exterior of the minaret. On a still evening, when the Muezzin has a fine 
 voice, which is frequently the case, the effect is solemn and beautiful beyond all the bells 
 In Christendom. — B. 
 
 t The following is part of a battle-song of the Turks :— " I see— I see a dark-eyed girl of 
 Paradise, and she waves a handkerchief, a kerchief of green ; and cries aloud, * Corns, 
 kiss me, for I love thee,'" Ac.—B. 
 
 X Monkir and Nekir are the inquisitors of the dead, before whom the corpse undergoes 
 a slight noviciate and preparatory training for damnation. If the answers are none <sf 
 the clearest, he is ha\iled up with a scythe and thumped down with a red-hot mace till 
 properly seasoned, with a variety of subsidiary probations. The office of these angels is 
 no sinecure ; there are but two, and the number of orthodox deceased being in a small 
 proportion to the remainder, their hands are always full. Consult Sale's Koran. — B. 
 
 § Eblis, the Oriental Prince of Darkness. — B. 
 
 || The Vampire superstition is still general in the Levant. Honest Tournefort tells a 
 long story, which Mr. Southey, in his notes on " Thalaba," quotes, about thrse " Vrou- 
 colochas," as he calls them. The Romaic term is " Vardoulacha." I recollect a whole 
 family being terrified by the scream of a child, which they imagined must proceed from 
 such a visitation. The Greeks never mention the word without horror. I find that 
 *' Broucolokas " is an old legitimate Hellenic appellation — at least is so applied to Arse- 
 nius, who, according to the Creeks, was after his death animated by the Devil. — The 
 moderns, however, use the word I mention.— B 
 
170 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 As cursing thee, thou cursing them, 
 Thy flowers are wither'd on the stem. 
 But one that for thy crime must fall, 
 The youngest, most beloved of all, 
 Shall bless thee with a, fathers name — 
 That word shall wrap thy heart in flame ! 
 Yet must thou end thy task, and mark 
 Her cheek's last tinge, her eye's last spark, 
 And the last glassy glance must view 
 Which freezes o'er its lifeless blue ; 
 Then with unhallow'd hand shalt tear 
 The tresses of her yellow hair, 
 Of which in life a lock when shorn 
 Affection's fondest pledge was worn ; 
 But now is borne away by thee, 
 Memorial of thine agony ! 
 Wet with thine own best blood shall drip 
 Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip ; 
 Then stalking to thy sullen grave, 
 Go — and with Gouls and Afrits rave ; 
 Till these in horror shrink away 
 From spectre more accursed than they ! 
 • * » ♦ 
 
 € * How name ye yon lone Caloyer ? 
 
 His features I have scann'd before 
 In mine own iand : 'tis many a year, 
 
 Since, dashing by the lonely shore, 
 1 saw him urge as fleet a steed 
 As ever served a horseman's need. 
 But once I saw that face, yet then 
 It was so mark'd with inward pain, 
 I could not pass it by again ; 
 It breathes the same dark spirit now, 
 As death were stamp' d upon his brow." 
 4 * 'Tis twice three years at summer tide 
 
 Since first among our freres he came ; 
 And here it soothes him to abide 
 
 For some dark deed he will not name* 
 But never at our vesper prayer, 
 Nor e'er before confession chair 
 Kneels he, nor recks he when arise 
 Incense or anthem to the skies, 
 But broods within his cell alone, 
 His faith and race alike unknown. 
 The sea from Paynim land he cross'd, 
 And here ascended from the coast ; 
 Yet seems he not of Othman race, 
 But only Christian in his face : 
 I'd judge him some stray renegade, 
 Bepentant of the change he made, 
 Save that he shuns our holy shrine, 
 Nor tastes the sacred bread and wine. 
 
 * The freshness of the face, and the wetness of the lip with blood, *re the neT&T-K&llltoji 
 •dgns of a Vampire. The stories told in Hungary and Greece of those foul leaders ait 
 singular, and some of them most incredibly attested.— B. 
 
THE GIAOUR 
 
 171 
 
 Great largess to these walls he brought, 
 And thus our abbot's favour bought ; 
 But were I prior, not a day- 
 Should brook such stranger's further stay, 
 Or pert within our penance cell 
 Should doom him there for aye to dwell. 
 Much in his visions mutters he 
 Of maiden 'whelm'd beneath the sea ; 
 Of sabres clashing, foemen flying, 
 Wrongs avenged, and Moslem dying. 
 On cliff he hath been known to stand* 
 And rave as to some bloody hand, 
 Fresh sever'd from its parent limb, 
 Invisible to all but him, 
 Which beckons onward to his grave, 
 And lures to leap into the wave." 
 
 * * * * ♦ 
 
 Dark and unearthly 13 the scowl 
 
 That glares beneath his dusky cowl : 
 
 The flash of that dilating eye 
 
 Reveals too much of times gone by ; 
 
 Though varying, indistinct its hue, 
 
 Oft will his glance the gazer rue, 
 
 For in it lurks that nameless spell, 
 
 Which speaks, itself unspeakable, 
 
 A spirit yet unquell'd and high, 
 
 That claims and keeps ascendancy ; 
 
 And like the bird whose pinions quake, 
 
 But cannot fly the gazing snake, 
 
 Will others quail beneath his look, 
 
 Nor 'scape the glance they scarce can brook. 
 
 From him the half- affrighted Friar 
 
 When met alone would fain retire, 
 
 As if that eye and bitter smile 
 
 Transferr'd to others fear and guile : 
 
 Not oft to smile descendeth he, 
 
 And when he doth, 'tis sad to see 
 
 That he but mocks at Misery. 
 
 How that pale lip will curl and quiver ! 
 
 Then fix once more as if for ever ; 
 
 As if his sorrow or disdain 
 
 Forbade him e'er to smile again. 
 
 Well were it so — such ghastly mirth 
 
 From joyaunce ne'er derived its birth. 
 
 But sadder still it were to trace 
 
 What once were feelings in that face ; 
 
 Time hath not yet the features fix'd, 
 
 But brighter traits with evil mix'd ; 
 
 And there are hues not always faded, 
 
 Which speak a mind not all degraded, 
 
 Even by the crimes through which it wadod S 
 
 The common crowd but see the gloom 
 
 Of wayward deeds, and fitting doom ; 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The close observer can espy 
 
 A noble soul, and lineage high : 
 
 Alas ! though both bestow' d in vain, 
 
 Which Grief could change, and Guilt could ulfctoa, 
 
 It was no vulgar tenement 
 
 To which such lofty gifts were lent, 
 
 And still with little less than dread 
 
 On such the sight is riveted. 
 
 The roofless cot, decay'd and rent, 
 
 Will scarce delay the passer by ; 
 The tower by war or tempest bent, 
 While yet may frown one battlement, 
 
 Demands and daunts the stranger's eye ; 
 Each ivied arch and pillar lone 
 Pleads haughtily for glories gone ! 
 
 "His floating robe around him folding, 
 
 Slow sweeps he through the column' d aisla £ 
 
 With dread beheld, with gloom beholding 
 The rites that sanctify the pile. 
 
 But when the anthem shakes the choir, 
 
 And kneel the monks, his steps retire ; 
 
 By yonder lone and wavering torch 
 
 His aspect glares within the porch ; 
 
 There will he pause till all is done — 
 
 And bear the prayer, but utter none. 
 
 See — by the half-illumined wall 
 
 His hood fly back, his dark hair fall, 
 
 That pale brow wildly wreathing round, 
 
 As if the Gorgon there had bound 
 
 The sablest of the serpent-braid 
 
 That o'er her fearful forehead stray'd : 
 
 For he declines the convent oath, 
 
 And leaves those locks unhallow'd growth 
 
 But wears our garb in all beside ; 
 
 And, not from piety but pride, 
 
 Gives wealth to walls that never heard 
 
 Of his one holy vow nor word. 
 
 Lo ! — mark ye, as the harmony 
 
 D eals louder praises to the sky, 
 
 That livid cheek, that stony air 
 
 Of mix'd defiance and despair ! 
 
 Saint Francis, keep him from the shrine I 
 
 Else may we dread the wrath divine 
 
 Made manifest by awful sign. 
 
 If ever evil angel bore 
 
 The form of mortal, such he wore : 
 
 By all my hope of sins forgiven, 
 
 Such looks are not of earth nor heaven S* 3 
 
 To love the softest hearts are prone, 
 But such can ne'er be all his own ; 
 Too timid in his woes to share, 
 Too meek to meet, or brave despair 5 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 And sterner hearts alone may feel 
 The wound that time can never heal. 
 The rugged metal of the mine 
 Must burn before its surface shine, 
 But plunged within the furnace-flame, 
 It bends and melts — though still the snmo 
 Then temper'd to thy want, or will, 
 'Twill serve thee to defend or kill ; 
 A breast-plate for thine hour of need, 
 Or blade to bid thy foeman bleed ; 
 But if a dagger's form it bear, 
 Let those who shape its edge, beware I 
 Thus passion's fire, and woman's art, 
 Can turn and tame the sterner heart ; 
 From these its form and tone are ta'en, 
 And what they make it, must remain, 
 But break — before it bend again. 
 
 * * * * ♦ 
 
 If solitude succeed to grief, 
 Release from pain is slight relief ; 
 The vacant bosom's wilderness 
 Might thank the pang that made it less. 
 We loathe what none are left to share : 
 Even bliss — 'twere woe alone to bear; 
 The heart once left thus desolate 
 Must fly at last for ease — to hate. 
 It is as if the dead could feel 
 The icy worm around them steal, 
 And shudder as the reptiles creep 
 To revel o'er their rotting sleep, 
 Without the power to scare away 
 The cold consumers of their clay ! 
 It is as if the desert-bird,* 
 
 Whose beak unlocks her bosom's streaa 
 
 To still her famish'd nestlings' scream, 
 Nor mourns a life to them transferr'dj 
 Should rend her rash devoted breast. 
 And find them flown her empty nest. 
 The keenest pangs the wretched find 
 
 Are rapture to the dreary void, 
 The leafless desert of the mind, 
 
 The waste of feelings unemploy'd. 
 Who would be doom'd to gaze upon 
 A sky without a cloud or sun ? 
 Less hideous far the tempest's roar 
 Than ne'er to brave the billow? mon? — 
 Thrown, when the war of wina.i is o'er, 
 A lonely wreck on fortune's shore, 
 'Mid sullen calm, and silent bay, 
 Unseen to drop by dull decay ; — 
 
 • The pelican is, I believe, the bird bo libelled by the imputation of faedicf k es dltfc 
 bav with her blood.— A 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Better to sink beneath the shock 
 
 Than moulder piecemeal on the rock! 
 
 * * * * 4» 
 
 Father ! thy days have pass'd in peace, 
 
 'Mid counted beads, and countless prayer g 
 To bid the sins of others cease, 
 
 Thyself without a crime or care. 
 Save transient ills that all must bear, 
 Has been thy lot from youth to age ; 
 And thou wilt bless thee from the rage 
 Of passions fierce and uncontrolTd, 
 Such as thy penitents unfold, 
 Whose secret sins and sorrows rest 
 Within thy pure and pitying breast. 
 My days, though few, have pass'd below 
 In much of joy, but more of woe ; 
 Yet still in hours of love or strife, 
 I've 'scaped the weariness of life : 
 Now leagued with friends, now girt by fc-c^ 
 I loathed the languor of repose. 
 Now nothing left to love or hate, 
 No more with hope or pride elate, 
 I'd rather be the thing that crawls 
 Most noxious o'er a dungeon's walls, 
 Than pass my dull, unvarying days, 
 Condemn'd to meditate and gaze. 
 Yet, lurks a wish within my breast 
 For rest — but not to feel 'tis rest. 
 Soon shall my fate that wish fulfil ; 
 
 And I shall sleep without the dream 
 Of what I was, and would be still, 
 
 Dark as to thee my deeds may seem : 
 My memory now is but the tomb 
 Of joys long dead ; my hope, their doom I 
 Though better to have died with those 
 Than bear a life of lingering woes. 
 My spirit shrunk not to sustain 
 The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 
 Nor sought the self-accorded grave 
 Of ancient fool and modern knave : 
 Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 
 And in the field it had been sweet, 
 Had danger woo'd me on to move 
 The slave of glory, not of love. 
 I've braved it — not for honour's boasfc g 
 i smile at laurels won or lost ; 
 To such let others carve their way, 
 JFor high renown, or hireling pay : 
 But place again before my eyes 
 A.ught that I deem a worthy prize ; 
 The maid I love, the man I hate, 
 And I will hunt the steps of fate, 
 To save or slay, as these require, 
 Through rending steel, and rolling firo: 
 
THE GIAOUB, 
 
 Nor need'st thou doubt this speech from on© 
 Who would but do — what he hath done. 
 Death is but what the haughty brave, 
 The weak must bear, the wretch must cr&vo ; 
 Then let Life go to Him who gave : 
 I have not quail'd to danger's brow 
 When high and happy — need I now t 
 
 u I loved her, Friar ! nay, adored — 
 
 But these are words that all can use — 
 I proved it more in deed than word ; 
 There's blood upon that dinted sword, 
 
 A stain its steel can never lose : 
 'Twas shed for her, who died for me. 
 
 It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd : 
 Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 
 
 Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
 Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
 For he was hostile to thy creed — 
 The very name of Nazarene 
 Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
 Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
 Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
 And wounds by Galileans given, 
 The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
 For him his Houris still might wait 
 Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 
 I loved her — love will find its way 
 Through paths where wolves would fear to proy 
 And if it dares enough, 'twere hard 
 If passion met not some reward — 
 No matter how, or where, or why, 
 1 did not vainly seek, nor sigh : 
 Yet sometimes, with remorse, in vain 
 I wish she had not loved again. 
 She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 
 But look — 'tis written on my brow ! 
 There read of Cain the curse and crimo, 
 In characters unworn by time : 
 Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 
 Not mine the act, though I the cause. 
 Yet did he but what I had done, 
 Had she been false to more than one. 
 Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 
 But true to me, I laid him low : 
 Howe'er deserved her doom might be. 
 Her treachery was truth to me ; 
 To me she gave her heart, that all 
 Which tyranny can ne'er enthral ; 
 And I, alas ! too late to save ! 
 Yet all I then could give, I gave — 
 'Twas some relief — our foe a grave. 
 His death sits lightly ; but her fate 
 Has made me— what thou well mayst hat* 
 
17« 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 His doom was seal'd — he knew it well* 
 Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
 Deep in whose darkly boding ear* 
 The deathshot peal'd of murder near, 
 
 As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
 He died too in the battle broil, 
 A time that heeds nor pain nor toil ; 
 One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
 One prayer to Alia all he made : f 4 
 He knew and cross'd me in the fray — 
 I gazed upon him where he lay, 
 And watch' d his spirit ebb away : 
 Though pierced like pard by hunter's steel, 
 He felt not half that now I feel. 
 I search'd, but vainly search' d, to find 
 The workings of a wounded mind ; 
 Each feature of that sullen corse 
 Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
 Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
 Despair upon his dying face ! 
 The late repentance of that hour, 
 When Penitence hath lost her power 
 To tear one terror from the grave, 
 And will not soothe, and cannot save. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 u The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
 Their love can scarce deserve the name ; 
 
 • This superstition of a second-heaving (for I never met with downright second-Bight 1b 
 the East) fell once under my own observation. On my third journey to Cape Colonna, 
 early in 1811, as we passed through the defile that leads from the hamlet between Keratia 
 and Colonna, I observed Dervish Tahiri riding rather out of the path, and leaning his 
 head upon his hand, as if in pain. I rode up and inquired. ** We are in peril," he 
 answered. •* What peril ? we are not now in Albania, nor in the passes to Ephesus, 
 Messalunghi, or Lepanto ; there are plenty of us, well armed, and the Choriates have 
 not courage to be thieves." — " True, Affendi, but nevertheless the shot is ringing in my 
 ears." — ** The shot 1 not a tophaike has been fired this morning." — " I hear it, notwith- 
 standing—Bom — Bom— as plainly as I hear your voice " Psha I " — "As you please, 
 Affendi ; if it is written, so will it be." — I left this quick-eived predestinarian, and rode up 
 to Basili, his Christian compatriot, whose ears, though not at all prophetic, by no means 
 relished the intelligence. We all arrived at Colonna, remained some hours, and returned 
 leisurely, saying a variety of brilliant things, in more languages than spoiled the build- 
 ing of Babel, upon the mistaken seer. Romaic, Amaut, Turkish, Italian, and English 
 were all exercised, in various conceits, upon the unfortunate Mussulman. While we 
 were contemplating the beautiful prospect, Dervish was occupied about the cohunta. 
 I thought he was deranged into an antiquarian, and asked him if he had become a 
 *' Palac-castro " man ? " No," said he, " but these pillars will be useful in making a 
 stand ;" and added other remarks, which at least evinced his own belief in his trouble- 
 some faculty of fore-hearing. On our return to Athens we heard from Leone (a prisoner 
 aet ashore some days after) of the intended attack ef the Mainotes, mentioned, with the 
 cause of its not taking place, in the notes to " Childe Harold," Canto II. I was at soma 
 pains to question the man, and he described the dresses, arms, and marks of the horses 
 of our party bo accurately, that, with other circumstances, we could not doubt of his 
 being in " villanous company," and ourselves in a bad neighbourhood. Dervish became 
 a soothsayer for life, and I dare say he is now hearing more musketry than ever will be 
 fired, to the great refreshment of the Arnauts of Be rat, and his native mountains.— I 
 shall mention one trait more of this singular race. In March, 1811, a remarkably stout 
 and active Arnaut came (I believe the fiftieth on the same errand) to offer himself as am 
 attendant, which was declined. " Well, Affendi," quoth he, " may you live !— yom 
 would have found me useful. I shall leave the town for the hills to-morrow ; in the 
 winter I return, perhaps you will then receive me." — Dervish, who was present, 
 remarked as a thing of course, and of no consequence, " in the mean time, he will joi& 
 the Klephtes " (robbers), which was true to the letter. If not cut off, they come down in 
 the winter, and pass it unmolested in some town, where they axe often as well known m 
 their exploits.— k, 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 But mine was like the lava flood 
 
 That boils in ^Etna's breast of flame. 
 I cannot prate in puling strain 
 Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain : 
 Tf changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
 Lips taught to writhe, but not complain, 
 jf bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
 And daring deed, and vengeful steel, 
 And all that I have felt, and feel, 
 Betoken love — that love was mine, 
 And shown by many a bitter sign. 
 'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
 I knew b it to obtain or die. 
 I die — but first, I have possess'd, 
 And come what may, I have been bless'd. 
 Shall I the doom I sought upbraid ? 
 No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
 But for the thought of Leila slain, 
 Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
 So would I live and love again. 
 I grieve, but not, my holy guide ! 
 For him who dies, but her who died : 
 She sleeps beneath the wandering wave— • 
 Ah ! had she but an earthly grave, 
 This breaking heart and throbbing head 
 Hhould seek and share her narrow bed. 
 She was a form of life and light, 
 That, seen, becamo a part of sight ; 
 And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, 
 The Morning-star of Memory ! 
 
 " Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven ; 
 
 A spark of that immortal fire 
 With angels shared, by Alia given, 
 
 To lift from earth our low desire. 
 Devotion wafts the mind above, 
 But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
 A feeling from tho Godhead caught, 
 To wean from self each sordid thought ; 
 A Ray of Him who form'd the whole ; 
 A Glory circling round the soul ! 
 I grant my love imperfect, all 
 That mortals by the name miscall ; 
 Then deem it evil, what thou wilt ; 
 But say, oh say, hers was not guilt ! 
 She was my life's unerring light : 
 That quench' d, what beam shall break my night T 
 Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
 Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
 Why marvel ye, if they who lose 
 
 This present joy, this future hope, 
 
 No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
 In phrensy then their fate accuse : 
 
byron's poems 
 
 In madness do those fearful deeds 
 
 That seem to add but guilt to woe ? 
 Alas ! the breast that inly bleeds 
 
 Hath nought to dread from outward blow j 
 Who falls from all he knows of bliss, 
 Cares little into what abyss. 
 Fierce as the gloomy vulture's now 
 
 To thee, old man, my deeds appear : 
 t read abhorrence on thy brow, 
 
 And this too was I born to bear ! 
 Tis true, that like that bird of prey, 
 With havoc have I mark'd my way : 
 But this was taught me by the dove, 
 To die — and know no second love. 
 This lesson yet hath man to learn, 
 Taught by the thing he dares to spurn : 
 The bird that sings within the brake, 
 The swan that swims upon the lake, 
 One mate, and one alone, will take. 
 And let the fool still prone to range, 
 And sneer on all who cannot change, 
 Partake his jest with boasting boys ; 
 I envy not his varied joys, 
 But deem such feeble, heartless man, 
 Less than yon solitary swan ; 
 Far, far beneath the shallow maid 
 He left believing and betray 'd. 
 Such shame at least was never mine — 
 Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
 My good, my guilt, my weal, my woe, 
 My hope on high — my all below. 
 Earth holds no other like to thee, 
 Or, if it doth, in vain for me : 
 For worlds I dare not view the dam© 
 Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
 The very crimes that mar my youth, 
 This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
 Tis all too late — thou wert, thou art 
 The cherish'd madness of my heart ! 
 
 " And she was lost — and yet I breathed^ 
 But not the breath of human life ; 
 
 A serpent round my heart was wreathed* 
 And stung my every thought to strife. 
 
 Alike all time, abhorr'd all place, 
 
 Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face* 
 
 Where every hue that charm'd before, 
 
 The blackness of my bosom wore. 
 
 The rest thou dost already know, 
 
 And all my sins, and half my woe. 
 
 But talk no more of penitence ; 
 
 Thou seest I soon shall part from hence : 
 
 And if thy holy tale were true, 
 
 The deed that's done, canst thou undo ' 
 
THE GIAOUR 
 
 179 
 
 Think me not thankless — but this grief 
 Looks not to priesthood for relief.* 
 My soul's estate in secret guess : 
 But wouldst thou pity more, say less. 
 When thou canst bid my Leila live, 
 Then will I sue thee to forgive ; 
 Then plead my cause in that high place 
 Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
 Go, when the hunter's hand hath wrung 
 From forest-cave her shrieking young, 
 And calm the lonely lioness : 
 But soothe not — mock not my distress ! 
 
 u In earlier days, and calmer hours, 
 
 When heart with heart delights to blend, 
 Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 
 
 I had — Ah ! havo I now ? — a friend ! 
 To him this pledge I charge thee send, 
 
 Memorial of a youthful vow ; 
 I would remind him of my end : 
 
 Though souls absorb' d like mine allow 
 Brief thought to distant friendship's claim. 
 Yet dear to him my blighted name. 
 'Tis strange — he prophesied my doom, 
 
 And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
 Whsn Prudence would his voice assume, 
 
 And warn — I reck'd not what — the whilo : 
 But now remembrance whispers o'er 
 Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
 Say — that his bodings came to pass, 
 
 And he will start to hear their truth, 
 
 And wish his words had not been sooth : 
 Tell him, unheeding as I was, 
 
 Through many a busy bitter scene 
 
 Of all our goklon youth had been, 
 In pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
 To bless his memory ere I died ; 
 But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
 If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
 I do not ask him not to blame, 
 Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
 And what have I to do with fame ? 
 I do not ask him not to mourn, 
 Such cold request might sound like scorn , 
 And what than friendship's manly tear 
 May better grace a brother's bier ? 
 But bear this ring, his own of old, 
 And tell him — what thou dost behold ! 
 The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
 The wrack by passion left behind, 
 
 • Tho monk's sermon is omitted. It seems to have had so little effect upon the patient, 
 lhat it could have no hopes from the reader. It may be sufficient to say, that it was of • 
 customary length (as may be perceived from the interruptions and uneasiness of th« 
 penitent), and was delivered in the nasal tone of all orthodox preachers.— J}. 
 
 N 2 
 
BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 A shrivell'd scroll, a scattered leaf, 
 Bear'd by the autumn blast of grief I 
 • • * ♦ «• 
 
 u Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
 
 No, father, no, 'twas not a dream ; 
 
 Alas ! the dreamer first must sleep, — 
 
 I only watch' d, and wish'd to weep ; 
 
 But could not, for my burning brow 
 
 Throbb'd to the very brain as now : 
 
 I wish'd but for a single tear, 
 
 As something welcome, new, and dear ; 
 
 I wish'd it then, I wish it still ; 
 
 Despair is stronger than my will. 
 
 Waste not thine orison, despair 
 
 Is mightier than thy pious prayer : 
 
 I would not, if I might, be blest ; 
 
 I want no paradise, but rest. 
 
 'Twas then, I tell thee, father ! then 
 
 I saw her ; yes, she lived again ; 
 
 And shining in her white symar,* 
 
 As through yon pale gray cloud the sta? 
 
 Which now I gaze on, as on her, 
 
 Who look'd and looks far lovelier ; 
 
 Dimly I view its trembling spark ; 
 
 To-morrow's night shall be more dark ; 
 
 And I, before its rays appear, 
 
 That lifeless thing the living fear. 
 
 I wander, father ! for my soul 
 
 Is fleeting towards the final goal. 
 
 I saw her, friar ! and I rose 
 
 Forgetful of our former woes ; 
 
 And rushing from my couch, I dart, 
 
 And clasp her to my desperate heart ; 
 
 I clasp — what is it that I clasp ? 
 
 No breathing form within my grasp, 
 
 No heart that beats reply to mine, 
 
 Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 
 
 And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 
 
 As meet my eye, yet mock my touch ? 
 
 Ah ! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 
 
 I care not ; so my arms enfold 
 
 The all they ever wish to hold. 
 
 Alas ! around a shadow press' d, 
 
 They shrink upon my lonely breast ; 
 
 Yet still 'tis there ! In silence stands, 
 
 And beckons with beseeching hands ! 
 
 With braided hair, and bright black eye^- 
 
 1 knew 'twas false — she could not die I 
 
 But he is dead ! within the dell 
 
 I saw him buried where he fell ; 
 
 He comes not, for he cannot break 
 
 From earth ; why then art thou awako ? 
 
 * '« Symar," a shroud.— i? 
 
THE GIAOUR. 
 
 131 
 
 They told me wild waves roll'd above 
 The face I view, the form I love : 
 They told me — 'twas a hideous tale ! 
 I'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 
 If true, and from thine ocean-cave 
 Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave ; 
 Oh ! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 
 This brow, that then will burn no more ; 
 Or place them on my hopeless heart : 
 But, shape or shade ! whate'er thou art, 
 In mercy ne'er again depart ! 
 Or farther with thee bear my soul 
 Than winds can waft or waters roll ! 
 
 **•**• 
 
 M Such is my name, and such my tale. 
 
 Confessor ! to thy secret ear 
 I breathe the sorrows I bewail, 
 
 And thank thee for the generous tear 
 This glazing eye could never shed. 
 Then lay me with the humblest dead, 
 And, save the cross above my head, 
 Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
 By prying stranger to be read, 
 Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread." 
 
 He pass'd — nor of his name and race 
 Hath left a token or a trace. 
 Save what the father must not say 
 Who shrived him on his aying day : 
 This broken tale was all ho knew 
 Of her he loved, or him he slew.* 
 
 • The circumstance to which the above story relates, was not very uncommon in Turkey. 
 A few years ago, the wife of Muchtar Pacha complained to his father of his son'* sup- 
 posed infidelity ; he asked with whom, and she had the barharity to give in a list of the 
 twelve handsomest women in Yanina. They were seized, fastened up in sacks, and 
 drowned in the lake the same night 1 One of the guards who was present informed me, 
 that not one of the victims uttered a cry, or showed a symptom of terror, at so sudden a 
 " wrench from all we know, from all we love." The fate of Fhrosine, the fairest of this 
 sacrifice, is the subject of many a Romaic and Arnaut ditty. The story in the text Ls 
 one told of a young Venetian many years ago, and now nearly forgotten. I heard it by 
 accident recited by one of the cotree-house story-tellers who abound in the Levant, and 
 sing cr recite their narratives. The additions and interpolations by the translator will 
 be easily distinguished from the rest, by the want of Eastern imageiy ; and I regret that 
 my memory has retained so few fragments of the original. For the contents of some of 
 the notes, I am indebted partly to D'Herbelot, and partly to that most Eastern, and, as 
 Mr. Webber justly entitles it, " sublime tale," the " Caliph Vathek." I do not know 
 from what source the author of that singular volume may have drawn his materials ; 
 some of his incidents are to be found in the " Bibliotheque Orientale ;" but for correct- 
 ness of costume, beauty of description, and power of imagination, it far surpasses all 
 European imitations ; and bears such marks of originality, that those who have visited 
 the East will find some difficulty in believing it to be more than a translation. As an 
 Eastern tale, even Rasselas must bow before it ; his " Happy Valley " will not boar a 
 comparison with the " Hall of Eblis."— B. 
 
182 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 IMPROMPTU, IN REPLY TO A FRIEND. 
 
 When, from the heart where Sorrow sits, 
 
 Her dusky shadow mounts too high, 
 And o'er the changing aspect flits, 
 
 And clouds the brow, or fills the eye ; 
 Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink : 
 
 Mv thoughts their dungeon know tco well — 
 Back to my breast the wanderers shrink 
 
 And droop within their silent cell. 
 
 Sepleiafcar, ISIS, 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS: 
 
 A TURKISH TALE. 
 
 " Had we never loved bo kindly, 
 H id we never loved so blindly. 
 Never met or never parted, 
 We had ne'er been broken-hearted."— Burns. 
 
 TO 
 
 THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD HOLLAND, 
 
 THIS TALE IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 WITH EVERY SENTIMENT OF REGARD AND BBSPBCT, 
 BY HIS GRATEFULLY OBLIGED AND 
 
 SINCBBB FBIFTTD, 
 
 BYRON. 
 
 CANTO THF. FIRST. 
 i. 
 
 Kncw ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
 
 Wheie the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 Nov melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 
 Wheie the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shino ; 
 
 Wheie the light wings of Zephyr, oppress' d with pertume 
 
 Wax taint o'er the gardens of Gill in her bloom !* 
 
 Wheie the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 
 And ;he voice of the nightingale never is mute, 
 
 Whe/e the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky ► 
 
 In cdour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
 
 And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye ; 
 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 
 'Tis ;he clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — 
 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?i* 
 
 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they telL 
 
 • " Gul," the rose. — B. 
 
 t " Sonla made of lire, and children of the Sun, 
 
 With whom Revenge is Virtue."— Young's Jlevengi.—B. 
 
1S4 
 
 BUtON'S POEMS, 
 
 IL 
 
 Begirt with many a gallant slave, 
 Apparell'd as becomes the brave, 
 Awaiting each his lord's behest 
 To guide his steps, or guard his rest, 
 Old GiaflSr sat in his Divan : 
 
 Deep thought was in his aged eye ; 
 And though the face of Mussulman 
 
 Not oft betrays to standers by 
 The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
 All but unconquerable pride, 
 His pensive cheek and pondering brow 
 Did more than he was wont avow. 
 
 in. 
 
 "Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train disappear' 
 
 %< Now call me the chief of the Haram guard." 
 With Giaffir is none but his only son, 
 And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 
 
 " Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
 
 Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 
 
 (Woe to the head whose eye beheld 
 
 My child Zuleika's face unveil' d !) 
 
 Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 
 
 Her fate is fix'd this very hour : 
 
 Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
 
 By me alone be duty taught ! " 
 
 " Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
 
 No more must slave to despot say — 
 
 Then to the tower had ta'en his way ; 
 
 But here young Selim silence brake, 
 First lowly rendering reverence meet ; 
 
 And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 
 Still standing at the Pacha's feet : 
 
 For son of Moslem must expire, 
 
 Ere dare to sit before his sire ! 
 
 " Father ! for fear that thou shouldst chid© 
 My sister, or her sable guide, 
 Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
 Was mine ; — then fall thv frowns on me— 
 So lovelily the morning shone, 
 
 That — let the old and weary sleep — 
 I could not ; and to view alone 
 
 The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
 With none to listen and reply 
 To thoughts with which my heart beat high, 
 Were irksome ; for whate'er my mood, 
 In sooth I love not solitude ; 
 I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 
 
 And, as thou knowest that for me 
 
 Soon turns the Haram's grating key, I 
 Before the guardian slaves awoke 
 
THE BRIDE OP ABTDOS. 
 
 185 
 
 We to the cypress groves had flown, 
 And made earth, main, and heaven our own ! 
 There linger' d we, beguiled too long 
 With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's son^,* 
 Till I, who heard the deep tambour 
 Beat thy Divan's approaching hour, 
 : To thee, and to my duty true, 
 
 Warn'd by the sound, to greet thee flew : 
 But there Zuleika wanders yet — 
 Nay, father, rage not — nor forget 
 That none can pierce that secret bower 
 But those who watch the women's tower." 
 
 IV. 
 
 "Son of a slave" — the Pacha said — 
 • u From unbelieving mother bred, 
 Vain were a father's hope to see 
 Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
 Thou, when thine arm should bend the bow, 
 
 And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
 
 Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
 Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
 And watch unfolding roses blow. 
 Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
 Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
 Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
 Thou, who wouldst see this battlement 
 By Christian cannon piecemeal rent ; 
 Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
 Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
 Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
 Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
 Go ! let thy less than woman's hand 
 Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
 But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
 And hark — of thine own head take heod— » 
 If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
 Thou seest yon bow — it hath a string \ n 
 
 V. 
 
 No sound from Selim's lip was heard, 
 
 At least that met old Giaffir's ear, 
 t- But every frown and every word 
 
 Pierced keener than a Christian's sword. 
 
 " Son of a slave ! — reproach'd with fear ! 
 
 Those gibes had cost another dear. 
 Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ? " 
 
 Thus held his thoughts their dark career ; 
 And glances ev'n of more than ire 
 
 Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
 
 * Mejnoun and Leila, the Romeo and Juliet of the East. Sadi, the tnanl post nS 
 Persia.— B. 
 
 \ Turkish drum, which aouuUe »t •unrise, noon, and twilight— B. 
 
BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
 
 And started ; for within his eye 
 He read how much his wrath had done * 
 He saw rebellion there begun : 
 
 Come hither, boy — what, no reply ? 
 I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
 But there be deeds thou dar'st not do : 
 But if thy beard had manlier length, 
 And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
 I'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
 Albeit against my own, perchance." 
 
 As sneeringly these accents fell, 
 On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 
 
 That eye return'd him glance for glance, 
 And proudly to his sire's was raised, 
 
 Till Giaffir's quail' d and shrunk askance— - 
 And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
 " Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
 Will one day work me more annoy : 
 I never loved him from his birth, 
 And — but his arm is little worth, 
 And scarcely in the chase could cope 
 With timid fawn or antelope, 
 Far less would venture into strife 
 Where man contends for fame and life — 
 I would not trust that look or tone : 
 No — nor the blood so near my own. 
 That blood — he hath not heard — no more— » 
 I'll watch him closer than before. 
 He is an Arab to my sight,* 
 Or Christian crouching in the fight — 
 But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice ; 
 
 Like Houris* hymn it meets mine ear : 
 She is the offspring of my choice ; 
 
 Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear. 
 With all to hope, and nought to fear — 
 My Peri !— ever welcome here ! 
 Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave, 
 To hps just cool'd in time to save — 
 
 Such to my longing sight art thou ; 
 Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
 More thanks for life, than I for thine, 
 
 Who bless'd thy birth and bless thee now." 
 
 VI. 
 
 Fair, as the first that fell of womankind, 
 When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 
 
 Whose image then was stamp'd upon her mind — 
 But once beguiled — and ever more beguiling ; 
 
 Dazzling, as that, oh ! too transcendent vision 
 To Sorrow's phantom -peopled slumber given, 
 
 * The Turku abhor the Arabs (who return the compliment a hundred-fold) even aioro 
 Ui&n they hate the Christians. — B. 
 
THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 
 
 137 
 
 When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 
 
 And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven ; 
 Soft, as the memory of buried love ; 
 Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts above ; * 
 Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief, 
 Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 
 
 Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
 To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray ? 
 Who doth not feel, until his lailing sight 
 Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
 The might — the majesty of Loveliness ? 
 Such was Zuleika — such around her shono 
 The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone ; 
 The light of love, the purity of grace, 
 The mind, the Music breathing from her face, 
 The heart whose softness harmonized the whole- 
 And, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 
 
 Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
 Across her gently-budding breast ; 
 
 At one kind word those arms extending 
 To clasp the neck of him who bless'd 
 His child caressing and caress'd, 
 Zuleika came — and Giaffir felt 
 His purpose half within him melt : 
 Not that against her fancied weal 
 His heart though stern could ever feel ; 
 Affection chain' d her to that heart ; 
 Ambition tore the links apart. 
 
 vn. 
 
 u Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 
 How dear this very day must tell, 
 
 When I forget my own distress, 
 In losing what I love so well, 
 To bid thee with another dwell : 
 Another ! and a braver man 
 Was never seen in battle's van. 
 
 We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 
 
 * This is a mistake of poets and some theologians ; a child's prayer is meaningless— tii 
 worthiest prayer is from man in the prime of his vigour and intellect — no child's prayti 
 can he compared to that of a Fenfilon. 
 
 t This expression has met with objections. I will not refer to " him who hath not 
 music in his soul," but merely request the reader to recollect, for ten seconds, the features 
 of the woman whom he believes to be the most beautiful ; and if b«r then does not com- 
 prehend fully what is feebly expressed in the above line, I shall be sorry for us both. 
 For an eloquent passage in the latest work of the first female writer of this, perhaps, of 
 any age, on the analogy (and the immediate comparison excited by that analogy) between 
 " painting and music," see vol. iii. cap. 10, " De l'Allemagne." And is not this con- 
 nection still stronger with the original than the copy, — with the colouring of Nature 
 than of Art f After all, this is rather to be felt than described ; still, I think there are 
 some who will understand it, at least they would have done had they beheld the counte- 
 nance whose speaking harmony suggested the idea; for this passage is not drawn from 
 Imagination but memory, that mirror which Affliction dashes to the earth, and, lookiutf 
 down upon the fragments, only beholds the reflection multiplied I— B. 
 
189 
 
 BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 But yet the line of Carasman* 
 Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
 
 First of the bold Tiraariot bands 
 That won and well can keep their lands. 
 Enough that he who comes to woo 
 Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 
 His years need scarce a thought employ : 
 I would not have thee wed a boy, 
 And thou shalt have a noble dower : 
 And his and my united power 
 Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 
 Which others tremble but to scan, 
 And teach the messenger what fate 
 The bearer of such boon may wait.f 1 
 And now thou knowest thy father's will, — ■ 
 
 All that thy sex hath need to know : 
 'Twas mine to teach obedience still — 
 
 The way to love, thy lord may show." 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 
 
 And if her eye was fill'd with tears 
 That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
 And changed her cheek from pale to red, 
 
 And red to pale, as through her ears 
 Those winged words like arrows sped, 
 
 What could such be but maiden fears ? 
 So bright the tear in Beauty's eye. 
 Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
 So sweet the blush of Bashfulness, 
 Even Pity scarce can wish it less ! 
 
 Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 
 
 Or if remember' d, mark'd it not ; 
 
 Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed, £ 
 
 Besign'd his gem-adorn' d chibouque, § 
 And mounting featly for the mead, 
 
 With Maugrabee and Mamaluke, || 
 
 His way amid his Delis took,^[ 
 
 Carasman Oglou, or Kara Osman Oglou, is the principal landholder in Turkey ; he 
 governs Magnesia. Those who, by a kind of feudal tenure, possess land on condition of ser- 
 vice, are called Timariots ; they serve as Spahis, according to the extent of territory, and 
 bring a certain number into the field, generally cavalry. — B. 
 
 t When a Pacha is sufficiently strong to resist, the single messenger, who is always the 
 first bearer of the order for his death, is strangled instead, and sometimes five or six, 
 viie after the other, on the same errand, by command of the refractory patient ; if, on 
 the contrary, he is weak or loyal, he bows, kisses the Sultan's respectable signature, and 
 is bowstrung with great complacency. In 1810, several of " these presents " were exhi- 
 bited in the niche of the Seraglio gate ; among others, the head of the Pacha of Bagdat, a 
 brave young man, cut off by treachery, after a desperate resistance,— 2?. 
 
 X Clapping of the hands calls the servants. The Turks hate a superfluous expenditure 
 of voice, and they have no bells. — B. 
 
 § Chibouque, the Turkish pipe, of which the amber mouth-piece, and sometimes the 
 ball which contains the leaf, is adorned with precious stones, if in possession of the 
 wealthier orders. — B. 
 
 || Maugrabee, Moorish mercenaries. — B. 
 
 *f Delis, bravo* who form the forlorn hope of the cavalry and always begin the 
 action.— B, 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYD03. 
 
 To witness many an active deed 
 With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 
 The Kislar only and his Moors 
 Watch well the Haram's massy doors. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His head was lent upon his hand, 
 
 His eye look'd o'er the dark blue water 
 
 That swiftly glides and gently swells 
 
 Between the winding Dardanelles ; 
 
 But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
 
 Nor even his Pacha's turban'd band 
 Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
 
 Careering cleave the folded felt* 
 
 With sabre-stroke right sharply dealt ; 
 
 Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
 
 Nor heard their OUahs + wild and loud 
 He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter ! 
 
 X. 
 
 No word from Selim's bosom broke ; 
 
 One sigh Zuleika's thought bespoke : 
 
 Still gazed he through the lattice grate, 
 
 Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
 
 To him Zuleika's eye was turn'd, 
 
 But little from his aspect learn'd : 
 
 Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
 
 Her heart confess'd a gentler flame : 
 
 But yet that heart, alarm'd or weak, 
 
 She knew not why, forbade to speak, 
 
 Yet speak she must — but when essay ? 
 
 * ' How strange he thus should turn away ! 
 • Not thus wo e'er before have met ; 
 
 Not thus shall bo our parting yet." 
 
 Thrice paced she slowly through the room, 
 And watch'd his eye — it still was nx'd : 
 She snatch'd the urn wherein was mix'd 
 
 The Persian Atar-guTs perfume, :£ 
 
 And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
 
 The pictured roof and marble floor ;§ 
 
 The drops, that through his glittering vest 
 
 The playful girl's appeal address'd, 
 
 Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
 
 As if that breast were marble too. 
 
 * A twisted fold of felt is used for scimitar practice by the Turks, .and few but Muacul 
 man arms can cut through it at a single stroke ; sometimes a tough turban is used for the 
 same purpose. The jerreed is a game of blunt javelins, animated and graceful. — B. 
 
 t " Ollahs," Alia il Allah, the " Leilies." aa the Spanish poets call them ; the sound is 
 Ollah ; a cry of which the Turks, for a silent people, are somewhat profuse, particularly 
 during the jerreed, or in the chase ; but mostly in battle. Their animation in the 
 Held, and gravity in the chamber, with their pipes and comboloios, form an amusing 
 contrast. — B. 
 
 \ " Atar-gul," ottar of roses. The Persian is the finest.— B. 
 
 b The ceiling and wainscots, or rather walls, of the Mussulman apartments, are gene- 
 rally painted, in great houses, with one eternal and highly-coloured view of Constan- 
 tinople, wherein the principal feature is a noble contempt of perspective ; below, arms, 
 ■eimitarf , &p. f are in general fancifully and not inelegantly dif posed.— B. 
 
190 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 " What, sullen yet ? it must not be- 
 On ! gentle Selim, this from thee ! " 
 She saw in curious order set 
 
 The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
 "He loved them once ; may touch them yet 
 
 If offer' d by Zuleika's hand." 
 The childish thought was hardly breathed 
 Before the Rose was pluck' d and wreathed ; 
 The next fond moment saw her seat 
 Her fairy form at Selim's feet ; 
 " This rose to calm my brother's cares 
 A message from the Bulbul bears ;* 
 It says to-night he will prolong 
 For Selim's ear his sweetest song ; 
 And though his note is somewha t sad, 
 He'll try fcr once a strain more glad, 
 With some faint hope his alter' d lay 
 May sing these gloomy thoughts awav. 
 
 XI. 
 
 " What ! not receive my foolish flower? 
 
 Nay then I am indeed unblest : 
 On me can thus thy forehead lower ? 
 
 And know'st thou not who loves thee best ? 
 Oh, Selim dear ! oh, more than dearest ! 
 Say, is it me thou hat'st or fear est ? 
 Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
 And I will kiss thee into rest, 
 Since words of mine, and songs must faiJ, 
 Ev'n from my fabled nightingale. 
 I knew our sire at times was stern, 
 But this from thee had yet to learn : 
 Too well I know he loves thee not ; 
 But is Zuleika's love forgot ? 
 Ah ! deem I right ? the Pacha's plan— - 
 This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
 Perhaps may prove some foe of thino : 
 If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
 If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
 To woman's step, admit her vow, 
 Without thy free consent, command, 
 The Sultan should not have my hand ! 
 Think' st thou that I could bear to part 
 With thee, and learn to halve my heart ? 
 Ah ! were I sever' d from thy side, 
 Where were thy friend — and who my guide ? 
 Years have not seen, Time shall not see 
 The hour that tears my soul from thee : 
 
 * tt has been much doubted whether the notes of this " Lover of the rose "* are saa 
 merry; and Mr. Fox's remarks on the subject have provoked some learned controversy m 
 to the opinions of the ancients on the subject. I dare not venture a conjecture on the 
 point, though a little inclined to the " errare mallem," &c, i/Mx. Fox was mistaken. — B. 
 
 * If joy can be said to be felt on hearing the nightingale, it must be what Ossian calls 
 *' the Joy of grief" that is, a pleasing melancholy. 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABTDOS. 
 
 Even Azrael,* from his deadly quiver 
 When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
 
 That parts all else, shall doom for ever 
 Our hearts to undivided dust ! " 
 
 XII. 
 
 He lived — he breathed — he moved — he fell ; 
 He raised the maid from where she kuelt ; 
 His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
 With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt ; 
 With thoughts that burn — in rays that melt. 
 
 As the stream late conceal'd 
 
 By the fringe of its willows, 
 When it rushes reveal'd 
 
 In the light of its billows ; ,' 
 As tho bolt bursts on high 
 
 From the black cloud that bound it, 
 Flash' d the soul of that eye 
 
 Through the long lashes round it. 
 A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
 A lion roused by heedless hound, 
 A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
 By graze of ill-directed knife, 
 Starts not to more convulsive life 
 Than he, who heard that vow, displayed, 
 And all, before repress'd, betray'd : 
 
 u Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
 
 With life to keep, and scarce with life resign : 
 
 Now thou art mine, that sacred oath, 
 
 Though sworn by one, hath bound us both. 
 
 Yes, fondly, wisely hast thou dono ; 
 
 That vow hath saved more heads than one : 
 
 But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
 
 Claims more from me than tenderness ; 
 
 I would not wrong the slenderest lmir*^ 
 
 That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
 
 For all the treasures buried far 
 
 Within the caves of Istakar.^ 
 
 This morning clouds upon me lower'd, 
 
 Keproaches on my head were shower'd, 
 
 And Giaffir almost call'd me coward ! 
 
 Now I have motive to be. brave ; 
 
 The son of his neglected slave, — 
 
 Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave, 
 
 May show, though little apt to vaunt, 
 
 A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 
 
 • " AstmI," the angel of death.— 2?. 
 
 t " And now, my Kate, 
 
 To thee, whose smallest ringlet's fate 
 Conveys more interest to my soml 
 
 Than all the Powers, from pole to pole."— T. Moore to Kt4 Sitf^9 
 The treasures of the pre-Adamite ■ultana. See D'Herbelot, article Ittakar —H. 
 
U2 BYRON'S POEMB. 
 
 > 
 
 His son, indeed ! — yet, thanks to the?, 
 Perchance I am, at least shall be ; 
 But let our plighted secret vow- 
 Be only known to us as now. 
 I know the wretch who dares demand 
 From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 
 More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 
 Holds not a Musselim's * control : 
 Was he not bred in Egripo 
 A viler race let Israel show ! 
 But let that pass — to none be told 
 Our oath ; the rest let time unfold. 
 To me and mine leave Osman Bey ; 
 I've partisans for peril's day : 
 Think not I am what I appear ; 
 I've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " Think not thou art what thou appearest ! 
 
 My Selim, thou art sadly changed : 
 This morn I saw thee gentlest, dearest ; 
 
 But now thou'rt from thyself estranged. 
 My love thou surely knew'st before ; 
 It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
 To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 
 
 And hate the night, I know not why, 
 Save that we meet not but by day ; 
 
 With thee to live, with thee to die, 
 
 I dare not to my hope deny : 
 Thy cheek, thine eyes, thy hps to kiss, 
 Like this — and this — no more than this ; 
 For, Allah ! sure thy lips are flame : 
 
 What fever in thy veins is flushing ? 
 My own have nearly caught the same, 
 
 At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
 To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
 Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
 Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
 And lighten half thy poverty ; 
 Do all but close thy dying eye, 
 For that I could not live to try ; 
 To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
 More can I do ? or thou require ? 
 But, Selim, thou must answer why 
 We need so much of mystery ? 
 The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
 But be it, since thou say'st 'tis well ; 
 Yet what thou mean'st by ' arms ' and ' friends/ 
 Beyond my weaker sense extends. 
 
 * Musselim, a governor, the next in rank after a Pacha ; a Waywodo is the third ; ana 
 then come the Agas.— B. 
 
 ♦ Egripo— the Negropont. According to the proverb, the Turks of Egripo, the Jcw» 0/ 
 Baionica, and the Greek* of Athens, are the worst of their respective races.— U. 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 I meant that Giaffir should have heard 
 
 The very vow I plighted thee ; 
 His wrath would not revoke my word : 
 
 But surely he would leave mo free. 
 
 Can this fond wish seem strange in mo, 
 To be what I have ever been ? 
 What other hath Zuleika seen 
 From simple childhood's earliest hour ? 
 
 What other can she seek to see 
 Than thee, companion of her bower, 
 
 The partner of her infancy ? 
 These cherish' d thoughts with life begun, 
 
 Say, why must I no more avow ? 
 What change is wrought to make me shun 
 
 The truth ; my pride, and thine, till no v. 
 To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
 Our law, our creed, our God denies ; 
 Nor shall one wandering thought of mino 
 At such, our Prophet's will, repine ! 
 No ! happier made by that decree ! 
 He left me all in leaving thee. 
 Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
 To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
 This wherefore should I not reveal ? 
 Why wilt thou urge mo to conceal ? 
 [ know the Pacha's haughty mood 
 ,?o thee hath never boded good ; 
 And he so often storms at nought, 
 Allah ! forbid that e'er he ought ! 
 And why I know not, but within 
 My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
 If then such secrecy be crime, 
 
 And such it feels while lurking here ; 
 Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 
 
 Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear» 
 Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadar, * 
 My father leaves the mimic war : 
 I tremble now to meet his eye — 
 Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why?* 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 
 Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet ; 
 And now with him I fain must prate 
 Of firmans, imposts, levies, state. 
 There 's fearful news from Danube's bankT, 
 Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks, 
 For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 
 Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
 Such costly triumph to repay. 
 But, mark me, when the twilight drum 
 
 Hath warn'd the troops to food and sleep, 
 
 -hocadaji," one of the attendant* who precedes a man of aut 1 
 
 8 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Unto thy cell will Selim come : 
 Then softly from the Haram creep., 
 Where we may wander by the deep 2 
 Our garden-battlements are steep ; 
 Nor these will rash intruder climb 
 To list our words, or stint our time ; 
 And if he doth, I want not steel 
 Which some have felt, and more may feci. 
 Then shalt thou learn of Selim more 
 Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
 Trust me, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
 Thou knoVst I hold a Haram key.* 
 
 "Fear thee, my Selim ! ne'er till now 
 Did word like this " 
 
 " Delay not then 
 I keep the key — and Ilaroun's guard 
 Have some, and hope of more reward. 
 To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
 My tale, my purpose, and my fear : 
 I am not, love, what I appear." 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND, 
 t 
 
 The winds are high on Helle's wave, 
 As on that night of stormy water, 
 When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
 The young, the beautiful, the brave, 
 
 The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
 Oh ! when alone along the sky 
 Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
 Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
 And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him ho:v. s * 
 And clouds aloft and tides below, 
 With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
 He could not see, he would not hear, 
 Or sound or sign foreboding fear ; 
 His eye but saw the light of love, 
 The only star it hail'd above ; 
 His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
 " Ye waves, divide not lovers long ! w 
 That tale is old, but love anew 
 May nerve young hearts to prove as irvm 
 
 n. 
 
 The winds are high, and Helle's tid3 
 Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
 
 And Night's descending shadows hide 
 That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
 
 The desert of old Priam's pride ; 
 The tombs, sole relics of his reign. 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 195 
 
 All— save immortal dreams that could beguile 
 The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Oh ! yet — for there my steps have been ; 
 
 These feet have press'd the sacred shore, 
 These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne — 
 Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 
 
 To trace again those fields of yore, 
 Believing every hillock green 
 
 Contains no fableu nero's ashes, 
 And that around the undoubted scene 
 
 Thine own "broad Hellespont" still dashes,* 
 Be long my lot, and cold were he 
 Who there could gaze denying thee ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 The night hath closed on Helle's stream, 
 
 Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
 That moon, which shone on his high theme : 
 No warrior chides her peaceful beam, 
 
 But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
 Their flocks are grazingon the mound 
 
 Of him who felt the JDardan's arrow : 
 That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
 Which Amnion's son ran proudly round, \ 
 By nations raised, by monarchs crown'd, 
 
 Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 
 
 Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow I 
 Without — can only strangers breathe 
 The name of him that was beneath ; 
 Dust long outlasts the storied stone ; 
 But Thou — thy very dust is gone ! 
 
 V. 
 
 Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 
 
 The swain, and chase the boatman's fear ; 
 
 Till then — no beacon on the cliff 
 
 May shape the course of struggling skiff ; 
 
 The scatter'd lights that skirt the bay, 
 
 All, one by one, have died away ; 
 
 The only lamp of this lone hour 
 
 Ts glimmering in Zuleika's tower , 
 
 • The wrangling about this epithet, " the broad Hellespont," or the " boundless Hel- 
 lespont," whether it means one or the other, or what it means at all, has been beyond 
 all possibility of detail. I have even heard it disputed on the spot ; and not foreseeing » 
 speedy conclusion to the controversy, amused myself with swimming across it in lbs 
 meau time, and probably may again, before the point is settled. Indeed, the question as 
 to the truth of " the tale of Troy divine" still continues, much of it resting upon t 
 talismanic word airetpos: probably Homer had the same notion of distance thnt » 
 coquette has of time, and when he talks of boundless, means half a mile ; as the latter, by a 
 like figure, when she says eternal attachment, simply specifies three weeks. — D. 
 
 f Before his Persian invasion, and crowned the altar with laurel, &c. Ho was after- 
 wards imitated by Caracalla in his race. It is believed that the last also poisoned a friend, 
 named Festus, for the Bake of new Patroclan games. I have seen the sheep feeding on 
 the tombs of J&sietes and Antilochua : the first is in the centre of the plain. — B. 
 
 o 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Vcs ! there is light in that lone chamber, 
 
 And o'er her silken ottoman 
 Are thrown the fragrant beads of amber, 
 
 O'er which her fairy fingers ran ;* 
 Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
 (How could she thus that gem forget ?) 
 Her mother's sainted amulet, +■ 
 Whereon engraved the Koorsee text 
 Could smooth this life, and win the next ; 
 And by her ComboloioJ lies 
 A Koran of illumined dyes ; 
 And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
 By Persian scribes redeem'd from time ; 
 And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
 Reclines her now neglected lute ; 
 And round her lamp of fretted gold 
 Bloom flow'rs in urns of China's mould ; 
 The richest work of Iran's loom, 
 And Sheeraz' tribute of perfume ; 
 All that can eye or sense delight 
 
 Are gather'd in that gorgeous room : 
 
 But yet it hath an air of gloom. 
 She, of this Peri cell the sprite, 
 What doth she hence, and on so rude a night? 
 
 vx 
 
 Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 
 
 Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
 To guard from winds of heaven the breast 
 
 As heaven itself to Selim dear, 
 With cautious steps the thicket threading, 
 
 And starting oft, as through the glade 
 
 The gust its hollow moanings made ; 
 Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
 More free her timid bosom beat, 
 
 The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
 And though her terror urged retreat, 
 
 How could she quit her Selim' s side t 
 
 How teach her tender lips to chide i 
 
 VII. 
 
 They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 
 
 By nature, but enlarged by art, 
 Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 
 
 And oft her Koran conn'd apart ; 
 
 ^'vt^hcn rubbed, the amber is susceptible of a perfume, which is slight but not dL» 
 
 f The belief in amulets engraved on gems, or inclosed in gold boxes, containing scraps 
 from the Koran, worn round the neck, wrist, or arm, is still universal in the East. The 
 Koorsee (throne) verse in the second chapter of the Koran describes the attributes of the 
 Most High, and is engraved in this manner, and worn by the pious, as the most esteemed 
 and sublime of all sentences. — B. 
 
 X " Comboloio"— a Turkish rosary. The MSS., particularly those of tbe Persians, are 
 richly adorned and illuminated. The Greek females are kept in utter ignorance ; but 
 many of the Turkish girls are highly accomplished, though not actually qualified for a 
 Christian coterie. Perhaps some of our own " bluet" might not be the worse for bleach* 
 
THE BRIDE OP ABYDOS. 
 
 And oft in youthful reverie 
 She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
 Where woman's parted soul shall go 
 Her Prophet had disdain'd to show ; 
 But Selim's mansion was secure, 
 Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
 His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
 Without her, most beloved in this ! 
 Oh ! who so dear with him could dwell ? 
 What Houri soothe him half so well ? 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Since last she visited the spot 
 
 Some change seem'd wrought within the grot : 
 
 It might be only that the night 
 
 Disguised things seen by better light : 
 
 That brazen lamp but dimly threw 
 
 A ray of no celestial hue ; 
 
 But in a nook within the cell 
 
 Her eye on stranger objects fell. 
 
 There arms were piled, not such as wieM 
 
 The turban' d Delis in the field ; 
 
 But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 
 
 And one was red — perchance with guilt ! 
 
 Ah ! how without can blood be spilt i 
 
 A cup too on the board was set 
 
 That did not seem to hold sherbet. 
 
 What may this mean ? she turn'd to see 
 
 Her Selim— " Oh ! can this be he ?" 
 
 IX. 
 
 His robe of pride was thrown aside, 
 His brow no high-crown'd turban bore, 
 
 But in its stead a shawl of red, 
 Wreathed lightly round, his temples woi a I 
 
 That dagger, on whose hilt the gem 
 
 Were worthy of a diadem, 
 
 No longer glitter'd at his waist, 
 
 Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
 
 And from his belt a sabre swung, 
 
 And from his shoulder loosely hung 
 
 The cloak of white, the thin capote 
 
 That decks the wandering Candiote : 
 
 Beneath — his golden plated vest 
 
 Clung lika a cuirass to his breast ; 
 
 The greaves below his knee that wound 
 
 With silvery scales were sheathed and bound. 
 
 But were it not that high command 
 
 Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
 
 All that a careless eye could see 
 
 In him was some young Galionge"e.* 
 
 • " 3allonge« "— or Galiongi, a sailor, that is, a Turkish sailor; the Greeks navigate 
 tla Fork* work the guns. Their dress is picturesque ; and I have seen the CupiUn rWlx* 
 
m 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 X. 
 
 4 - 1 s<\id 1 was not what I seem'd ; 
 
 And now thou seest my words were trr.e i 
 I have a tale thou hast not dream'd. 
 
 If sooth — its truth must others ruo. 
 My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
 I must not see thee Osman's bride : 
 But had not thine own lips declared 
 How much of that young heart I shared, 
 I could not, must not, yet have shown 
 The darker secret of my own. 
 In this I speak not now of love ; 
 That, let time, truth, and peril prove : 
 But first — Oh ! nover wed another — 
 Zuleika ? I am not thy brother ! " 
 
 XI. 
 
 " Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 
 
 God ! am I left alone on earth 
 To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 
 
 That saw my solitary birth ? 
 Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 
 
 My sinking heart foreboded ill ; 
 But know me all I was before, 
 
 Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still. 
 Thou ledd'st me here perchance to kill ; 
 
 If thou hast cause for vengeance, see 
 My breast is offer'd — take thy fill ! 
 
 Far better with the dead to be 
 
 Than live thus nothing now to thee ; 
 Perhaps far worse, for now I know 
 Why Giafiir always seem'd thy foe ; 
 And I, alas ! am Giafiir' s child, 
 For whom thou wert contemn' d, reviled. 
 If not thy sister — wouldst thou save 
 My life, oh i bid me be thy slave ! " 
 
 XII. 
 
 "My slave, Zuleika ! — nay, I'm thine: 
 
 But, gentle love, this transport calm, 
 Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine ; 
 I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 
 
 And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
 So may the Koran verse display'd* 
 Upon its steel direct my blade, 
 
 more than once wearing it as a kind of incog. Their legs, however, are generally nakiul 
 The buskins described in the text as sheathed behind with silver, are those of an Arnaut 
 robber, who was my host (he had quitted the profession) at his Pyrgo, near Gastouni, in 
 the Morea ; they were plated in scales one over the other, like the back of an anna- 
 dillo.— B. 
 
 * The characters on all Turkish scimitars contain sometimes the name of the place of 
 their manufacture, but more generally a text from the Koran, in letters of gold. 
 Amongst those in my possession is one with a blade of singular construction ; it is very 
 Vroad, and the edge notched into serpentine curves like the ripple of water, or the 
 «*vering of flame. I asked the Armenian who sold it what possible use such a figru?* 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 3&9 
 
 In danger's hour to guard us both, 
 
 As I preserve that awful oath ! 
 
 The name in which thy heart hath prided 
 
 Must change ; but, my Zuleika, know, 
 That tie is widen'd, not divided, 
 
 Although thy sire 's my deadliest foe. 
 My father was to Giaffir all 
 
 That Selim late was deem'd to thee ; 
 That brother wrought a brother's fall, 
 
 But spared, at least, my infancy ; 
 And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
 That yet a like return may meet. 
 He rear'd me, not with tender help, 
 
 But like the nephew of a Cain ;* 
 He watch'd me like a lion's whelp, 
 
 That gnaws and yet may break his chai i 
 
 My father's blood in every vein 
 Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
 No present vengeance will I take : 
 
 Though here I must no more remain. 
 But first, beloved Zuleika ! hear 
 How Giaffir wrought this deed of fear, 
 
 xin. 
 
 " How first their strife to rancour grew, 
 
 If love or envy made them foes, 
 It matters little if I knew ; 
 In fiery spirits, slights, though few 
 
 And thoughtless, will disturb reposo. 
 In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
 Remember'd yet in Bosniac song, 
 And Paswan's rebel hordes attest 1* 
 How little love they bore such guest : 
 His death is all I need relate, 
 The stern effect of Giaffir's hate ; 
 And how my birth disclosed to me, 
 Whate'er beside it makes, hath made me freo. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 u When Paswan, after years of strife, 
 At last for power, but first for life, 
 
 could add : he said, in Italian, that he did not know ; hut the Mussulmans had an Ides 
 that those of this form gave a severer wound ; and liked it because it was " piu ferocr." 
 I did not much admire the reason, but bought it for its peculiarity.— B. 
 
 Another peculiarity of some Turkish scimitars is that they are hollow at the back of the 
 blade, and that a ball of quicksilver is placed in this hollow, which, running with the blow, 
 gives an additional weight or force to it. 
 
 * It is to be observed, that every allusion to any thing or personage in the Old Testa- 
 ment, Buch as the Ark, or Cain, is equally the privilege of Mussulman and Jew : indeed, 
 the former profess to be much better acquainted with the lives, true and fabulous, of the 
 patriarchs, than is warranted by our own sacred writ ; and not content with Adam, they 
 have a biography of pre-Adamites. Solomon is the monarch of all necromancy, and 
 Moses a prophet inferior only to Christ and Mahomet. Zuleika is the Persian name cf 
 Potiphar's wife ; and her amour with Joseph constitutes one of the finest poems in their 
 language. It is, therefore, no violation of costume to put the names of Cain, or Noah, 
 into the mouth of a Moslem. — B. 
 
 f Pwwan Oglou, the rebel of Widdin, who, for the last years of his life, set the whols 
 power of the Porte at defiance.— B 
 
200 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 J a Widdin's walls too proudly sate, 
 Our Pachas rallied round the state ; 
 Nor last nor least in high command, 
 Each brother led a separate band ; 
 
 They gave their horsetails to the wind,* 
 And mustering in Sophia's plain, 
 
 Their tents were pitch'd, their posts assign* J ; 
 To one, alas ! assign'd in vain ! 
 What need of words ? the deadly bowl, 
 
 By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
 With venom subtle as his soul, 
 Dismiss' d Abdallah's hence to heaven. 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
 But little deem'd a brother's wrath 
 
 To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
 The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
 He drank one draught, nor needed more ! f 
 If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
 Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 
 
 XV. 
 
 u The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
 In part suppress' d, though ne'er subdued, 
 
 Abdallah's pachalic was gain'd : — 
 Thou know'st not what in our Divan 
 Can wealth procure for worse than man — 
 
 Abdallah's honours were obtain'd 
 By him a brother's murder stain' d ; 
 'Tis true, the purchase nearly drain 'd 
 His ill got treasure, soon replaced. 
 Wouldst question whence ? Survey the wufi' a. 
 And ask the squalid peasant how 
 His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 
 Why me the stern usurper spared, 
 Why thus with me his palace shared, 
 I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
 And little fear from infant's force ; 
 Besides, adoption as a son 
 By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
 Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 
 Preserved me thus ; but not in peace : 
 He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
 Nor I forgive a father's blood ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 " Within thy father's house are foes ; 
 Not all who break his bread are true : 
 
 • " Hone-tail," the standard of a Pacha.— B. 
 
 i Giaffir, Pacha of Argyro Castro, or Scutari, I am not sure which, was actually Ukea 
 off by the Albanian Ali, in the manner described in the text. Ali Pacha, while I was in 
 the country, married the daughter of his victim, some years after the event had takeu 
 place at a bath in Sophia, or Adrianople. The poison was mixed in the cup of coffee, 
 which is presented before the sherbet by the bath-keeper, after dressing.— B 
 
THE BMPE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 To these should I my birth disclose, 
 
 His days, his very hours, were few : 
 They only want a heart to lead, 
 A hand to point them to the deed. 
 But Haroun only knows — or knew — 
 
 This tale, whose close is almost nigh : 
 He in Abdallah's palace grew, 
 
 And held that post in his serai, 
 
 Which holds he here — he saw him dio : 
 But what could single slavery do ? 
 Avenge his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
 Or save his son from such a fate ? 
 He chose the last, and when elate 
 
 With foes subdued, or friends betray' d„ 
 Proud Giaffir in high triumph sate, 
 He led me helpless to his gate, 
 
 And not in vain it seems essay'd 
 
 To save the life for which he prayed. 
 The knowledge of my birth secured 
 
 From all and each, but most from mo ; 
 Thus Giaffir's safety was insured. 
 
 .Removed he too from Roumelie 
 To this our Asiatic side, 
 Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 
 
 With none but Haroun, who retains 
 Such knowledge — and that Nubian feob 
 
 A tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
 From which the captive gladly steals, 
 And this, and more, to me reveals : 
 Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
 Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds ! 
 
 But harsher still my tale must be : 
 Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 
 
 Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 
 
 I saw thee start this garb to see, 
 Yet is it one I oft have worn, 
 
 And long must wear : this Galiong6e, 
 To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 
 
 Is leader of those pirate hordes, 
 
 Whose laws and lives are on their swordj 
 To hear whose desolating tale 
 Would make thy waning cheek more pale : 
 Those arms thou seest my band have Lroug! 
 The hands that wield are not remote ; 
 This cup too for the rugged knaves 
 
 Is fill'd — once quaff d, they ne'er repine : 
 Our Prophet might forgive the slaves ; 
 
 They're only infidels in wine ! 
 
 xvni. 
 
 u What could I be ? Proscribed at home 
 And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And listless left — for GiafEr's fear 
 
 Denied the courser and the spear — 
 
 Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft ! 
 
 In full Divan the despot scoft'd, 
 
 As if my weak unwilling hand 
 
 Befused the bridle or the brand : 
 
 He ever went to war alone, 
 
 And pent me here untried — unknown ; 
 
 To Haroun's care with women left, 
 
 By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 
 
 "While thou — whose softness long endear'. ; 
 
 Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd - 
 
 To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
 
 Awaitedst there the field's event, 
 
 Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 
 
 Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
 His captive, though with dread, resigning 
 
 My thraldom for a season broke, 
 On promise to return before 
 The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er 
 
 u 'Tis vain — my tongue can not impart 
 My almost drunkenness of heart, 
 When first this liberated eye 
 Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
 As if my spirit pierced them througu, 
 And all their inmost wonders knew ! 
 One word alone can paint to thee 
 That more than feeling — I was Free ! 
 EVn for thy presence ceased to pine ; 
 The World — nay — Heaven itself was mir.o 
 
 XIX. 
 
 U The shallop of a trusty Moor 
 Convey'd me from this idle shore ; 
 I long'd to see the isles that gem 
 Old Ocean's purple diadem : 
 I sought by turns, and saw them all ;* 
 
 But when and where I join'd the crew, 
 With whom I'm pledged to rise or fall, 
 
 When all that we design to do 
 Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
 To tell thee, when the tale's complete. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " 'Tis true they are a lawless brood, 
 But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
 And every creed, and every race, 
 With them hath found — may find— a place : 
 But open speech, and ready hand, 
 Obedience to their chiefs command ; 
 
 Tho Turkish notions of almost aU islands axe confined to the Archipelago, tfcas«A 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 203 
 
 A soul for every enterprise, 
 That never sees with terror's eyes ; 
 Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
 And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
 Have made them fitting instruments 
 For more than eVn my own intents. 
 And some — and I have studied ali, 
 
 Distinguish' d from the vulgar rank, 
 But chiefly to my council call 
 
 The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
 And some to higher thoughts aspire, 
 
 The last of Lambro's patriots there * 
 
 Anticipated freedom share ; 
 And oft around the cavern fire \ 
 On visionary schemes debate, 
 To snatch the Rayahs + from their fato. 
 So let them ease their hearts with pral 
 Of equal rights, which man ne'er knew ; 
 I have a love for freedom too. 
 
 Ay ! let me like the ocean-Patriarch roam,:£ 
 
 Or only know on land the Tartar's home !§ 
 
 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
 
 Are more than cities and serais to me : 
 
 Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
 
 Across the desert, or before the gale. 
 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my pro v ! 
 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou, 
 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
 
 The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 
 
 Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
 
 Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
 
 The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
 
 Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's wall 
 
 To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call ; 
 
 Soft — as the melody of youthful days, 
 
 That steals the trembling tear of speechless praise ; 
 
 Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears, 
 
 Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice endears. 
 
 For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
 
 Blooming as Aden in its earliest hour. || 
 
 A thousand swords, with Selim's heart and hand, 
 
 Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy command ! 
 
 * Lambro Canzani, a Greek, famous for his efforts in 1789-90 for the independence of 
 his country. Abandoned by the Russians, he became a pirate, and the Archipelago wtu 
 the scene of his enterprises. He is said to be still alive at Petersburg. He and Riga aro 
 the two most celebrated of the Greek revolutionists. — B. 
 ' f " Rayahs," — all who pay the capitation tax, called the "Haratch." — B. 
 
 X The first of voyages is one of the few with which the Mussulmans profess much 
 acquaintance. — B. 
 
 § The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and Turkomans, will be found well 
 detailed in any book of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm peculiar to itself, 
 cannot be denied. A young French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, that he never 
 found himself alone, galloping in the desert, without a sensation approaching to rapture, 
 which was indescribable. — B. 
 
 y " Jannat al Aden," the perpetual abode, the Mussulman paradiM. — B. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Girt by my band, Zuleika at my side, 
 
 The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
 
 The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
 
 Are well resign' d for cares — for joys like thcco : 
 
 Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
 
 Unnumber'd perils — but ene only love ! 
 
 Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
 
 Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
 
 How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
 
 Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 
 
 Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; 
 
 To thee be Selim's tender as thine own ; 
 
 To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
 
 Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 
 
 Once free, 'tis mine our horde again to guide ; 
 
 Friends to each other, foes to aught beside : 
 
 Yet there we follow but the bent assign' d 
 
 By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 
 
 Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests ceas« J 
 
 He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 
 
 T like the rest must use my skill or strength, 
 
 But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
 
 Power sways but by division — her resource 
 
 The blest alternative of fraud or force ! 
 
 Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come, 
 
 When cities cage us in a social home : 
 
 There ev'n thy soul might err — how oft the heart 
 
 Corruption shakes which peril could not part ! 
 
 And woman, more than man, when death or woo, 
 
 Or even Disgrace, would lay her lover low, 
 
 Sunk in the lap of Luxury will shame — 
 
 Away Suspicion ! — not Zuleika's name ! 
 
 But life is hazard at the best ; and here 
 
 No more remains to win, and much to fear : 
 
 Yes, fear — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
 
 By Osman's power, and Giaflir's stern decree. 
 
 That dread shall vanish with the favouring gale, 
 
 Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail : 
 
 No danger daunts the pair his smile hath bless' d, 
 
 Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
 
 With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charmi ; 
 
 Earth — sea alike — our world within our arms ! 
 
 Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the deck, 
 
 So that those arms cling closer round my neck : 
 
 The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
 
 No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
 
 The war of elements no fears impart 
 
 To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art : 
 
 There lie the only rocks our course can check ; 
 
 Here moments menace — there are years of wreck ! 
 
 But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's sh<r -i f 
 
 This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
 
 Few words remain of mine my tale to close : 
 
 Of thine but one to waft us from our foea a 
 
Dauntless he stood— "'Tis come — soon past — 
 One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last. 
 
 Bride of Abydos, canto ii., 24. 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABTD08. 
 
 Tea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline ? 
 A.nd is not Osman, who would part us. thine? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 u His head and faith from doubt and death 
 
 Beturn'd in time my guard to save ; 
 
 Few heard, none told, that o'er the wavo 
 From isle to isle I roved the while : 
 And since, though parted from my band, 
 Too seldom now I leave the land, 
 No deed they've done, nor deed shall do, 
 Ere I have heard and doom'd it too : 
 I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
 'Tis fit I oftener share the toil. 
 But now too long I've held thine ear ; 
 Time presses, floats my bark, and hero 
 We leave behind but hate and fear. 
 To-morrow Osman with his train 
 Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
 And wouldst thou save that haughty Bey, 
 
 Perchance, his life who gave thee thine, 
 With me this hour away — away ! 
 
 But yet, though thou art plighted mino, 
 Wouldst thou recall thy willing vow, 
 Appall'd by truths imparted now, 
 Here rest I — not to see thee wed : 
 But be that peril on my head ! " 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Zuleika, mute and motionless, 
 Stood like that statue of distress, 
 When, her last hope for ever gone, 
 The mother harden'd into stone ; 
 All in the maid that eye could see 
 Was but a younger Niobe. 
 But ere her lip, or even her eye, 
 Essay'd to speak, or look reply, 
 Beneath the garden's wicket porch 
 Far flash'd on high a blazing torch ! 
 Another — and another — and another — ■ 
 " Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than brotl 
 Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
 The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
 Nor these alone — for each right hand 
 Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
 They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
 With searching flambeau, shining steel ; 
 And last of all, his sabre waving, 
 Stern Giafnr in his fury raving : — 
 And now almost they touch the cave — 
 Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave ? 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Dauntless he hlood — "'Tis come — soon past— 
 ^ One kiss, Zuleika — 'tis my last : 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But yet my band not far from shore 
 May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
 Yet now too few — the attempt were rash ; 
 
 No matter — yet one effort more." 
 ^orth to the cavern mouth he stepp'd ; 
 
 His pistol's echo rang on high, 
 Zuleika started not, nor wept, 
 
 Despair benumb'd her breast and eye !— 
 
 " They hear me not, or if they ply 
 
 Their oars, 'tis but to see me die ; 
 
 That sound hath drawn my foes more ni£ 
 Then forth my father's scimitar, 
 Thou ne'er hast seen less equal war ! 
 
 Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 
 Yet stay within — here linger safe, 
 At thee his rage will only chafe. 
 Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
 Some erring blade or ball should glance, 
 
 Fear'st thou for him ? — may I expire 
 
 If in this strife I seek thy sire ! 
 No — though by him that poison pour'd : 
 No — though again he call me coward ! 
 But tamely shall I meet their steel ? 
 No — as each crest save Ms may feel ! " 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 One bound he made, and gain'd the sani! : 
 
 Already at his feet hath sunk 
 The foremost of the prying band, 
 
 A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
 Another falls — but round him close 
 
 A swarming circle of his foes ; 
 From right to left his path he cleft, 
 
 And almost met the meeting wave : 
 His boat appears — not five oars' length. — 
 His comrades strain with desperate strengf 
 
 Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 
 
 His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
 His band are plunging in the bay, 
 Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
 Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
 They struggle — now they touch the land • 
 They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter- - 
 His heart's best blood is on the water ! 
 
 xxv. 
 
 Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 
 Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 
 Had Selim won, betray' d, beset, 
 To where the strand and billows met : 
 There as his last step left the land, 
 And the last death-blow dealt his han £ 
 Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 
 For her his eye but sought in vain ? 
 
THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
 
 Hath doom'd his death or fix'd his chain 
 Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
 How late will Lover's hope remain ! 
 His back was to the dashing spray ; 
 Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
 When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
 " So may the foes of Giaffir fall ! " 
 Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine ra- g 
 Whoso bullet through the night-air sang, 
 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
 'Tis thine — Abdallah's murderer ! 
 The father slowly rued thy hate, 
 The son hath found a quicker fate : 
 Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
 The whiteness of the sea-foam troublin g - 
 If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 
 The rushing billows choked the tone ! 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Morn slowly rolls the clouds away ; 
 
 Few trophies of the fight are there : 
 The shouts that shook the midnight bay 
 Are silent ; but some signs of fray 
 
 That strand of strife may bear. 
 And fragments of each shiver' d brand ; 
 Steps stamp'd ; and dash'd into the sand 
 The print of many a struggling hand 
 
 May there be mark'd ; nor far remoto 
 
 A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
 And tangled on the weeds that heap 
 
 ie beach where shelving to the deep 
 
 There lies a white capote ! 
 Ma rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
 .he wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 
 But where is he who wore ? 
 'Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, 
 •oro, seek them where the surges sweep 
 Their burthen round Sigaeum's steep, 
 
 And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
 The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
 O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
 As shaken on his restless pillow, 
 His head heaves with the heaving billo . ; 
 That hand, whose motion is nob life, 
 Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
 Flung by the tossing tide on high, 
 Then levell'd with the wave — 
 What recks it, though that corse shall lio 
 
 Within a living grave ? 
 The bird that tears that prostrate forra 
 Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
 The only heart, the only eye 
 Had bled or wept to see him die, 
 
203 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 Had seen those scatfcer'd limbs composed, 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone,* 
 
 That heart hath burst — that eye was closed-* 
 Yea— closed before his own ! 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail ! 
 And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale : 
 Zuleika ! last of Giaffir's race. 
 
 Thy destined lord is come too late : 
 He sees not — ne'er shall see — thy face ! 
 
 Can he not hear 
 The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear ?+ 
 
 Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
 
 The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, 
 
 The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
 Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 
 
 Tell him thy tale ! 
 Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 
 
 That fearful moment when he left the cave 
 Thy heart grew chill : 
 He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine all — 
 
 And that last thought on him thou couldst not save 
 Sufficed to kill ; 
 Burst forth in one wild ciy — and all was still. 
 
 Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave ! 
 Ah ! happy ! but of life to lose the worst ! 
 That grief — though deep — though fatal — was thy firci ! 
 Thrice happy ! ne'er to feel nor fear the force 
 Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse ! 
 And, oh ! that pang where more than madness lies ! 
 The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 
 Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night, 
 That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light, 
 That winds around, and tears the quivering heart ! 
 Ah ! wherefore not consume it — and depart ! 
 Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
 
 Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
 
 Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread ; 
 
 By that same hand Abdallah — Selim — bled. 
 Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief : 
 Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, 
 She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
 Thy Daughter 's dead ! 
 
 Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam, 
 
 The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream. 
 What quench'd its ray ? — the blood that thou hast shed ! 
 Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair : 
 ''Where is my child?" — an Echo answers — "Where?"* 
 
 • A turban is carved in stone above the graves of men only.— B. 
 
 f The death-song of the Turkish women. The " silent slaves " are the men, who* 
 notions of decorum forbid complaint in public. — B. 
 
 \ " I came to the place of my birth and cried, * Tne friends of my youth, where are 
 thoy ?' and an Echo answered, ' Where are they ?' "—From an Arabic MS. 
 
 The above quotation (from which the idea in the te*t is taken) must be already famiJi w 
 
THE BRIDE OP ABTD03. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Within the place of thousand tombs 
 
 That shine beneath, while dark above, 
 The sad but living cypress glooms, 
 
 And withers not, though branch and lee/ 
 Are stamp'd with an eternal grief, 
 
 Like early unrequited Love, 
 One spot exists, which ever blooms, 
 
 Ev'n in that deadly grove — 
 A single rose is shedding there 
 
 Its lonely lustre meek and pale : 
 It looks as planted by Despair — 
 
 So white — so faint — the slightest gab 
 Might whirl the leaves on high ; 
 
 And yet, though storms and blight assail 
 And hands more rude than wintry sky 
 May wring it from the stem — in vain — 
 To-morrow sees it bloom again ! 
 The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
 And waters with celestial tears ; 
 
 For well may maids of Hello deem 
 That this can be no earthly flower, 
 Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
 And buds unshelter'd by a bower ; 
 Nor droops, though spring refuse her showor, 
 
 Nor woos the summer beam : 
 To it the livelong night there sings 
 A bird unseen — but not remote : 
 Invisible his airy wings, 
 But soft as harp that Houri strings, 
 
 His long entrancing note ! 
 It were the Bulbul ; but his throat, 
 
 Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
 For they who listen cannot leave 
 The spot, but linger there and grieve, 
 
 As if they loved in vain ! 
 And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
 'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
 They scarce can bear the morn to break 
 
 That melancholy spell, 
 And longer yet would weep and wake, 
 
 He sings so wild and well ! 
 But when the day-blush bursts from high, 
 Expires that magic melody. 
 And some have been who could believe 
 (So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 
 
 Yet harsh be they that blame) 
 That note so piercing and profound 
 Will shape and syllable its sound 
 Into Zuleika's name.* 
 
 to •very reader— it is given in the first .annotation (p. 67) of " The Pleasures of Memory j" 
 * poem so well known as to render a reference almost superfluous ; but to whose page* all 
 will be delighted to recur.— B. 
 • " And airy tonjues that tyllable men% nam**."— Milton. For a belief that the sooii 
 
210 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 'Tis from her cypress* summit heard. 
 
 That melts in air the liquid word ; 
 
 'Tis from her lowly virgin earth 
 
 That white rose takes its tender birth. 
 
 There late was laid a marble stone ; 
 
 Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone ' 
 
 It was no mortal arm that bore 
 
 That deep-fix' d pillar to the shore ; 
 
 For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
 
 Next morn 'twas found where Selim fell ; 
 
 Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
 
 Denied his bones a holier grave : 
 
 And there by night, reclined, 'tw said, 
 
 is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
 
 And hence extended by the billow, 
 
 'Tis named the " Pirate-phantom's pillow ! ° 
 
 Where first it lay, that mourning flower 
 
 Hath flourish'd ; flourisheth this hour, 
 
 Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
 
 A.s weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's ta)& } 
 
 Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
 And the wan lustre of thy features — caught 
 From contemplation — where serenely wrought, 
 
 Seems sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — 
 
 Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, 
 That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught 
 w ith mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought — 
 
 T should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. 
 
 With such an aspect, by his colours blent, 
 When from his beauty-breathing pencil born 
 
 (Except that thou hast nothing to repent), 
 The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 
 
 Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent ! 
 With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. 
 
 cf the dead inhabit the form of birds, we need not travel to the East. Lord Lyttleton'g 
 gh ost story, the belief of the Duchess of Kendal, that George I. flew into her window in the 
 ehape of a raven (see Orford's "Reminiscences"), and many other instances, bring thu 
 superstition nearer home. The most singular was the whim of a Worcester lady, who, 
 believing ht»r daughter to exist in the shape of a singing bird, literally furnished her 
 ptftnr in the cathedral with cages full of the kind ; and as she was rich, and a benefactresa 
 in beautifying the church, no objection was ma& to her harmless folly, — For this anee* 
 dote, see Orford's " Letters."— B. 
 
 TO GENEVRA. 
 
 i. 
 
 December 17, 1818. 
 
SONNETS. 
 II. 
 
 THY cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe 
 And yet so lovely, that if mirth could flush 
 Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 
 
 My heart would wish away that ruder glow : 
 
 And dazzle not thy deep blue eyes — but, oh ! 
 While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 
 And into mine my mother's weakness rush, 
 
 Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
 
 For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, 
 The soul of melancholy Gentleness 
 
 Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 
 Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 
 
 4t once such majesty with sweetness blending, 
 V worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. 
 
 My nsAR Moore, 
 
 1 dedicate to you the last production with which I shall trespass on 
 public patience, and your indulgence, for some years ; and I own that 1 
 A *eei anxious to avail myself of this latest and only opportunity of adorning 
 my pages with a name, consecrated by unshaken public principle, and the 
 most undoubted and various talents. While Ireland ranks you among the 
 firmest of her patriots ; while you stand alone the first of her bards in 
 ber estimation, and Britain repeats and ratifies the decree, permit one, 
 whose only regret, since our first acquaintance, has been the years he 
 had lost before it commenced, to add the humble but sincere suffrage of 
 friendship, to the voice of more than one nation. It will at least prove to 
 you, that I have neither forgotten the gratification derived from your so- 
 ciety, nor abandoned the prospect of its renewal, whenever your leisure or 
 inclination allows you to atone to your friends for too long an absence. It 
 is said among those friends, I trust truly, that you are engaged in the com- 
 position of a poem whose scene will be laid in the East : none can do those 
 scenes so much justice. The wrongs of your own country, the magnificent 
 and fiery spirit of her sons, the beauty and feeling of her daughters, may 
 there be found; and Collins, when he denominated his Oriental his Irish 
 Eclogues, was not aware how true, at least, was a part of his parallel. 
 
 Your imagination will create a warmer sun, and less clouded sky; but 
 wildness, tenderness, and originality, are part of your national claim of 
 oriental descent, to which you have already thus far proved your title more 
 clearly than the most zealous of your country's antiquarians. 
 
 May I add a few words on a subject on which all men are supposed to be 
 fluent, and none agreeable ? — Self. I have written much, and published 
 more than enough to demand a longer silence than I now meditate ; but, 
 for some years to come, it is my intention to tempt no further the award 
 of " Gods, men, nor columns." In the present composition I have at- 
 tempted not the most difficult, but, perhaps, the best adapted measure to 
 our language, the good old and now neglected heroic couplet. The stanza 
 of Spenser is perhaps too slow and dignified for narrative ; though, I confess 
 it is the measure most after my own heart: Scott alone, of the present 
 generation, has hitherto completely triumphed over the fatal facility of the 
 octosyllabic verse; and this is not the least victory of his fertile and mighty 
 genius : in blank verse, Milton, Thomson, and our dramatists, are the 
 beacons that shine along the deep, but warn us from the rough and barren 
 rock on which they are kindled. The heroic couplet is not the most popu- 
 lar measure, certainly ; but as I did not deviate into the other from a 
 wish to flatter what is called public opinion, I shall quit it without further 
 apology, and take my chance once more with that versification in which I 
 have hitherto published nothing but compositions whose former circulation 
 is part of my present, and will be of my future, regret. 
 
 With regard to my story, and stories in general, I should have been glad 
 to have rendered my personages more perfect and amiable, if possible, 
 inasmuch as I have been sometimes criticised, and considered no less 
 responsible for their deeds and qualities than if all had been personal. Be 
 it so — if I have deviated into the gloomy vanity of " drawing from self," the 
 pictures are probably like, since they are unfavourable ; and if not, those 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 who know me are undeceived, and those who do not, I have little interest 
 in undeceiving. I have no particular desire that any but my acquaintance 
 should think the author better than the beings of his imagining ; but I 
 cannot help a little surprise, and perhaps amusement, at some odd critical 
 exceptions in the present instance, when I see several bards (far more 
 deserving, I allow) in very reputable plight, and quite exempted from all 
 participation in the faults of those heroes, who, nevertheless, might be 
 found with little more morality than " The Giaour," and perhaps — but 
 no — I must admit Childe Harold to be a very repulsive personage ; and as 
 to his identity, those who like it must give him whatever 11 alias" they 
 please. 
 
 If, however, it were worthwhile to remove the impression, it might be 
 of some service to me, that the man who is alike the delight of his readers 
 and his friends, the poet of all circles, and the idol of his own, permits mf 
 here and elsewhere to subscribe myself, 
 
 Most truly, 
 
 And affectionately, 
 
 His obedient servant, 
 
 January 2, 1814. BYRON. 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 O'ER the glad waters of tho dark blue sea,* 
 Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as froo. 
 Far as tho breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
 Survey our empire, and behold our homo ! 
 These are our realms, no limits to their sway — 
 Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
 Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
 From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
 Oh, who can tell ? not thou, luxurious slave ! 
 Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave ; f 
 Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease ! 
 Whom slumber soothes not— pleasure cannot plea- - 
 Oh, who can tell save he whose heart hath tried, 
 And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
 The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening play, 
 That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
 That for itself can woo the approaching fight , 
 And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
 That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal, 
 And where the feebler faint — can only feel — 
 Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
 Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? 
 
 • The time In this poem may seem too short for the occurrences ; but the whole of the 
 .flgeftti Isles are within a few hours' sail of the continent, and the render must be kind 
 litoUfh to take the wind as I have often found it.— B. 
 
 \ Byron's lameness made the water his element. Had he been a devoted hunter, or ■ 
 *uldl«r, his apostrophes would have been quite aa warm. 
 
BYRON S POEMS, 
 
 No dread of death — if with us die our foes — 
 Save that it seems even duller than repose : 
 Come when ii will — we snatch the life of life — 
 When lost — what recks it — by disease or strife ! 
 Let him who crawls enamour' d of decay, 
 Cling to his couch, and sicken years away ; 
 Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied hovA ; 
 Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
 While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
 Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes contrd. 
 His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
 And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave : 
 Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
 When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
 For us, even banquets fond regrets supply 
 In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
 And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
 When those who win at length divide the prey, 
 And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each brow, 
 How had the brave who fell exulted now / 
 
 n. 
 
 Such were the notes that from the Pirates' isle, 
 
 Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while ; 
 
 Such were the sounds that thrill'd the rocks alon£, 
 
 And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 
 
 In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 
 
 They game — carouse — converse — or whet the brand 
 
 Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 
 
 And careless eye the blood that dims its shine ; 
 
 Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 
 
 While others straggling muse along the shore ; 
 
 •STor the wild bird the busy springes set, 
 
 Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net ; 
 
 iraze where some distant sail a speck supplies, 
 
 With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 
 
 Tell o'er the tales of many a night of toil, 
 
 And marvel where they next shall seize a spoil : 
 
 No matter where — their chief 's allotment this ; 
 
 Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss, 
 
 But who that Chief ? his name on every shore 
 
 Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no more. 
 
 With these he mingles not but to command ; 
 
 Few are his words, but keen his eye and han<i. 
 
 Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mes;-, 
 
 But they forgive his silence for success. 
 
 Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 
 
 That goblet passes him un tasted still — 
 
 And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
 
 Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too : 
 
 Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest rctt&i 
 
 And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
 
 His short repast in humbleness supply 
 
 With all a hermit's board would scarce deny. 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 215 
 
 But while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
 
 His mind seems nourish'd by that abstinence. 
 
 " Steer to that shore ! "—they sail. " Do this ! "— %u .taao : 
 
 u Now form and follow me ! " — the spoil is won. 
 
 Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
 
 And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
 
 To such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
 
 Convey reproof, nor further deign reply. 
 
 III. 
 
 u A sail ! — a sail ! " — a promised prize to Hopo 1 
 Her nation — flag — how speaks tho telescope ? 
 .No prize, alas ! — but yet a welcome sail : 
 The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
 Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
 Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere tho da:!r. 
 Already doubled is the capo — our bay 
 Receives that prow which proudly spurns tho sp: ay. 
 How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
 Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
 She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
 And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
 Who would not brave tho battle-fire — tho wreck- 
 To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings : 
 
 The sails are furl'd ; and anchoring round she swiir": ; 
 
 And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
 
 Her boat descending from the latticed stern. 
 
 'Tis mann'd — tho oars keep concert to the strand, 
 
 Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
 
 Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly speech ! 
 
 When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach p 
 
 The smile, the question, and tho quick reply, 
 
 And the heart's promise of festivity ! 
 
 v. 
 
 The tidings spread, and gath'ring grows tho crowd ; 
 The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
 And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
 Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each d^ar wo; i . 
 u Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success — 
 But shall we see them ? — will their accents bless ? 
 From where the battle roars — the billows chafo — 
 They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe ? 
 Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
 And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes !" 
 
 VI. 
 
 *' Where is our chief? for him we bear report — 
 And doubt that joy— which hails our coming — short ; 
 Yet thus sincere — 'tis cheering, though so brief ; 
 But, Juan ! instant guide us to our ohief : 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return, 
 
 And all shall hear what each may wish to learn. n 
 
 Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
 
 To where his watch-tower beetles o'er the bay, 
 
 By bushy brake, and wild flowers blossoming, 
 
 And freshness breathing from each silver spring, 
 
 Whose scatter'd streams from granite basins burc*, 
 
 Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst ; 
 
 From crag to cliff they mount— Near yonder cave, 
 
 What lonely straggler looks along the wave ? 
 
 In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
 
 Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 
 
 44 'Tis he — 'tis Conrad — here — as wont — alone ; 
 
 On — Juan ! — on — and make our purpose known. 
 
 The bark he views — and tell him we would greet 
 
 His ear with tidings he must quickly meet : 
 
 We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his mood, 
 
 When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 
 
 VII. 
 
 Him J uan sought, and told of their intent ; — 
 
 He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
 
 These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
 
 He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
 
 " These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the spy, 
 
 Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 
 
 Whate'er his tidings, we can well report 
 
 Much that" — " Peace, peace !" — he cuts their prating sticrl 
 
 Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to each 
 
 Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech : 
 
 They watch his glance with many a stealing look, 
 
 To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
 
 But, this as if he guess' d, with head aside, 
 
 Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
 
 He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
 
 Where is Gonsalvo ? " 
 
 "In the anchor'd bark." 
 "There let him stay — to him this order bear. 
 Back to your duty — for my course prepare : 
 Mvself this enterprise to-night will share." 
 " To-night, Lord Conrad ? " 
 
 " Ay ! at set of sua ; 
 The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
 My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are gone. 
 Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust 
 My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust : 
 Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
 And give Its guard more room to fit my hand* 
 This let the Armourpr with speed dispose ; 
 Last time it more fatigued my arm tHkn foes : 
 Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
 To tell us when the hour of stay 's expired/' 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 They make obeisance and retire in haste, 
 
 Too soon to seek again the watery waste : 
 
 Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides, 
 
 And who dare question aught that he decides ? 
 
 That man of loneliness and mystery, 
 
 Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh ; 
 
 Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
 
 And tints each swarthy cheek with sallower huo ; 
 
 Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
 
 That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
 
 What is that spell, that thus his lawless train 
 
 Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain ? 
 
 What should it be, that thus their faith can bind f 
 
 The power of thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
 
 Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
 
 That moulds another's weakness to its will : 
 
 Wields with their hands, but, still to these unknown, 
 
 Makes even their mightiest deeds appear his own. 
 
 Such hath it been— shall be — beneath the sun 
 
 The many still must labour for the one ! 
 
 'Tis Nature's doom — but let the wretch who toils, 
 
 Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils. 
 
 Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
 
 How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Unlike the heroe3 of each ancient race, 
 Demons in act, but gods at least in face, 
 In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 
 Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance of fire : 
 Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
 No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
 Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 
 Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgai men ; 
 They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
 That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
 Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale 
 The sable curls in wild profusion veil ; 
 And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
 The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce conceal". 
 Though smooth his voice, and calm his general mi< \ 
 ft till seems there something he would not have seen : 
 His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
 At times attracted, yet perplex'd the view, 
 As if within that murkiness of mind 
 Work'd feelings fearful, and yet undefined ; 
 Such might it be — that none could truly tell- 
 Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
 There breatho but few whose aspect might defy 
 The full encounter of his searching eye ; 
 He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would seoV 
 To probe his heart and watch his changing cheeU, 
 
BYRON'S POEMd 
 
 At once the observer's purpose to espy, 
 
 And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
 
 Lest he to Conrad rather should betray 
 
 Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to d?j. 
 
 There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 
 
 That raised emotions both of rage and fear ; 
 
 And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
 
 Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell i 
 
 Slight are the outward signs of evil thought, 
 Within — within — 'twas there the spirit wrought ! 
 Love shows all changes — Hate, Ambition, Guile, 
 Betray no further than the bitter smile ; 
 The lip's least curl, the lightest paleness thrown 
 Along the govern' d aspect, speak alone 
 Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 
 He who would see, must be himself unseen. 
 Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
 The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
 That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
 Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
 Then — with each feature working from the heart, 
 "With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
 That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze or glow, 
 Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
 Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest no:, 
 Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot ! 
 Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
 The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
 Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall seo, 
 Man as himself — the secret spirit free ? 
 
 XI. 
 
 Yet was not Conrad thus by nature sent 
 
 To lead the guilty — guilt's worst instrument — 
 
 His soul was changed, before his deeds had driven 
 
 Him forth to war with man and forfeit heaven. 
 
 Warp'd by the world in disappointment's school, 
 
 In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
 
 Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
 
 Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 
 
 He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
 
 And not the traitors who betray'd him still ; 
 
 Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
 
 Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
 
 Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her for 
 
 He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
 
 And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
 
 To pay the injuries of some on all. 
 
 He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
 
 The rest no better than the thing he seem'd ; 
 
 And scorn'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
 
 Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 He knew himself detested, but he knew 
 
 The hearts that loath' d him, crouch'd and dreaded too. 
 
 Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
 
 From all affection and from all contempt : 
 
 His name could sadden, and his acts surprise ; 
 
 But they that fear'd him dared not to despise. 
 
 Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wako 
 
 The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
 
 The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
 
 The last expires — but leaves no living foe ; 
 
 Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 
 
 And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
 One softer feeling would not yet depart ; 
 Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
 By passions worthy of a fool or child ; 
 Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 
 And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
 Yes, it was love- — unchangeable — unchanged, 
 Felt but for one from whom he never ranged ; 
 Though fairest captives daily met his eye, 
 He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd them by ; 
 Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd bowei, 
 None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
 Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness, 
 Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 
 Unmoved by absence, firm in every clime, 
 And yet — oh, more than all ! — untired by time ; 
 "Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
 Could render sullen, were she near to smile ; 
 Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
 On her one murmur of his discontent ; 
 Which still would meet with joy, with calmness pp. ! , 
 Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart ; 
 Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove— 
 If there be love in mortals — this was love ! 
 He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
 On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
 Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
 Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest one ! 
 • • * * « 
 
 XIII. 
 
 He paused a moment— till his hastening men 
 Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen. 
 " Strange tidings ! — many a perii have I pass'<3, 
 Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
 Yet so my heart forebodes but must not fear, 
 Nor shall my followers find me falter here. 
 'Tis rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
 Till here they hunt us to undoubted fate ; 
 
bt ron's poems. 
 
 And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
 
 "We'll furnish mourners for our funeral -pile. 
 
 Ay — let them slumber — peaceful be their dreams J 
 
 Morn ne'er awoke them with such brilliant beams 
 
 As kindle high to-night (but blow thou breeze !) 
 
 To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
 
 Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart, 
 
 Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 
 
 Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are bravo ! 
 
 Ev'n insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
 
 This common courage which with brutes we shar^ 
 
 That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 
 
 Small merit claims— but 'twas my nobler hope 
 
 To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
 
 Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed : 
 
 No medium now — we perish or succeed ! 
 
 So let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
 
 But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
 
 My lot hath long had little of my care, 
 
 But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare : 
 
 Is this my skill ! my craft ? to set at last 
 
 Hope, power, and life upon a single cast ? 
 
 Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
 
 She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Thus with himself communion held he, till 
 He reach'd the summit of his tower-crown'd hill ; 
 There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
 He heard those accents, never heard too oft ; 
 Through the high lattice far yet sweet they ruii£, 
 And these the notes his bird of beauty sung : — 
 
 l. 
 
 " Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
 Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 
 
 Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
 Then trembles into silence as before. 
 
 2. 
 
 t( There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
 Burns the slow flame, eternal — but unseen ; 
 
 Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
 Though vain its ray as it had never been. 
 
 3. 
 
 u Remember me — Oh ! pass not thou my grave 
 "Without one thought whose relics there reelin* » 
 
 The only pang my bosom dare not brave 
 Must be to find forgetfulness in thine, 
 
 M My fondest — faintest — latest accents hear : 
 Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprovo ; 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 
 
 The first — last — sole reward of so much love ! ** 
 
 He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridore, 
 And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave o'er : 
 " My own Medora ! sure thy song is sad" — 
 
 " In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 
 Without thine ear to listen to my lay, 
 Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray : 
 Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
 My heart unhush'd — although my lips were muto ! 
 Oh ! many a night on this lono couch reclined, 
 My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd the wind, 
 And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy sail 
 The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale ; 
 Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
 That mourn'd thee floating on the savage surge : 
 Still would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 
 Lest spies less true should let the blaze expire : 
 And manj 7 a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
 And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
 Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
 And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
 And still I gazed and gazed — and not a prow 
 Was granted to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
 At length — 'twas noon — I hail'd and bless' d the mast 
 That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it pass'd ! 
 Another came — oh ! God 'twas thine at last ! 
 Would that those days were over ! wilt thou ne'er, 
 My Conrad ! learn the joys of peace to share ? 
 Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many a homo 
 As bright as this invites us not to roam : 
 Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
 I only tremble when thou art not here ; 
 Then not for mine, but that far dearer life. 
 Which flies from love and languishes for strife — 
 How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
 Should war with nature and its better will ! " 
 
 "Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long been eJung 
 Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged, 
 Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
 And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
 Yet the same feeling which thou dost condemn, 
 \ly very love to thee is hate to them, 
 i$o closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
 I cease to love thee when I love mankind : 
 Yet dread not this — the proof of all the pai t 
 Assures the future that my love will last ; 
 But — oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 
 This hour again — but not for long — we part." 
 
 " This hour we part ! — my heart foreboded this ; 
 Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 This hour — it cannot be — this hour away ! 
 
 Yon bark hath hardly anchor'd in the bay : 
 
 Her consort still is absent, and her crow 
 
 Have need of rest before they toil anew ; 
 
 My love ! thou mock'st my weakness, and wouldst ntce. ! 
 
 My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
 
 But trifle now no more with my distress, 
 
 Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
 
 Be silent, Conrad !— dearest ! come and share 
 
 The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
 
 Light toil ! to cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
 
 See, I have pluck' d the fruit that promised best, 
 
 And where not sure, perplex' d, but pleased, I guess' d 
 
 At such as seem'd the fairest : thrice the hill 
 
 My steps have wound to try the coolest rill ! 
 
 Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, — 
 
 See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
 
 The grape's gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
 
 Thou more than Moslem when the cup appears : 
 
 Think not I mean to chide ; for I rejoice 
 
 What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
 
 But come, the board is spread ; our silver lamp 
 
 Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
 
 Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
 
 And join with me the dance, or wake the song ; 
 
 Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
 
 Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
 
 We'll turn the tale by Ariosto told, 
 
 Of fair Olympia, loved and left of old.* 
 
 Why — thou wert worse than he who broke his vow 
 
 To that lost damsel, shouldst thou leave me now ; 
 
 Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile, 
 
 When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's isle, 
 
 Which I have pointed from these cliffs the while : 
 
 And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
 
 Lest time should raise that doubt to more than dread, 
 
 Thus Conrad, too, will quit me for the main : 
 
 And he deceived me — for — he came again ! " 
 
 " Again — again — and oft again — my love ! 
 
 If there be life below, and hope above, 
 
 He will return — but now, the moments bring 
 
 The time of parting with redoubled wing ; 
 
 The why — the where— what boots it now to tell ? 
 
 Since all must end in that wild word — farewell ! 
 
 Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 
 
 Fear not — these are no formidable foes ; 
 
 And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 
 
 For sudden siege and long defence prepared ; 
 
 Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord 's away, 
 
 Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay i 
 
 And this thy comfort, that, when next we meet>> 
 
 Security shall make repose more sweet. 
 
 • Orlando Furioso. Canto 10.— Ik 
 
Corsair, canto i., 14. 
 
THE CORSAIR 
 
 List ! — 'tis the bugle " — Juan shrilly blew— 
 " One kiss — one more — another — oh ! Adieu [ " 
 
 She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace, 
 Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye, 
 Which downcast droop' d in tearless agony. 
 Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
 In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
 Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt 
 So fall — that feeling seem'd almost unfelt ! 
 Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
 It told 'twas sunset — and he cursed that sun. 
 Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
 Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress'd ! 
 And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
 One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more ; 
 Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
 Kiss'd her cold forehead — turn'd — is Conrad gor. 9 ! 
 
 XV. 
 
 "And is he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 
 
 How oft that fearful question will intrude ! 
 
 " 'Twas but an instant past — and here he stood ! 
 
 And now " — without the portal's porch she rush'u, 
 
 And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
 
 Big, — bright — and fast, unknown to her they fell ; 
 
 But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell ! " 
 
 For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 
 
 We promise — hope — believe — there breathes despair, 
 
 O'er every feature of that still pale face, 
 
 Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase : 
 
 The tender blue of that largo loving eye 
 
 Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
 
 Till — oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him, 
 
 And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd to swim, 
 
 Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dew'd 
 
 With drops of sadness oft to be renew'd. 
 
 " He's gone ! " — against her heart that hand is driven, 
 
 Convulsed and quick — then gently raised to heaven ; 
 
 She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
 
 The white sail set — she dared not look again ; 
 
 But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate — 
 
 " It is no dream — and I am desolate ! " 
 
 XVI. 
 
 From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 
 Stern Conrad down, nor once he turn'd his head ; 
 But shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
 Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
 His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
 That hail'd him first when homeward from the deep ; 
 And she — the dim and melancholy star, 
 Whose ray of beauty r«*ich'd him from afar, 
 
byrgn's fOEMS. 
 
 On her he must not gaze, he must not think. 
 There he might rest — but on Destruction's brink ; 
 Yet once almost he stopp'd — and nearly gavo 
 His fate to chance, his projects to the wave ; 
 But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
 May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
 He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
 And sternly gathers all his might of mind : 
 Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
 The clang of Tumult vibrate on his ears, 
 The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
 The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
 As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 
 The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
 The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
 That mute adieu to those who stem the surge ; 
 And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
 He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
 Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
 He feels of all his former self possess' d ; 
 He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
 The verge where ends the cliff, begins the beacb. 
 There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breath 
 The breezy freshness of the deep beneath. 
 Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
 Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view : 
 For well had Conrad learn'd to curb the crowd, 
 By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
 His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
 That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
 The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
 That checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 
 All these he wielded to command assent : 
 But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, 
 That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard. 
 And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
 When echo'd to the heart, as from his own, 
 His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
 But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
 He cared not what he soften' d, but subdued ; 
 The evil passions of his youth had made 
 Him value less who loved — than what obey'd. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Around him mustering ranged his j eady guard. 
 Before him Juan stands — u Are all prepared ? " 
 
 " They are — nay more — embark' d : the latest boat 
 
 Waits but my chief " 
 
 " My swoid, and my capoU 
 Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
 His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung : 
 " Call Pedro here ! " — He comes— and Conrad bends, 
 With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends ; 
 
THE CORA AIR. 
 
 '* Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
 
 Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
 
 Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
 
 Arrives, let him alike these orders mark : 
 
 In three days (serve the breeze) the sun shall shino 
 
 On our return — till then all peace be thine ! " 
 
 This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wrung, 
 
 Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
 
 Flash' d the dipp'd oars, and sparkling with the stroke, 
 
 Around the waves' phosphoric* brightness broke ; 
 
 They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands, 
 
 Shrieks the shrill whistle —ply the busy hands — 
 
 He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
 
 How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
 
 His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
 
 Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn ? 
 
 Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
 
 And live a moment o'er the parting horn* ; 
 
 She — his Medora — did she mark the prow ? 
 
 Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
 
 But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
 
 Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
 
 Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
 
 And there unfolds his plan — his means — and ends ; 
 
 Before them burns the lamp, and spreads the c!;urt, 
 
 And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
 
 They to the midnight watch protract debate ; 
 
 To anxious eyes what hour is ever late ? 
 
 Meantime the steady breeze serenely blew, 
 
 And fast and falcon-like the vessel flew ; 
 
 Pass'd the high headlands of each clustering isle, 
 
 To gain their port — long — long ere morning smilo : 
 
 And soon the night-glass through the narrow bay 
 
 Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
 
 Count they each sail — and mark how there supine 
 
 The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
 
 Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
 
 And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ; 
 
 Screen'd from espial by the jutting cape, 
 
 That rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
 
 Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep — 
 
 Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep ; 
 
 While lean'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
 
 And calmly talk'd — and yet he talk'd of blood ! 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 " Couosceste i dubioai desiri ? "— Dastb. 
 I. 
 
 In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
 Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
 For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night : 
 
 By aright, particularly In a warm latitude, every etroke the oar, every motion of 
 i»o*t or »hip, Is followed by a slight Hash like she^t-'i^hliur^ Com the watci.— JL 
 
 Q 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 A feast for promised triumph yet to come, 
 When he shall drag the fetter 'd Eovers horns ; 
 This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
 And faithful to his firman and his word, 
 His summon' d prows collect along the coast, 
 And great the gathering crews, and loud the boa£*S 
 Already shared the captives and the prize, 
 Though far the distant foe they thus despise ; 
 'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
 Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won ! 
 Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
 Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
 Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
 To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek ; 
 How well such deed becomes the turban'd brave-" 
 To bare the sabre's edge before a slave ! 
 Infest his dwelling — but forbear to slay, 
 Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
 And do not deign to smite because they may ! 
 Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
 To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
 Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
 And they who wish to wear a head must smilo ; 
 For Moslem mouths produce their choicest cheer. 
 And hoard their curses, till the coast is clear. 
 
 II. 
 
 High in his hall reclines the turban'd Seyd ; 
 Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
 Removed the banquet, and the last pilaff — 
 Forbidden draughts, 'tis said, he dared to quaff, 
 Though to the rest the sober berry's juice,* 
 The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use ; 
 The long chibouque's f dissolving cloud supply, 
 While dance the Almas X to wild minstrelsy. 
 The rising morn will view the chiefs embark ; 
 But waves are somewhat treacherous in the dark : 
 And revellers may more securely sleep 
 On silken couch than o'er the rugged deep, 
 Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
 And less to conquest than to Korans trust ; 
 And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
 Might warrant more than even the Pacha's boast. 
 
 III. 
 
 With cautious reverence from the outer gate, 
 Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to wait, 
 Bows his bent head — his hand salutes the floor, 
 Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore : 
 " A captive Dervise, from the pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest." § 
 
 Coffee.— B. f Pipe — B. J Dancing girls.— B. 
 
 § It has been objected, that Conrad's entering disguised as a spy is out of nature 
 perhaps so. 1 find soma**'"'" not unlike it in history. 
 " Anxious to explo\ , ; - ; own eyes the state of the Vandals, Majorian ventures* 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 227 
 
 He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eya, 
 And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
 His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
 His step was feeble, and his look dopress'd ; 
 Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than yo.irs, 
 And pale his cheek with penance, not from fears. 
 Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
 And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er : 
 Around his form his loose long robe was thrown, 
 And wrapt a breast bestow'd on Heaven alone ; 
 Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
 He calmly met the curious eyes that scann'd ; 
 And question of his coming fain would seek, 
 Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 
 
 IV. 
 
 u Whence com'st thou, Dervise?" 
 
 " From the outlaw's don, 
 
 "A fugitive—" 
 
 "Thy capture where and when ?" 
 u From Scalanova's port to Scio's isle, 
 The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not smile 
 Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's gains 
 The Rovers won : our limbs have worn their chains. 
 I had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
 Beyond the wandering freedom which I lost ; 
 At length a fisher's humble boat by night 
 Afforded hope, and offer'd chance of flight : 
 I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
 With thee — most mighty Pacha ! who can fear ? " 
 
 " How speed the outlaws? stand they well prepai-od 
 Their plunder'd wealth, and robber's rock, to guard ? 
 Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
 To view with fire their scorpion nest consumed ? M 
 
 u Pacha ! the fetter'd captive's mourning eye, 
 
 That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 
 
 I only heard the reckless waters roar, 
 
 Those waves that would not bear me from the shore : 
 
 I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
 
 Too bright — too blue — for my captivity ; 
 
 And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom cheers, 
 
 Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
 
 This mayst thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
 
 They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
 
 Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
 
 That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
 
 The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
 
 May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
 
 after disguising the colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of h!s ow» 
 ftmk-mador ; and Gensoric was afterwards mortifled by the discovery, that he had on- 
 tertained and dismissed the emperor of the Romans. Such an anecdote may be rejected 
 aa an improbable fiction ; but it is a flctiou which would not have been imagined uidou 
 In tho life of a horo,"— Gibbon, Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 18t. 
 
 I 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Paclia ! — my limbs are faint — and nature craves 
 Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
 Permit my absence — peace be with thee ! Peace 
 With all around ! — now grant repose — release.'* 
 
 * Stay, Dervise ! I have more to question — stay, 
 I do command thee — sit — dost hear ? — obey ! 
 More I must ask, and food the slaves shall brin«; ; 
 Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting ; 
 The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
 Clearly an^i full — I love not mystery." 
 
 'Twere vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
 Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan ; 
 Nor show'd high relish for the banquet press' d. 
 And less respect for every fellow-guest. 
 'Twas but a moment's peevish hectic pass'd 
 Along his cheek, and tranquillized as fast : 
 He sate him down in silence, and his look 
 Resumed the calmness which before torsook : 
 The least was usher'd in — but sumptuous tare 
 He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
 "Sor one so long condemn' d to toil and fast, 
 Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast. 
 
 "What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou support 
 This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy foes 1 
 Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledgo 
 Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge, 
 Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
 And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight ! " 
 
 " Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
 The humblest root, my drink the simplest rill ; 
 And my stern vow and order's* laws oppose 
 To break or mingle bread with friends or foes ; 
 It may seem strange — if there be aught to drer.d, 
 That peril rests upon my single head ; 
 But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's throve, 
 I taste nor bread nor banqaet — save alone ; 
 Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
 To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 
 
 "Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
 One question answer ; then in peace depart. 
 How many ? — Ha ! it cannot sure be day ? 
 What star — what sun is bursting on the bay ? 
 It shines a lake of fire \ — away — away ! 
 Ho ! treachery ! my guards ! my scimitar ! 
 The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
 Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings — thou 
 Some villain spy — seize — cleave him — slay him now 
 
 Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light, 
 Nor less his change of form appall'd the sight : 
 
 • The Dervlses we in colleges, and of different orders., as the monij. 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 229 
 
 Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
 
 But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
 
 Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
 
 Shone his mail'd breast, and fiash'd his sabre's ray 1 
 
 His close but glittering casque, and sable plume. 
 
 More glittering eye, and black brow's sabler glcoia, 
 
 Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprite, 
 
 Whose demon death-blow left no hope for fight 
 
 The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
 
 Of flames on high and torches from below : 
 
 The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
 
 For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell — 
 
 Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell 1 
 
 Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
 
 Behold but bloody shore an. I fiery waves ; 
 
 Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
 
 They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai !* 
 
 He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
 
 That urged him but to stand and perish thero, 
 
 Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
 
 The flame was kindled ere the signal made : 
 
 He saw their terror — from his baldric drew 
 
 His bugle — brief the blast — but shrilly blew : 
 
 'Tis answer' d — " Well ye speed, my gallant crew ! 
 
 Why did I doubt their quickness of career ? 
 
 And deem design had left mo single here?" 
 
 Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling sway 
 
 Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
 
 Completes his fury what their fear begun, 
 
 And makes the many basely quail to one. 
 
 The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
 
 And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head ! 
 
 Even Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelmed with rage, surprise, 
 
 Retreats before him, though he still defies. 
 
 No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
 
 So much confusion magnifies his foe ! 
 
 His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
 
 He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ;+ 
 
 For now the pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
 
 And burst within — and it were death to wait ; 
 
 Where wild Amazement shrieking — kneeling thrown 
 
 The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erflows ! 
 
 The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
 
 Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
 
 Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
 
 Proclaim 'd how well he did the work of strife. 
 
 They shout to find him grim and lonely thero, 
 
 A glutted tiger mangling in his lair ! 
 
 But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
 
 "'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 
 
 • Satan— B. 
 
 A ctinmon and not very novel effect of Mussulman anger. See Pr!»i«* Eng^nr'i 
 Jflemoirs, p. 24. " The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh ; he plucU«*i' •; nis bonrj 
 Oy the roots, because he was obliged to quit the nela."— B. 
 
230 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Much hath been done — but more remains to do— 
 Their galleys blaze — why not their city too I 
 
 V. 
 
 Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 
 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 
 A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
 
 But sudden sunk — for on his ear the cry 
 
 Of women struck, and like a deadly, knell 
 
 Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle's 3'ell. 
 
 "Oh ! burst the Haram — wrong not on your lives 
 
 One female form — remember — we have wives. 
 
 On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
 
 Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay ; 
 
 Kut still we spared — must spare the weaker prey. 
 
 Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven will not forgive 
 
 If at my word the helpless cease to live : 
 
 Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
 
 Our souls to lighten of at least a crime." 
 
 He climbs the crackling stair — he bursts the door. 
 
 Nor feels his feet glow scorching with the floor ; 
 
 His breath choked gasping with the volumed smoko, 
 
 But still from room to room his way he broke. 
 
 They search — they find — they save : with lusty arm:-: 
 
 Each bears a prize of unregarded charms ; 
 
 Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking frames 
 
 With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
 
 So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
 
 And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
 
 But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
 
 From reeking pile and combat's wreck — away — 
 
 Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed ? 
 
 The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd J 
 
 VI. 
 
 Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare,* 
 
 Few words to re- assure the trembling fair ; 
 
 For in that pause compassion snatch' d from war, 
 
 The foe before retiring fast and far, 
 
 With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
 
 First slowlier fled — then rallied — then withstood. 
 
 This Seyd perceives — then first perceives how few, 
 
 Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew, 
 
 And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
 
 The ruin wrought by panic and surprise. 
 
 Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 
 
 Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ! 
 
 And flame for flame and blood for blood must tell, 
 
 The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 
 
 When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
 
 And those who fought for conquest strike for life?. 
 
 Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
 
 His followers faint by freshening foes repelTd : 
 
 CulEare. a female name* it means. litoraAly, the flower of the jiotaegraa*t«.~'JjL 
 
THE CORSAIB. 
 
 231 
 
 " One eflbrt — one— -to break the circling host !" 
 They form— unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 
 Within a narrower ring compress' d, beset, 
 Hopeless, not heartless, strive and struggle yet — 
 Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
 Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and trampled o'er ; 
 But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
 And sinks out wearied rather than o'ercome, 
 His last faint quittance rendering with his breath, 
 Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 But first, ere came the rallying host to blows, 
 And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 
 Gulnare and all her Haram handmaids freed, 
 Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
 By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 
 And dried those tears for life and fame that flow'd : 
 And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
 Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in despair, 
 Much did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
 That smooth' d his accents, soften'd in his eye : 
 'Twas strange — that robber thus with gore bedew'd 
 Seem!d gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
 Must seem delighted with the heart he gave ; 
 The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 
 As if his homage were a woman's right. 
 "The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — vain : 
 Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
 If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
 The life — my loving lord remember'd not ! n 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And him she saw, where thickest carnage sprc I, 
 
 But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
 
 Far from his band, and battling with a host 
 
 That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
 
 Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death ho sought, 
 
 And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought ; 
 
 Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
 
 While Vengeance ponder'd o'er new plans of pain, 
 
 And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed again — 
 
 But drop by drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
 
 Would doom him ever dying — ne'er to die ! 
 
 Can this be he ? triumphant late she saw, 
 
 When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law ! 
 
 'Tis he indeed — disarm'd, but undepress'd, 
 
 His sole regret the life he still possess'd ; 
 
 His wounds too slight, though taken with that will, 
 
 Which would have kiss'd the hand that then could kill. 
 
 Oh, were there none of all the many given, 
 
 To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
 
 Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
 
 Who more than all had striven and struck for dc.i*£. ? 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must feel, 
 
 When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 
 
 For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
 
 Oi lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
 
 He deeply, darkly felt ; but evil pride 
 
 That led to perpetrate — now nerves to hide. 
 
 Still in his stern and self-collected mien 
 
 A conqueror's more than captive's air is seen, 
 
 Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening wounr* 4 
 
 But few that saw — so calmly gazed around : 
 
 Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
 
 Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 
 
 The better warriors who beheld him near, 
 
 Insulted not the foe who taught them fear ; 
 
 And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
 
 In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 
 
 IX. 
 
 The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there, 
 To note how much the life yet left could bear ; 
 He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
 And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
 To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
 Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
 And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
 Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
 Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
 Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
 That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
 While famish' d vultures flit around the stake. 
 "Oh ! water — water !" — smiling Hate denies 
 The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 
 This was his doom ; — the Leech, the guard, were go 
 And left proud Conrad fetter' d and alone. 
 
 x. 
 
 'Twere vain to paint to what his feelings grew — 
 It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
 There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
 When all its elements convulsed — combined — 
 Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
 And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
 That juggling fiend — who never spake before — 
 But cries, ' ' I warn'd thee ! " when the deed is o'er, 
 Vain voice ! the spirit burning but unbent, 
 May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repent ! 
 .Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
 And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, 
 No single passion, and no ruling thought 
 That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought ; 
 But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
 All rushing through their thousand avenues, 
 Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regret, 
 Endanger' d glory, life itself beset ; 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
 
 'Gainst those who fain would triumph in our fata ; 
 
 The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
 
 Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven ; 
 
 Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remember' J not 
 
 ♦So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot ; 
 
 Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
 
 But now to stern reflection each a crime ; 
 
 The withering sense of evil unreveal'd, 
 
 Not cankering less because the more conceal* d — 
 
 All, in a word, from which all eyes must start, 
 
 That opening sepulchre — the naked heart 
 
 Bares with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 
 
 To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 
 
 Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all. 
 
 All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 
 
 Each hath some fear, and he who least betrays, 
 
 The only hypocrito deserving praise : 
 
 Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and flics ; 
 
 But he who looks on death — and silent dies. 
 
 So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career, 
 
 He half-way meets him, should he menace near ! 
 
 XT. 
 
 In the high chamber of his highest tower 
 
 Sate Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
 
 His palace pcrish'd in the flame — this fort 
 
 Contain'd at once his captive and his court. 
 
 Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
 
 His foe, if vanquish'd, had but shared the same : — 
 
 Alone he sate in solitude, and scann'd 
 
 His guilty bosom — but that breast he mann'd : 
 
 One thought alono he could not — dared not meet—- 
 
 " Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet ? " 
 
 Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised, 
 
 And strain'd with rage the chain on which he gaze.' 5 
 
 But soon he found — or feign' d — or dream'd relief, 
 
 And smiled in self-derision of his grief, 
 
 " And now come torture when it will— or may, 
 
 More need of rest to nerve me for the day !" 
 
 This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
 
 And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
 
 'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
 
 For Conrad's plans matured, at once were dono: 
 
 And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
 
 Sho scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
 
 One hour beheld him since the tide he stemm'd — 
 
 Disguised — discover'd — conquering — ta'en — cone'*, rrja'd 
 
 A chief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
 
 Destroying — saving — prison'd — and asleep ! 
 
 XII. 
 
 He slept in calmest seeming — for his breath 
 Wati hush'd 10 deep — Ah ! happy if in deata ' 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
 
 His foes are gone — and here he hath no friends ; 
 
 Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace ? 
 
 No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
 
 Its white arm raised a lamp — yet gently hid, 
 
 Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
 
 Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
 
 And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
 
 That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
 
 And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair ; 
 
 With shape of fairy likeness — naked foot, 
 
 That shines like snow, and falls on earth as mute — 
 
 Through guards and dunnest night how came it tfi&rG 
 
 Ah ! rather ask what will not woman dare ? 
 
 Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 
 
 She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's rest 
 
 In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
 
 She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
 
 Which oft in sport adorn' d her hand before — 
 
 And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
 
 Through drowsy guards that must that sign obey. 
 
 Worn out with toil, and tired with changing blows, 
 
 Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose ; 
 
 And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
 
 They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no morO : 
 
 Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
 
 Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, 
 While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
 And mine in restlessness are wandering here — 
 What sudden spell hath made this man so dear ? 
 True — 'tis to him my life, and more, I owe, 
 And me and mine he spared from worse than woe : 
 'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
 How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes ! " 
 
 He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 
 His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright : 
 He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
 Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
 " What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
 Methinks, my jailer's face shows wondrous fair V* 
 
 " Pirate ! thou know'st me not ; but I am one, 
 Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
 Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
 Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful band 
 I come through darkness — and I scarce know why — 
 Yet.not to hurt — I would not see thee die/' 
 
 u If so, kind lady ! thine the only eye 
 
 That would not here in that gay hope delight : 
 
 Theirs is the chance — and let them use their right. 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 But still I thank their courtesy or thine, 
 That would confess me at so fair a shrine ! " 
 
 Strange though it seem — yet with extremest grief 
 
 Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 
 
 That playfulness of sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
 
 And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
 
 And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
 
 Till even the scaffold * echoes with their jest ! 
 
 Yet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
 
 It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
 
 Whate'er it was that flash' d on Conrad, now 
 
 A laughing wildness half unbent his brow : 
 
 And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
 
 As if the last he could enjoy on earth ; 
 
 Yet 'gainst his nature — for through that short life, 
 
 Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 M Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 
 
 To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
 
 Thee would I spare — nay more — would save theo now, 
 
 But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength allow ; 
 
 But all I can, I will : at least, delay 
 
 The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
 
 More now were ruin — even thyself were loth 
 
 Tho vain attempt should bring but doom to both." 
 
 "Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 
 
 Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 
 
 Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope 
 
 Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope : 
 
 Unfit to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 
 
 The one of all my band that would not die ? 
 
 Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
 
 Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
 
 My sole resources in the path I trod 
 
 Were these — my bark — my sword — my love — my God ! 
 
 The last I left in youth — He leaves me now — 
 
 And Man but works His will to lay me low. 
 
 I have no thought to mock His throne with prayer 
 
 Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ; 
 
 It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
 
 My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
 
 That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
 
 My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
 
 For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
 
 Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
 
 And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
 
 And blight a form — till thine appear'd, Gulnaro ! 
 
 Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair." ♦ 
 
 • In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Bcieyn, in the Tower, 
 when, grasping her neck, she remarked, that it " was too slender to trouble the heads- 
 man much." During one part of the French revolution, it became a fashion to leave 
 some mot as a legacy ; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that 
 period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable «ze. — E. 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 " Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to ms 
 Is this — 'tis nothing — nothing e'er can be : 
 But yet — thou loVst — and — Oh ! I envy those 
 Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
 Who never feel the void — the wandering thought 
 That siofcs o'er visions — such as mine hath wrought," 
 
 "Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
 This arm redeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 
 
 " My love stern Seyd's ! Oh — No — No — not my love- 
 Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once stroT- 
 To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
 I felt — I feel — love dwells with — with the free. 
 I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
 To share his splendour, and seem very blest ! 
 Oft must my soul the question undergo, 
 Of — ' Dost thou love ?' and burn to answer, 'N>!' 
 Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
 And struggle not to feel averse in vain ; 
 But harder still the heart's recoil to bear, 
 And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
 He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
 Its pulse nor check'd — nor quicken' d — calmly cold : 
 And when resign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
 From one I never loved enough to hate. 
 No warmth these lips return by his impress'd, 
 And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest. 
 Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
 The change to hatred were at least to feel : 
 But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns unsought — 
 And oft when present — absent from my thought. 
 Or when reflection comes, and come it must — 
 I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust ; 
 I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
 'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride. 
 Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would cease ! 
 Or seek another and give mine release, 
 But yesterday — I could have said, to peace ! 
 Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
 Kemember — captive ! 'tis to break thy chain ; 
 Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
 To give thee back to all endear' d below, 
 Who share such love as I can never know. 
 Farewell — morn breaks — and I must now away : 
 'Twill cost me dear — but dread no death to-day !" 
 
 XV. 
 
 She press'd his fetter'd fingers to her heart, 
 
 And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 
 
 And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
 
 And was she here ? and is he now alone ? 
 
 What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his cV.&in ? 
 
 The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's mino, 
 Already polish' d by the hand divine 1 
 
 Oh ! too convincing — dangerously dear — 
 
 In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
 
 That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 
 
 To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield : 
 
 Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 
 
 Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers ! 
 
 What lost a world, and bade a hero fly ? 
 
 The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye. 
 
 tfet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven ; 
 
 By this — how many lose not earth — but heaven ! 
 
 Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 
 
 And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 'Tis morn — and o'er his alter'd features play 
 The beams — without the hope of yesterday. 
 What shall he bo ere night 'I perchance a thing 
 O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing : 
 By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt, 
 While sets that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
 Chill — wet — and misty round each stiffen'd limb, 
 Refreshing earth — reviving all but him ! — 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 •* Come vedi— ancor non m' abbandona."— Daxt*. 
 I. 
 
 Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
 
 Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
 
 Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
 
 But one unclouded blaze of living light ! 
 
 O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throwi, 
 
 Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glowa. 
 
 On old ^Egina's rock, and Idra's isle, 
 
 The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
 
 O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
 
 Though there his altars are no more divine. 
 
 Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
 
 Thy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
 
 Their azure arches through the long expanse 
 
 More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glanoe, 
 
 And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
 
 Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven ; 
 
 Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
 
 Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 
 
 On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
 When — Athens ! here thy Wisest look'd his last. 
 
233 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
 That closed their murder' d sage's* latest day i 
 Not yet — not yet— Sol pauses on the hill — 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
 But sad his light to agonizing eyes, 
 And dark the mountain's once delightful d yeg : 
 Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to po :; , 
 The land, where Phoebus never frown' d before ; 
 B it ere he sank below Cithseron's head, 
 The cup of woe was quaff 'd — the spirit fled ; 
 The soul of him who scorn' d to fear or fly — 
 Who lived and died, as none can live or die ! 
 
 But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
 The queen of night asserts her silent reign.*}* 
 No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
 Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form ; 
 With cornice glimmering as the moonbeams pla;". 
 There the white column greets her grateful ray, 
 And, bright around with quivering beams be3et, 
 Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret : t 
 The groves of olive scatter' d dark and wide 
 Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 
 The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
 The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, J 
 And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
 Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
 All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye — 
 And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 
 
 Again the iEgean, heard no more afar, 
 Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
 Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
 Their long array of sapphire and of gold, 
 Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
 That frown — where gentler ocean seems to smile. § 
 
 II. 
 
 Not now my theme — why turn my thoughts to theo ? 
 Oh ! who can look along thy native sea, 
 Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
 So much its magic must o'er all prevail ? 
 Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, 
 Fair Athens ! could thine evening face forget ? 
 Not he — whose heart nor time nor distance frees, 
 Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
 
 * Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the hour of execution), not* 
 withstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.— B. 
 
 t The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country ; the days in winter 
 wc longer, but in summer of shorter duration. — B. 
 
 I The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house : the palm is without the present walls at 
 Alliens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall inter- 
 venes. — Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Dissus has no stream at all. — B. 
 
 5 The opening lines, as far as section ii., have, perhaps, little business here, and were 
 annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem ; but they were written on the spot in 
 the spring of 1811, and, I Bcarce know why, the reader must excuse their appearance here 
 
 he can.— B. 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
 His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
 "Would that with freedom it were thine again 1 
 
 III. 
 
 The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
 Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height — 
 Medora's heart — the third day 's come and gone — 
 With it he comes not — sends not — faithless one ! 
 The wind was fair though light, and storms were nci.o. 
 Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
 His only tidings that they had not met ! 
 Though wild, as now, far different were the tale, 
 Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 
 
 The night-breeze freshens — she that day had pase'd 
 In watching all that Hope proclaim'd a mast ; 
 Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
 At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
 And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
 That dash'd her garments oft, and warn'd away : 
 She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
 Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart ; 
 Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
 His very Sight had shock' d from life or sense ! 
 
 It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 
 
 Whose inmates first beheld whom first they sought ; 
 
 Some bleeding — all most wretched — these the few — 
 
 Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they knew. 
 
 In silence, darkling, each appear' d to wait 
 
 His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate : 
 
 Something they would have said ; but seem'd to fear 
 
 To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
 
 She saw at once, yet sank not — trembled not — 
 
 Beneath that grief, that loneliness of lot, 
 
 Within that meek fair form, were feelings high, 
 
 That deem'd not till they found their energy. 
 
 While yet was Hope — they soften'd — flutter' d — wept— 
 
 All lost — that softness died not — but it slept ; 
 
 And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which said, 
 
 " With nothing left to love — there's nought to dread." 
 
 'Tis more than nature's ; like the burning might 
 
 Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 
 
 " Silent you stand — nor would I hear you tell 
 What — speak not — breathe not — for I know it well - 
 Yet would I ask — almost my Hp denies 
 The — quick your answer — tell me where he lies." 
 
 ' * Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled ; 
 
 But hero is one denies that he is dead : 
 
 He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive." 
 
 She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive— 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then withstood 
 
 Her own dark soul — these words at once subdued : 
 
 She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
 
 Perchance but snatch' d her from another grave ; 
 
 But that with hands though rude, yet weeping eyes, 
 
 They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies : 
 
 Dash o'er her death-like cheek the Ocean dew, 
 
 Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew ; 
 
 Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
 
 That fainting form o'er which they gaze and grieve ; 
 
 Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
 
 The tale too tedious — when the triumph short. 
 
 In that wild council words wax'd warm ami strange 
 With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and reven^; ; 
 All, save repose or flight : still lingering there 
 Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair ; 
 Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and led, 
 "Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
 Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
 Whose deeds are daring as their hearts are tn?a. 
 
 v. 
 
 Within the Haram's secret chamber sate 
 Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive's fato > 
 His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell, 
 Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's cell ; 
 Here at his feet the lovely slave reclined 
 Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of mind ; 
 While many an anxious glance her large dark eya 
 Sends in its idle search for sympathy. 
 His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,* 
 But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 
 "Pacha ! the day is thine ; and on thy crest 
 Sits triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest f 
 His doom is fix'd — he dies ; and well his fate 
 Was earn'd — yet much too worthless for thy halo . 
 Methinks, a short release for ransom told 
 With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
 Report speaks largely of his pirate hoard — 
 Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
 While baffled, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
 Watch' d — follow'd — he were then an easier prey ; 
 But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
 Embark their wealth and seek a safer strand." 
 
 " Gulnare ! if for each drop of blood a gem 
 
 Were offer' d rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 
 
 If for each hair of his a massy mine 
 
 Of virgin ore should supplicating shine ; 
 
 If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 
 
 Of wealth were here — that gold should not redeem ! 
 
 r.« Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary ; the beads are in cumber ninety-tin*.- -1 
 
THE C0R3AIR. 
 
 241 
 
 It had not now redeem'd' a single hour, 
 But that I know him fetter 'd, in my powor ; 
 And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder stili 
 On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 
 
 " Nay, Seyd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
 Too justly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
 My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
 His riches — thus released^ he were not free : 
 Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
 His capture could but wait thy first command." 
 
 " His capture could I — and shall I then resign 
 One day to him — the wretch already mine ? 
 Release my foe ! — at whose remonstrance ? — thico .' 
 Fair suitor ! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 
 That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
 Which thee and thine alone of all could spare, 
 No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 
 My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 
 I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
 I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
 Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard. 
 Borne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
 Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly ? 
 Thou necd'st not answer — thy confession spcako, 
 Already reddening on thy guilty cheeks ; 
 Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 
 'Tis not his life alone may claim such care ! 
 Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
 Accursed was the moment when he bore 
 Thee from the flames, which better far — but — no — 
 I then had mourn' d thee with a lover's woe — 
 Now, 'tis thy lord that warns — deceitful thing ! 
 Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing ? 
 In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
 Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe ! " 
 
 He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
 Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 
 Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
 Which frowns ne'er quell' d, nor menaces subdued ; 
 And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare ! 
 When soft could feel, and when incensed could dare 
 His doubts appear'd to wrong — nor yet she know 
 How deep the root from whence compassion grew—- 
 She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
 A fellow-feeling, differing but in name; 
 Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
 Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
 Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
 That strife of thought — the source of woman's woca I 
 
 R 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
 
 Roll'd day and night — his soul could never tame — 
 
 This tearful interval ot doubt and dread, 
 
 When every hour might doom him worse than dead, 
 
 When every step that echo'd by the gate 
 
 Might entering lead where axe and stake await ; 
 
 When every voice that grated on his ear 
 
 Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
 
 Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
 
 Had proved unwilling as unfit to die ; 
 
 'Twas worn — perhaps decay' d — yet silent boro 
 
 That conflict deadlier far than all before : 
 
 The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
 
 Leave scarce one thought inert enough to quail ; 
 
 But bound and fix'd in fetter 'd solitude, 
 
 To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
 
 To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
 
 Irrevocable faults, and coming fate — 
 
 Too late the last to shun — the first to mend — 
 
 To count the hours that struggle to thine end, 
 
 With not a friend to animate, and tell 
 
 To other ears that death became thee well ; 
 
 Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
 
 And blot life's latest scene with calumny ; 
 
 Before thee tortures, which the soul can dare, 
 
 Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may bear ; 
 
 But deeply feels a single cry would shame, 
 
 To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim ; 
 
 The life thou leav'st below, denied above 
 
 By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
 
 And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
 
 Of earthly hope — thy loved one from thee riven. 
 
 Such were the thoughts that outlaw must sustain, 
 
 And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain : 
 
 And those sustain'd he — boots it well or ill 9 
 
 Since not to sink beneath, is sometmng still ! 
 
 VII. 
 
 The first day pass'd — he saw not her. — Gulnare— 
 
 The second — third — and still she came not there ; 
 
 But what her words avouch' d, her charms had don?; 
 
 Or else he had not seen another sun. 
 
 The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 
 
 Came storm and darkness in their mingling migb.t : 
 
 Oh ! how he listen' d to the rushing deep, 
 
 That ne'er till now so broke upon his sleep ; 
 
 And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
 
 Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
 
 Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
 
 And loved its roughness for the speed it gave : 
 
 And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
 
 A long known voice— alas ! too vainly near 1 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
 Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud ; 
 And flash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
 To him more genial than the midnight star : 
 Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his chain. 
 And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
 He raised his iron hand to heaven, and pray'd 
 One pitying flash to mar the form it made : 
 His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
 The storm roll'd onward, and disdain' d to strike ; 
 Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
 As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The midnight pass'd — and to tho massy door 
 A light step came — it paused — it moved once more ; 
 Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key : 
 'Tis as his heart foreboded — that fair she I 
 Whate'er her sins, to him a guardian saint, 
 And beauteous still as hermit's hope can paint ; 
 Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
 More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame : 
 On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
 Which spoke before her accents — " Thou must die ! 
 Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
 The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 
 
 " Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
 What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the same : 
 Why shouldst thou seek an outlaw's life to spare, 
 And change the sentence 1 deserve to bear ? 
 Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
 Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 
 
 u Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou not 
 Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot ? 
 Why should I seek ? — hath misery made thee blind 
 To the fond workings of a woman's mind ? 
 And must I say ? albeit my heart rebel 
 With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
 Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is moved : 
 It fear'd thee — thank'd thee — pitied — m addon' d — lov 
 Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
 Thou lov'st another — and I love in vain ; 
 Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
 I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
 If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
 Were I thine own — thou wert not lonely here : 
 An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
 What hath such gentle dame to do with home ? 
 But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
 Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
 If thou hast courage still, and wouldst be free, 
 Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me ! " 
 
 R 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 "Ay — in my chains! my steps will gently tread, 
 With these adornments, o'er each slumbering head ( 
 Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight ? 
 Or is that instrument more fit for fight ? " 
 
 "Misdoubting Corsair ! I have gain'd the guard, 
 
 Bipe for revolt, and greedy for reward. 
 
 A single word of mine removes that chain : 
 
 Without some aid how here could I remain ? 
 
 Well, since we met, hath sped my busy time, 
 
 If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 
 
 The crime — 'tis none to punish those of Seyd. 
 
 That hated tyrant, Conrad — he must bleed ! 
 
 I see thee shudder — but my soul is changed — 
 
 Wrong'd, spurn' d, reviled — and it shall be avenged- 
 
 Accused of what till now my heart disdain' d — 
 
 Too faithful, though to bitter bondage chain'd. 
 
 Yes, smile ! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
 
 I was not treacherous then — nor thou too dear ■ 
 
 But he has said it — and the jealous well, 
 
 Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
 
 Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
 
 I never loved — he bought me — somewhat high — 
 
 Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
 
 I was a slave unmurmuring : he hath said, 
 
 But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 
 
 'Twas false thou know'st — but let such augurs rue, 
 
 Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
 
 Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer ; 
 
 This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
 
 New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
 
 Mine too he threatens ; but his dotage still 
 
 Would fain reserve me for his lordly will ; 
 
 When wearier of these fleeting charms and mo, 
 
 There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the sea. 
 
 What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 
 
 To wear but till the gilding frets away ? 
 
 I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all — would save, 
 
 If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
 
 But had he not thus menaced fame and life 
 
 (And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife), 
 
 I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 
 
 Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 
 
 Thou lovest me not — nor know'st — or but the worst. 
 
 Alas ! this love — that hatred are the first — 
 
 Oh ! couldst thou prove my truth, thou wouldst not st art 
 
 Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
 
 'Tis now the beacon of thy safety — now 
 
 It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
 
 But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
 
 There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor Seyd ! w 
 
 " Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
 My abject fortune, wither'd fame so low : 
 
THE CORSAia. 
 
 Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
 
 From earth with ruthless but with open hand. 
 
 And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
 
 To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 
 
 Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
 
 Who spares a woman's seeks not slumber's life. 
 
 Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 
 
 Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
 
 Now fare thee well — more peace be with thy breast ! 
 
 Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest ! " 
 
 "Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 
 
 And thy limbs writhe around the ready stako. 
 
 I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
 
 If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
 
 My life — my love — my hatred — all below 
 
 Are on this cast — Corsair ! 'tis but a blow ! 
 
 Without it flight were idle — how evade 
 
 His sure pursuit ? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
 
 My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted yearn, 
 
 One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 
 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 
 I'll try the firmness of a female hand. 
 
 The guards are gain'd — one moment all were o'er — 
 
 Corsair ! we meet in safety, or no more ; 
 
 If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloud 
 
 Will hover o'er thy scaffold and my shroud." 
 
 IX. 
 
 She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
 
 But his glance follow'd far with eager eye ; 
 
 And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
 
 His form, to curl their length, and curb their sound, 
 
 Since ^»ar and bolt no more his steps preclude, 
 
 He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
 
 'Twas dark and winding, and he knew not where 
 
 That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard were there : 
 
 He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
 
 Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak ? 
 
 Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems to beer 
 
 Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 
 
 He reach' d an open gallery — on his eye 
 
 Gleam'd the last star of night, the clearing sky : 
 
 Yet scarcely heeded these — another light 
 
 From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
 
 Towards it he moved ; a scarcely closing door 
 
 Reveal' d the ray within, but nothing more. 
 
 With hasty step a figure outward pass'd, 
 
 Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — 'tis she at laifc ! 
 
 No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
 
 u Thanks to that softening heart — she could not kill I" 
 
 Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
 
 Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully- 
 
BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 She stopp'd — threw back her dark far-floating hair, 
 That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair. 
 As if she late had bent her leaning head 
 Above some object of her doubt or dread. 
 They meet — upon her brow — unknown — forgot — 
 lier hurrying hand had left — 'twas but a spot — 
 Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
 Oh ! slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis blood ! 
 
 x. 
 
 He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
 
 O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt foreshown ; 
 
 He had been tempted — chasten'd — and the chain 
 
 Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
 
 But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 
 
 From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
 
 So thrill'd — so shudder' d every creeping vein, 
 
 As now they froze before that purple stain. 
 
 That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
 
 Had banish'd all the beauty from her cheek ! 
 
 Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — but the? 
 
 It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 " 'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
 Corsair ! he perish' d — thou art dearly won. 
 All words would now be vain — away — away ! 
 Our bark is tossing — 'tis already day. 
 The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
 And these thy yet surviving band shall join : 
 Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
 When once our sail forsakes this hated strand." 
 
 xn. 
 
 She clapp'd her hands — and through the gallery pour, 
 
 Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and Moor : 
 
 Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
 
 Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 
 
 But on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
 
 As if they there transferr'd that iron weight. 
 
 No words are utter'd — at her sign, a door 
 
 .Reveals the secret passage to the shore ; 
 
 The city lies behind — they speed, they reach 
 
 The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach ; 
 
 And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
 
 Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd ; 
 
 Resistance was as useless as if Seyd 
 
 Yet lived to view the doom his ire decreed. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Embark' d, the sail unfurl'd, the light breeze blew ~ 
 How much had Conrad's memory to review ! 
 Sunk he in Contemplation till the cape 
 Where last he anchor'd rear'd its giant shape. 
 
THE COKSAIR. 
 
 All ! — since that fatal night, though brief tho tiaio, 
 Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime. 
 As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
 He veil'd his face, and sorrow' d as he pass'd ; 
 He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band, 
 His fleeting triumph and his tailing hand ; 
 He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
 He turn'd and saw — Gulnarc, the homicide ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
 Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
 And that strange fierceness, foreign to her eye, 
 Fell quench' d in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
 She knelt beside him, and his hand she press'd, 
 ** Thou mayst forgive though Alla's self detest ; 
 But for that deed of darkness what wert thou ? 
 Reproach me — but not yet — 0 ! spare me now! 
 I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
 My brain bewilder' d — do not madden quite ! 
 If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
 Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 
 
 XV. 
 
 She wrongs his thoughts, they more himself upbraid 
 
 Than her, though undesign'd, tho wretch he made ; 
 
 But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexpress'd, 
 
 They bleed within that silent cell — his breast. 
 
 Still onward, fair tho breeze, nor rough tho surge, 
 
 The blue waves sport around the stern they urge ; 
 
 Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
 
 A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
 
 Their little bark her men of watch descry, 
 
 And ampler canvas woos the wind from high ; 
 
 Sho bears her down majestically near, 
 
 Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier ; 
 
 A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
 
 Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
 
 Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
 
 A long, long absent gladness in his glance ; 
 
 u 'Tis mine — my blood-red flag ! again — again^- 
 
 I am not all deserted on the main ! 
 
 They own the signal, answer to tho hail, 
 
 Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
 
 '"Tis Conrad ! Conrad !" shouting from the dec!:, 
 
 Command nor duty could their transport check ! 
 
 With light alacrity and gaze of pride, 
 
 They view him mount once more his vessel's side ; 
 
 A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 
 
 Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embra 
 
 He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 
 
 Iteturns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
 
248 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Wrings with a cordial grasp Anselmo's hand, 
 And feels he yet can conquer and command ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 These greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
 Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 
 They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they known 
 A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
 She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
 Than haughty Conrad how they win their way. 
 With many an asking smile, and wondering stare, 
 They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare ; 
 And her, at once above — beneath her sex, 
 Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex. 
 To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 
 She drops her veil, and stands in silence by ; 
 Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
 Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest. 
 Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
 Extreme in love or hate, in good or ill, 
 The worst of crimes had left her woman still ! 
 
 XVII. 
 
 This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah ! could he less ?— 
 
 Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress ; 
 
 What she has done no tears can wash away, 
 
 And Heaven must punish on its angry day : 
 
 But — it was done : he knew, whate'er her guilt, 
 
 For him that poniard smote, that blood was spilt ; 
 
 And he was free ! — and she for him had given 
 
 Her all on earth, and more than all in Heaven ! 
 
 And now he turn'd him to that dark- eyed slave, 
 
 Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he gave, 
 
 Who now seem'd changed and humbled : — faint and &e*k 
 
 But varying oft the colour of her cheek 
 
 To deeper shades of paleness — all its red, 
 
 That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead ! 
 
 He took that hand — it trembled— now too late — 
 
 So soft in love — so wildly nerved in hate ; 
 
 He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and his own 
 
 Had lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 
 
 " Gulnare ! " — but she replied not — " dear Gulnare ! *' 
 
 She raised her eye — her only answer there — 
 
 At once she sought and sunk in his embrace : 
 
 If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
 
 His had been more or less than mortal heart, 
 
 But — good or ill — it bade her not depart. 
 
 Perchance, but for the bodings of his breast, 
 
 His latest virtue then had join'd the rest. 
 
 Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
 
 That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
 
 The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith— 
 
 To lips where love had lavish'd all his breath, 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance fling 
 As he had iann'd them freshly with his wing ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
 
 To them the very rocks appear to smile ; 
 
 The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
 
 The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
 
 The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 
 
 And sportive dolphins bend them through the spraj : 
 
 Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant shriek, 
 
 Greets like the welcome of his tuneless beak ! 
 
 Beneath each lamp that through its lattice gleams, 
 
 Their fancy paints the friends that trim the beams. 
 
 Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
 
 Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled foam ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
 
 And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora's tower : 
 
 He looks in vain — 'tis strange — and all remark, 
 
 Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
 
 'Tis strange — of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
 
 Nor now, perchaijce, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 
 
 With the first boat descends he to the shore, 
 
 And looks impatient on the lingering oar. 
 
 O ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
 
 To bear him like an arrow to that height ! 
 
 With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 
 
 He waits not — looks not — leaps into the wave, 
 
 Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, and hi^b 
 
 Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 
 
 He reach'd his turret door — he paused — no sound 
 Broke from within ; and all was night around. 
 He knock'd, and loudly — footstep nor reply 
 Announced that any heard or deem'd him nigh ; 
 Ho knock'd — but faintly — for his trembling hand 
 Refused to aid his heavy heart's demand. 
 The portal opens — 'tis a well-known face — 
 But not the form he panted to embrace. 
 Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
 And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd ; 
 He snatch'd the lamp — its light will answer all— 
 It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall. 
 Ho would not wait for that reviving ray, — 
 As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
 But, glimmering through the dusky corridors 
 Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
 His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
 AJ1 that nis heart believed not — yet foretold. 
 
2&) 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 XX. 
 
 He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his leokj 
 And set the anxious frame that lately shook : 
 He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
 And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
 In life itself she was so still and fair, 
 That death with gentler aspect wither' d tnere ; 
 And the cold flowers her colder hand contain' d, -> 
 In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
 As if she scarcely felt, but feign' d a sleep, 
 And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
 The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
 And veil'd — thought shrinks from all that lurk'd below — 
 Oh ! o'er the eye death most exerts his might, 
 And hurls the spirit from her throne of light ! 
 Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
 But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips- 
 Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile 
 And wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
 But the white shroud, and each extended tres3, 
 Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
 Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
 Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind ; 
 These — and the pale pure cheek, became the bier, 
 But she is nothing — wherefore is he here ? 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He ask'd no question — all were answer'd now 
 By the first glance on that still — marble brow. 
 It was enough — she died — what reck'd it how ? 
 The love of youth, the hope of better years, 
 The source of softest wishes, tenderost fears, 
 The only living thing he could not hate, 
 Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 
 But did not feel it less ; — the good explore, 
 For peace, those realms where guilt can never soeur ; 
 The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd below 
 Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, 
 Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
 But who in patience parts with all delight '! 
 Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
 Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn \ 
 And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
 In smiles that least befit who wear them most. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 By those, that deepest feel, is ill express'd 
 The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
 Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
 Which seeks from all the refuge found in none ; 
 
 • In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies of the ilaad, ;a<! ia th« 
 a&a<ia of young persons to place a nosegay.— B. 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
 For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
 On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion press'd, 
 And stupor almost luU'd it into rest ; 
 So feeble now — his mother's softness crept 
 To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
 It was the very weakness of his brain, 
 Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
 None saw his trickling tears — perchance if seen, 
 That useless flood of grief had never been : 
 Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
 In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
 The sun goes forth — but Conrad's day is dim ; 
 And the night cometh — ne'er to pass from him. 
 There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
 On Griefs vain eye — the blindest of the blind ! 
 Which may not — dare not see — but turns aside 
 To blackest shade — nor will endure a guide ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to wrong ; 
 Betray'd too early, and beguiled too long ; 
 Each feeling pure — as falls the dropping dew 
 Within the grot ; like that had harden' d too ; 
 Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials pass'd, 
 But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at last. 
 Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleaves the rock ; 
 If such his heart, so shatter'd it the shock. 
 There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
 Though dark the shade — it shelter' d — saved till noxy, 
 The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted botTi, 
 The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth : 
 The gentle plant hath left no leaf to tell 
 Its tale, but shrunk and wither' d where it fell ; 
 And of its cold protector, blacken round 
 But shiver' d fragments on the barren ground ! 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 'Tis morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
 
 Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his tower. 
 
 He was not there) — nor seen along the shore ; 
 
 Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er : 
 
 Another morn — another bids them seek, 
 
 And shout his name till echo waxeth weak ; 
 
 Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search'd in vain, 
 
 They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain ; 
 
 Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main. 
 
 'Tis idle all — moons roll on moons away, 
 
 And Conrad comes not — came not since that day : 
 
 Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
 
 Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair ! 
 
 Long mourn' d his band whom none could mourn besitU 
 
 And fair the monument they gave his bride : 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 For him they raise not the recording stone- - 
 His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known ; 
 He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
 Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes. 
 
 WINDSOR POETICS. 
 
 Lines composed on the occasion of his Royal Highness the Prince Reg*nt 
 being seen standing between the coffins of Henry VIII. and Charles 1., 
 in the royal vault at Windsor. 
 
 Famed for contemptuous breach of sacred ties, 
 By headless Cnarles see heartless Henry lies ; 
 Between them stands another sceptred thing — 
 It moves, it reigns — in all but name, a king : 
 Charles to his people, Henry to his wife, 
 — In him the double tyrant starts to life : 
 Justice and death have mix'd their dust in vain, 
 Each royal vampire wakes to life again. 
 A h, what can tombs avail ! — since these disgorera 
 The blood and dust of both— to mould a Georjo. 
 
POEMS OK NAPOLEON. 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON. 
 
 " Expende Annibalem : — quot libras in duce summo 
 Invenies ?"— Jdnbnal, Sat. x. 
 
 " Th« Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by tbe Senate, by the Italians, and by the 
 Provincials of Gaul ; his moral virtues and military talents were loudly celebrated ; and 
 those who derived any private benefit from his government aunounced in prophetic 
 ■trains the restoration of public felicity. 
 
 By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous «t»tj, 
 between an emperor and an exile, till ." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. '£*>. 
 
 'Tis done — but yesterday a King ! 
 
 And arm'd with Kings to strive — 
 And now thou art a nameless thing ; 
 
 S» abject — yet alive ! 
 Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
 Who strew' d our earth with hostile bonis, 
 
 And can he thus survive ? 
 Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 
 Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
 
 Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 
 
 Who bow'd so low the knee ? 
 By gazing on thyself grown blind, 
 
 Thou taught'st the rest to see. 
 With might unquestion'd — power to save,— . 
 Thine only gift hath been the grave, 
 
 To those that worshipp'd thee ; 
 Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 
 Ambition's less than littleness 1 
 
 Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 
 
 To after warriors more, 
 Than high Philosophy can preach, 
 
 And vainly preach' d before. 
 That spell upon the minds of men 
 Breaks never to unite again, 
 
 That led them to adore 
 Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 
 With fronts of brass, and fect of ci*y. 
 
2M BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The triumph, and the vanity, 
 
 The rapture of the strife* — 
 The earthquake voice of Victory, 
 
 To thee the breath of life ; 
 The sword, the sceptre, and that swa^ 
 "Which man seem'd made but to obey^ 
 
 Wherewith renown was rife — 
 All quell'd ! — Dark Spirit ! what must be 
 The madness of thy memory ! 
 
 The Desolator desolate ! 
 
 The Victor overthrown ! 
 The arbiter of other's fate 
 
 A suppliant foe his own ! 
 Is it some yet imperial hope, 
 That with such change can calmly cope ? 
 
 Or dread of death alone ? 
 To die a prince — or live a slave — 
 Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 
 
 He who of old would rend the oak,+ 
 
 Dream'd not of the rebound ; 
 Chain' d by the trunk he vainly broke — 
 
 Alone — how look'd he round ? 
 Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
 An equal deed hast done at length, 
 
 And darker fate hast found : 
 He fell, the forest prowler's prey ; 
 But thou must eat thy heart away ! 
 
 The Koman,J when his burning heart 
 
 Was slaked with blood of Home, 
 Threw down the dagger — dared depe. k, 
 
 In savage grandeur, home — 
 He dared depart in utter scorn 
 Of men that such a yoke had borne, 
 
 Yet left him such a doom ! 
 His only glory was that hour 
 Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 
 
 The Spaniard, § when the lust of sway 
 
 Had lost its quickening spell, 
 Cast crowns for rosaries away, 
 
 An empire for a cell ; 
 A strict accountant of his beads, 
 A subtle disputant on creeds, 
 
 His dotage trifled well : 
 Yet better had he neither known 
 A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne. 
 
 • "Certaminis gaAidia"— the expression of Attlla in his harangue to his army, pr«vtcr* 
 to the battle of dionsal, given in Cassiodorus. 
 t Milo Crotcaiensis, caught in the tree he had split. 
 I Sylla. 
 
 Charles V. Byron forgets to tell us how he consoled himself wlih good eating. 
 
ODE TO NAPOLEON. 
 
 But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
 
 The thunderbolt is wrung — 
 Too late thou leav'st the high command 
 
 To which thy weakness clung ; 
 All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
 It is enough to grieve the heart 
 
 To see thine/ own unstrung ; 
 To think that God's fair world hath been 
 The footstool of a thing so mean ! 
 
 And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 
 
 Who thus can hoard his own ! 
 And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 
 
 And thank' d him for a throno ! 
 Fair Freedom ! may we hold thee dear, 
 When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 
 
 In humblest guise have shown. 
 Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
 A brighter name to lure mankind ! 
 
 Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, 
 
 Nor written thus in vain — 
 Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 
 
 Or deepen every stain : 
 If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
 Some new Napoleon might arise, 
 
 To shame the world again — 
 But who would soar the solar height* 
 To set in such a starless night ? 
 
 Weigh' d in the balance, hero dust 
 
 Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
 Thy scales, Mortality ! are just 
 
 To all that pass away : 
 But yet methought the living great 
 Some higher sparks should animate, 
 
 To dazzle and dismay ; 
 Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
 Of these the Conquerors of the earth. 
 
 And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, 
 
 Thy still imperial bride ; 
 How bears her breast the torturing hour ? 
 
 Still clings she to thy side ? 
 Must she, too, bend, — must she, too, shara, 
 Thy late repentance, long despair, 
 
 Thou throneless Homicide ? 
 If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; 
 'Tis worth thy vanish' d diadem ! 
 
 Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 
 
 And gaze upon the sea ; 
 That element may meet thy smilo 
 
 Tt ne'er was ruled by thee 1 
 
256 
 
 BYRON'S POSMS. 
 
 Or trace with thine all idle hand, 
 In loitering mood upon the sand, 
 
 That Earth is now as free ! 
 That Corinth's pedagogue* hath now 
 Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 
 
 Thou Timour ! in his captive's cagef- 
 
 What thoughts will there be thine, 
 While brooding in thy prison' d rage ? 
 
 But one — " The world was mine ! " 
 Unless, like he of Babylon, 
 All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 
 
 Life will not long confine 
 That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
 So long obey'd — so little worth ! 
 
 Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,^: 
 
 Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
 And share with him, the unforgiven, 
 
 His vulture and his rock ! 
 Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
 And that last act, though not thy worst. 
 
 The very Fiend's arch mock ; 
 He, in his fall preserved his pride, 
 And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 
 
 There was a day — there was an hour, 
 
 While earth was Gaul's — Gaul's thine 
 When that immeasurable power, 
 
 Unsated to resign, 
 Had been an act of purer fame, 
 Than gathers round Marengo's nam«, 
 
 And gilded thy decline, 
 Through the long twilight of all time, 
 Despite some passing clouds of crimo. 
 
 But thou, forsooth, must be a king, 
 
 And don the purple vest, 
 As if that foolish robe could wring 
 
 Remembrance from thy breast. 
 Where is the faded garment ? where 
 The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 
 
 The star — the string — the crest ? 
 Vain froward child of empire ! say, 
 Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ! 
 
 Where may the wearied eye repose, 
 
 When gazing on the Great ; 
 Where neither guilty glory glows, 
 
 Nor despicable state ? 
 
 • tv.onysius, tyrant of Sicily, who, after his fall, kept school at CerU.li 
 f Bajazet, confined in an iron cage by his conqueror Timvur. 
 % Prometheus. 
 
ODE FROM THE FRENCH 
 
 2C7 
 
 Yes — one — the first — the last — the best— 
 The Cincinnatus of the West, 
 Whom envy dared not hate, 
 Bequeath the name of Washington, 
 To make man blush there was but one 1 
 
 ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 
 I. 
 
 We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
 Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew \ 
 There 'twas shed, but is not sunk — 
 Rising from each gory trunk, 
 Like the waterspout from ocean, 
 With a strong and growing motion — 
 It soars, and mingles in the air, 
 With that of lost Labedoyere — 
 With that of him whose honoured grave 
 Contains the "bravest of the brave." 
 A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
 But shall return to whence it rose ; 
 When 'tis full, 'twill burst asunder — 
 Never yet was heard such thunder, 
 As then shall shake the world with wonder- 
 Never yet was seen such lightning 
 As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning t 
 Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
 By the sainted Seer of old, 
 Show' ring down a fiery flood, 
 Turning rivers into blood.* 
 
 II. 
 
 The chief has fallen ! but not by you, 
 
 Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 
 
 When the soldier-citizen 
 
 Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 
 
 Save in deeds that led them on 
 
 Where glory smiled on Freedom's son—* 
 
 Who, of all the despots banded, 
 
 With that youthful chief competed ? 
 
 Who could boast o'er France defeated, 
 Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 
 Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
 The Hero sunk into the King ? 
 Then he fell : — so perish all, 
 Who would men by man enthrall ! 
 
 • See Rev. chap. viii. v. 7, Ac. "The first angel sounded, and there followed hail bad 
 Are mingled with blood," &c. v. 8. " And the second angel sounded, and aa it were a 
 freat in ountain burning with tire was cast into the sea ; and the third part of the sea became 
 blood," &c. v. 10. " And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, 
 burning as it were a lamp ; and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the 
 fountains of waters." v. 11. "And the name of the star is called Wormwood; and the 
 Mi ml part of the waters became wormwood ; and many men died of the water*, becauee 
 they were made bitter." 
 
 a 
 
 ■I 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 And thou, too, of the snow-white plum© 3 
 Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb ; 
 Better hadst thou still been leading- 
 France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
 Than sold thyself to death and shame 
 For a meanly royal name ; 
 Such as he of Naples wears, 
 Who thy blood-bought title bears ; 
 Little didst thou deem when dashing 
 
 On thy war-horse through the ranks 
 
 Like a stream which bursts its banks, 
 While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
 Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
 Of the fate at last which found thee ! 
 Was that haughty plume laid low 
 By a slave's dishonest blow ? 
 Once — as the moon sways o'er the tide, 
 It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide ; 
 Through the smoke-created night 
 Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
 The soldier raised his seeking eye, 
 To catch that crest's ascendancy — 
 And as it onward rolling rose, 
 So moved his heart upon our foes. 
 There, where death's brief pang was quickwfa 
 And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
 Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 
 
 Of the eagle's burning crest — 
 (There with thunder-clouds to fan her, 
 Who could then her wing arrest — 
 
 Victory beaming from her breast ?) 
 While the broken line enlarging 
 
 Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
 There be sure was Murat charging ! 
 
 There he ne'er shall charge again ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 O'er glories gone the invaders march, 
 Weep Triumph o'er each levell'd arch- 
 But let Freedom rejoice, 
 With her heart in her voice ; 
 But her hand on her sword, 
 Doubly shall she be adored ; 
 France hath twice too well been taught 
 The "moral lesson " dearly bought— 
 Her safety sits not on a throne 
 With Capet or Napoleon ! 
 But in equal rights and laws, 
 Hearts and hands in one great cause-— 
 Freedom, such as God hath given 
 Unto all beneath His heaven, 
 
TO NAPOLEON. 
 
 259 
 
 With their breath, and from their birth, 
 Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth ; 
 With a fierce and lavish hand, 
 Scattering nations' wealth like sand ; 
 Pouring nations' blood like water, 
 In imperial seas of slaughter ! 
 
 T. 
 
 But the heart and the mind, 
 And the voice of mankind, 
 Shall arise in communion — 
 And who shall resist that proud union ? 
 The time is past when swords subdued- 
 Man may die — the soul 's renew'd : 
 Even in this low world of care 
 Freedom ne'er shall want an heir ; 
 Millions breathe but to inherit 
 Her for ever bounding spirit — 
 When once more her hosts assemble, 
 Tyrants shall believe and tremble—- 
 Smile they at this idle threat ? 
 Crimson tears will follow yet. 
 
 TO NAPOLEON. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 MUST thou go, my glorious chief,* 
 
 Sever' d from thy faithful few ? 
 Who can tell thy warriors' grief, 
 
 Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 
 Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 
 
 Dear as both have been to mo — 
 What are they to all I feel, 
 
 With a soldier's faith for thee ? 
 
 Idol of the soldier's soul ! 
 
 First in fight, but mightiest now : 
 t jlany could a world control ; 
 
 Thee alone no doom can bow. 
 By thy side for years I dared 
 
 Death ; and envied those who fell, 
 When their dying shout was heard, 
 
 Blessing him they served so weU.f 
 
 » >* „iir wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exalted froim the 
 ranks by Buonaparte. He clung to his master's knees ; wrote a letter to Lord Keith, 
 entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity ; which could 
 not be admitted." 
 
 t " At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon-ball, to 
 wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrade*, 
 * Vive l'Empereur, jusqu'a la mort 1' There wero many other instances of the like ; this, 
 however, you may depend on as true."— Private Letter from Brutselt. 
 
 8 2 
 
m 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Would that I were cold with those. 
 
 Since this hour I live to see ; 
 When the doubts of coward foes 
 
 •Scarce dare trust a man with thee. 
 Dreading each should set thee free ; 
 
 Oh ! although in dungeons pent, 
 All their chains were light to me, 
 
 Gazing on thy soul unbent. 
 
 Would the sycophants of him 
 
 Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
 Were his borrow' d glories dim, 
 
 In his native darkness share ? 
 Were that world this hour his own, 
 
 All thou calmly dost resign, 
 Could he purchase with that throne 
 
 Hearts like those which still are thine ! 
 
 My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 
 
 Never did I droop before ; 
 Never to my sovereign sue, 
 
 As his foes I now implore : 
 All I ask is to divide 
 
 Every peril he must brave : 
 Sharing by the hero's side 
 
 His fall, his exile, and his grave. 
 
 NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory 
 
 Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name — 
 
 She abandons me now — but the page of her story, 
 
 The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame. 
 
 I have warr'd with a world which vanquish' d me only 
 
 When the meteor of conquest allured me too far ; 
 
 I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely 
 
 The last single Captive to millions in war. 
 
 Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem crown* d me, 
 
 I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth, — 
 
 But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, 
 
 Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 
 
 Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
 
 In strife with the storm, when their battles were won — 
 
 Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, 
 
 Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun ! 
 
 Farewell to thee, France ! — but when Liberty rallies 
 Once more in thy regions, remember me then — 
 The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys ; 
 Though witheiM, thy tears will unfold it again— 
 
ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OP HONOUR." 
 
 261 
 
 Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us, 
 
 And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice — 
 
 There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us. 
 
 Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice ! 
 
 ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION OP HONOUR." 
 
 FROM THE FRENCH. 
 
 Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 
 
 Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
 
 Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 
 
 Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,—- 
 
 Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 
 
 Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth ? 
 
 Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
 Eternity flash' d through thy blaze ; 
 The music of thy martial sphere 
 Was fame on high and honour here ; 
 And thy light broke on human eyes, 
 Like a volcano of the skies. 
 
 Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood, 
 And swept down empires with its flood ; 
 Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base, 
 As thou didst lighten through all space ; 
 And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
 And set while thou wert dwelling there. 
 
 Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 
 
 A rainbow of the loveliest hue, 
 
 Of three bright colours, each divine,* 
 
 And fit for that celestial sign ; 
 
 For Freedom's hand had blended them, 
 
 Like tints in an immortal gem. 
 
 One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes ; 
 One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes : 
 One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
 Had robed in radiance of its light : 
 The three so mingled did beseem 
 The texture of a heavenly dream. 
 
 Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
 And darkness must again prevail ! 
 But, oh thou Rainbow of the free ! 
 Our tears and blood must flow for tho*> 
 When thy bright promise fades away, 
 Our life is but a load of clay. 
 
 • The tricolour. 
 
262 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And Freedom hallows with her tread 
 The silent cities of the dead ; 
 For beautiful in death are they 
 Who proudly fall in her array ; 
 And soon, oh Goddess ! may we be 
 For evermore with them or thee ! 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC, 
 t SPEAK not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name ; 
 
 There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame : 
 But the tear which now burns on my cheek may imparl 
 The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart. 
 
 Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace, 
 Were those hours — can their joy or their bitterness cease t 
 We repent — we abjure — we shall break from our chain — 
 We will part — we will fly to — unite it again ! 
 
 Oh ! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt ! 
 Forgive me, adored one ! — forsake, if thou wilt ; 
 But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased, 
 And man shall not break it — whatever thou mayst. 
 
 And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee, 
 
 This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be ; 
 
 And our days seem as swift, and our movements more sweet, 
 
 With thee by my side, than with worlds at my feet. 
 
 One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love, 
 Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove ; 
 And the heatless may wonder at all I resign — 
 Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine. 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 
 Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its cor© ; 
 Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since through life's varied 
 round, 
 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can supply : 
 
 I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 
 
 I have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can declare. 
 
 That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 
 
 E'ILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 
 
 A SONG. 
 
ADDRESS 
 
 263 
 
 In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its spring, 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
 I had friends ! — who has not ? — but what tongue will avoor 
 That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? 
 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never canst change : 
 Thou grow'st old — who does not ? — but on earth what appears, 
 Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years 
 
 Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 
 We are jealous ! — who's not ? — thou hast no such alloy ; 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 
 
 Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
 There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul, 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 
 
 When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
 And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
 Hope was left, — was she not? — but the goblet we kiss, 
 And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss- 
 Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown. 
 The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 
 We must die — who shall not ? — May our sins be forgiven, 
 And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 
 
 ADDRESS 
 
 INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN AT THE CALEDONIA* 
 
 MEETING, 1814. 
 
 Who hath not glow'd abov* the nasre where fame 
 Hath fix'd high Caledon s unconquer'd name ; 
 The mountain land which spurn'd the Roman chain, 
 And baffled back the fiery-crested Dane ; 
 Whoso bright claymore and hardihood of hand, 
 No foe could tame — no tyrant could command ! 
 That race is gone — but still their children breathe, 
 And glory crowns them with redoubled wreath : 
 O'er Gael and Saxon mingling banners shine, 
 And, England ! add their stubborn strength to thine. 
 The blood which flow'd with Wallace flows as free, 
 But now 'tis only shed for fame and thee ! 
 Oh ! pass not by the northern veteran's claim, 
 But give support — the world hath given him fama I 
 
 The humbler ranks, the lowly brave, who bled 
 While cheerly following where the mighty led— 
 Who sleep beneath the undistinguish'd sod, 
 Where happier comrades in their triumph trod, 
 
byron's poems, 
 
 To us bequeath — 'tis all their fate allows— 
 The sireless offspring and the lonely spouse 2 
 She on high Albyn's dusky hills may raise 
 The tearful eye in melancholy gaze ; 
 Or view, while shadowy auguries disclose, 
 The Highland seer's anticipated woes, 
 The bleeding phantom of each martial form, 
 Dim in the cloud, or darkling in the storm ; 
 While sad she chants the solitary song, 
 The soft lament for him who tarries long — 
 For him, whose distant relics vainly crave 
 The cronach's wild requiem to the brave ! 
 
 'Tis Heaven — not man— must charm away the 
 Which bursts when Nature's feelings newly flow 
 Yet tenderness and time may rob the tear 
 Of half its bitterness, for one so dear ; 
 A nation's gratitude perchance may spread 
 A thornless pillow for the widow's head ; 
 May lighten well her heart's maternal care v 
 And wean from penury the soldier's heir. 
 
LARA* 
 
 toe 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 L 
 
 The serfs are glad through Lara's wide domain,^ 
 
 And Slavery half forgets her feudal chain ; 
 
 He, their unhoped, but unforgotton lord — 
 
 The long self-exiled chieftain is restored : 
 
 There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
 
 Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
 
 Far chequering o'er the pictured window, plays 
 
 The unwonted fagots' hospitable blaze ; 
 
 And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
 
 With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all mirth* 
 
 n. 
 
 The chief of Lara is return'd again : 
 And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
 Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
 Lord of himself ; — that heritage of woe, 
 That fearful empire which the human breast 
 But holds to rob the heart within of rest ! — 
 "With none to check, and few to point in time 
 The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
 Then, when he most required commandment, then 
 Had Lara's daring boyhood govern'd men. 
 It skills not, boots not, step by step to trace 
 His youth through all the mazes of its race ; 
 Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
 But long enough to leave him half undone. 
 
 III. 
 
 And Lara left in youth his father-land ; 
 
 But from the hour he waved his parting hand i 
 Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till all 
 Had nearly ceased his memory to recall. 
 His sire was dust, his vassals could declare — 
 'Twas all they knew, that Lara was not ther« ; 
 
 • This tale is evidently a continuation of the" Corsair," not too much being left for the 
 Imagination of any reader to follow the events and mark the coincidence of characters. 
 
 t The reader is apprised that the name of Lara being Spanish, and no circumstance of 
 local or national description fixing the scene or hero of tne poem to any country or age, 
 the word "Serf," which could not be correctly applied to the lower classes iv Spain, whe 
 were never vassals of the soil, has, nevertheless, been employed to designate the followers 
 •f our fictitious chieftain. He is meant for noble of the Morea,— M, 
 
T3TR0N*S POEMS. 
 
 Nor sent, nor came he, till conjecture grew 
 Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
 His hall scarce echoes with his wonted name, 
 His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 
 Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
 The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
 " Yet doth he live !" exclaims the impatient heir t 
 And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
 A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grac* 
 The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; 
 But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
 That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 
 
 IV. 
 
 He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 
 
 And whence they know not, why they need not guess 
 
 They more might marvel, when the greeting 's o'er, 
 
 Not that he came, but came not long before : 
 
 No train is his beyond a single page, 
 
 Of foreign aspect, and of tender age. 
 
 Years had roll'd on, and fast they sped away 
 
 To those that wander as to those that stay ; 
 
 But lack of tidings from another clime 
 
 Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
 
 They see, they recognize, yet almost deem 
 
 The present dubious, or the past a dream. 
 
 He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 
 Though sear'd by toil, and something touch' d by tima 
 His faults, whate'er-they were, if scarce forgot, 
 Might be untaught him by his varied lot ; 
 Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
 Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame. 
 His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
 No more than pleasure from the stripling wins ; 
 And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
 Might be redeem'd, nor ask a long remorse. 
 
 v. 
 
 And they indeed were changed — 'tis quickly seen, 
 Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been : 
 That brow in furrow' d lines had fix'd at last, 
 And spake of passions, but of passion past ; 
 The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
 Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise ; 
 A high demeanour, and a glance that took 
 Their thoughts from others by a single look ; 
 And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
 The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 
 That darts in seeming playfulness around, 
 And makes those feel that will not own the wound , 
 All these seem'd his, and something more beneath 
 Than glance could well reveal, or accent breathe. 
 
LARA. 
 
 Ambition, glory, love, the common aim 
 That some can conquer, and that all would claim. 
 Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, 
 Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive ; 
 And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
 At moments lighten'd o'er his livid face. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Not much he loved long question of the past, 
 Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast,* 
 In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
 And — as himself would have it seem — unknown ! 
 Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
 Nor glean experience from his fellow-man ; 
 But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
 As hardly worth a stranger's care to know ; 
 If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
 His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
 Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men ; 
 Born of high lineage, link'd in high command. 
 He mingled with the magnates of his land ; 
 Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
 And saw them smile or sigh their hours away ; 
 But still he only saw, and did not share 
 The common pleasure or the general care ; 
 He did not follow what they all pursued, 
 With hope still baffled, still to be renew'd ; 
 Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain, 
 Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain : 
 Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
 Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone ; 
 Upon his eye sate something of reproof, 
 That kept at least frivolity aloof ; 
 And things more timid that beheld him near, 
 In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear ; 
 And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
 They deem'd him better than his air express'd. 
 
 I 
 
 vm. 
 
 'Twas strange — in youth all action and all life, 
 Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
 Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gave 
 Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
 In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
 And found his recompense in joy or woe, 
 No tame, trite medium ; for his feelings sought 
 In that intenseness an escape from thought : 
 The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
 On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
 
 • See Othello. Byron affected not to be an admirer of Shakeepeare, but he otUz. naao 
 both nil Ideas and hia phraseology. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 
 And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky : 
 Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
 How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
 Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
 To curse the wither' d heart that would not break. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
 
 With eye more curious he appear' d to scan, 
 
 And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day 
 
 From all communion he would start away : 
 
 And then, his rarely-call'd attendants said, 
 
 Through night's long hours would sound his hurried tread 
 
 O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown'd 
 
 In rude but antique portraiture around. 
 
 They heard, but whisper' d — " that must not be known — 
 
 The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
 
 Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had seen 
 
 They scarce knew what, but more than should have been. 
 
 Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
 
 Which hands profane had gather' d from the dead, 
 
 That still beside his open'd volume lay, 
 
 As if to startle all save him away ? 
 
 Why slept he not when others were at rest ? 
 
 Why heard no music, and received no guest ? 
 
 All was not well, they deem'd — but where the wrong ? 
 
 Some knew, perchance — but 'twere a tale too long ; 
 
 And such, besides, were too discreetly wise, 
 
 To more than hint their knowledge in surmise ; 
 
 But if they would — they could " — around the board, 
 
 Thus Lara's vassals prattled of their lord. 
 
 X. 
 
 It was the night — and Lara's glassy s&feam 
 
 The stars are studdiug, each with imaged beam ; 
 
 So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 
 
 And yet they glide like happiness away ; 
 
 Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 
 
 The immortal lights that live along the sky : 
 
 Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 
 
 And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 
 
 Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 
 
 And Innocence would offer to her love. 
 
 These deck the shore ; the waves their channel mak® 
 
 In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 
 
 All was so still, so soft in earth and air, 
 
 You scarce would start to meet a spirit there ; 
 
 Secure that nought of evil could delight 
 
 To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 
 
 It was a moment only for the good : 
 
 So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 
 
 But turn'd in silence to his castle- gate ; 
 
 Such scene his soul no more could contemplate ; 
 
LARA. 
 
 Such scene reminded him of other days, 
 
 Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 
 
 Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that ncw-» 
 
 No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 
 
 Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 
 
 A night of beauty mock'd such breast as his. 
 
 XI. 
 
 He turn'd within his solitary hall, 
 And his high shadow shot along the wall ; 
 There were the painted forms of other times, 
 'Twas all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
 Save vague tradition ; and the gloomy vaults 
 That hid their dust, their foibles, and their fault* • 
 And half a column of the pompous page, 
 That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
 Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
 And lies like truth, and still more truly lies. 
 He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam shone 
 Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
 And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
 O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
 Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 
 Like life, but not like mortal life to view ; 
 His bristling locks of sable, brow of gloom, 
 And the wide waving of his shaken plume, 
 Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gave 
 His aspect all that terror gives the grave. 
 
 XII. 
 
 'Twas midnight — all was slumber ; the lone light 
 Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the night. 
 Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall — 
 A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call ! 
 A. long, loud shriek — and silence — did they hear 
 That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear ? 
 They heard and rose, and tremulously brave, 
 Rush'd where the sound invoked their aid to save ; 
 They come with half-lit tapers in their hands, 
 And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 
 
 xm. 
 
 Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
 Palo as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 
 Was Lara stretch' d ; his half- drawn sabre near, 
 Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature's fear ; 
 Yet he was firm, or had been firm till now, 
 And still defiance knit his gather'd brow ; 
 Though mix'd with terror senseless as he lay, 
 There lived upon his lip the wish to slay ; 
 Some half-form'd threat in utterance there had diec^ 
 Some imprecation of despairing pride , 
 His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook, 
 Even in its trance the gladiator's look, 
 
270 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 
 
 And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 
 
 They raise him, bear him : — hush ! he breathes, he speak*; 
 
 The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 
 
 His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
 
 Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
 
 Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
 
 In terms that seem not of his native tongue ; 
 
 Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
 
 To deem them accents of another land ; 
 
 And such they were, and meant to meet an ear 
 
 That hears him not— alas ! that cannot hear ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 His page approach' d, and he alone appear'd 
 To know the import of the words they heard ; 
 And by the changes of his cheek and brow 
 They were not such as Lara should avow, 
 Nor he interpret ; yet with less surprise 
 Than those around their chieftain's state he eyes ; 
 But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
 And in that tongue which seem'd his own replied, 
 And Lara heeds those tones that gently seem 
 To soothe away the horrors of his dream ; 
 If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
 A breast that needed not ideal woe. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Whate'er his frenzy dream' d or eye beheld, 
 If yet remember'd ne'er to be reveal' d, 
 Bests at his heart : the custom' d morning came, 
 And breathed new vigour in his shaking frame ; 
 And solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 
 And soon the same in movement and in speech 
 As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, 
 Nor less he smiles, nor more his forehead lours 
 Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 
 Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
 He to his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
 Whose shuddering proved their fear was less forgot. 
 In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl 
 The astonish' d slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
 The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
 The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor ; 
 The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
 The flapping bat, the night-song of the breeze ; 
 Aught they behold or hear their thought appals 
 As evening saddens o'er the dark gray walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Vain thought ! that hour of ne'er unravell'd gloom 
 Came not again, or Lara could assume 
 A seeming of forgetfulness that made 
 Uiii eassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
 
LARA. 
 
 271 
 
 Had memory vanish' d then with sense restored ? 
 
 Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
 
 Betray 5 d a feeling that recall' d to these 
 
 That fever' d moment of his mind's disease. 
 
 Was it a dream ? was his the voice that spoke 
 
 Those strange wild accents ; his the cry that broke 
 
 Their slumber ? his the oppress'd o'er-labour'd heart 
 
 That ceased to beat, the look that made them start 1 
 
 Could he who thus had suffer'd, so forget 
 
 When such as saw that suffering shudder yet ? 
 
 Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
 
 Too deep for words, indelible, unmix'd 
 
 In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
 
 The heart to show the effect, but not the cause ? 
 
 Not so in him ; his breast had buried both, 
 
 Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
 
 Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
 
 They choke the feeble words that would unfold. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 fn him inexplicably mix'd appear'd 
 
 Much to be loved and hated, sought and fear'd ; 
 
 Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
 
 In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot ; 
 
 His silence form'd a theme for others' prate — 
 
 They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would know his fat©. 
 
 What had he been ? what was he, thus unknown, 
 
 Who walk'd their world, his lineage only known ? 
 
 A hater of his kind ? yet some would say, 
 
 With them he could seem gay amidst the gay ; 
 
 But own'd that smile if oft observed and near, 
 
 Waned in its mirth and wither' d to a sneer ; 
 
 That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd not by, 
 
 None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye : 
 
 Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
 
 At times, a heart as not by nature hard ; 
 
 But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
 
 Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, 
 
 And steel'd itself, as scorning to redeem 
 
 One doubt from others' half- withheld esteem ; 
 
 In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
 
 Which tenderness might once have wrung from rest ; 
 
 In vigilance of grief that would compel 
 
 The soul to hate for having loved too well. 
 
 XVHI. 
 
 There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
 As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 
 He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
 An erring spirit from another hurl'd ; 
 A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
 By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
 But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
 His mind would half exult and half regret ; 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 With more capacity for love than earth 
 
 Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth, 
 
 His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth. 
 
 And troubled manhood follow' d baffled youth ; 
 
 With thought of years in phantom chase misspent, 
 
 And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 
 
 And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
 
 In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
 
 And left the better feelings all at strife 
 
 In wild reflection o'er his stormy life ; 
 
 But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
 
 He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame, 
 
 And charged all faults upon the fleshly form 
 
 She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm ; 
 
 Till he at last confounded good and ill, 
 
 And half mistook for fate the acts of will : 
 
 Too high for common selfishness, he could 
 
 At times resign his own for others' good, 
 
 But not in pity, not because he ought, 
 
 But in some strange perversity of thought, 
 
 That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
 
 To do what few or none would do beside ; 
 
 And this same impulse would in tempting time 
 
 Mislead his spirit equally to crime ; 
 
 So much he soar'd beyond or sunk beneath 
 
 The men with whom he felt condemn'd to breathy 
 
 And long'd by good or ill to separate 
 
 Himself from all who shared his mortal state ; 
 
 His mind abhorring this, had fix'd her throne 
 
 Far from the world, in regions of her own ; 
 
 Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 
 
 His blood in temperate seeming now would flow : 
 
 Ah ! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 
 
 But ever in that icy smoothness flow'd ! 
 
 'Tis true, with other men their path he walk'd, 
 
 And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 
 
 Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start,— 
 
 His madness was not of the head, but heart ; 
 
 And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
 
 His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 With all that chilling mystery of mien, 
 And seeming gladness to remain unseen ; 
 He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
 Of fixing memory on another's heart : 
 It was not love, perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
 That words can image to express the thought ; 
 But they who saw him, did not see in vain, 
 And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
 And those to whom he spake remember'd well, 
 And on the words, however light, would dwell ; 
 None knew nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
 Himself perforce around the hearer's mind ; 
 
LARA. 
 
 There he was stamp'd, in liking, or in "hato, 
 If greeted once ; however brief the date 
 That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
 Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
 You could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
 Despite your wonder, to your own he wound ; 
 His presence haunted still ; and from the brea3t 
 He forced an all-unwilling interest ; 
 Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
 His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
 And aught that wealth or lofty lineage claims, 
 Appear — a high-born and a welcome guest 
 To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
 The long carousal shakes the illumined hall, 
 Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
 And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
 Links grace and harmony in happiest chain : 
 Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
 That mingle therein well-according bands ; 
 It is a sight the careful brow might smoothe, 
 And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
 And Youth forget such hour was pass'd on earth, 
 So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And Lara gazed on these sedately glad, 
 
 His brow belied him, if his soul was sad, 
 
 And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair, 
 
 Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 
 
 He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh 
 
 With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
 
 Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on his, — 
 
 111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 
 
 At length he caught it, 'tis a face unknown, 
 
 But seems as soarching his, and his alone ; 
 
 Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 
 
 Who still till now had gazed on him unseen ! 
 
 At length encountering meets the mutual gazo 
 
 Of keen inquiry and of mute amazo ; 
 
 On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
 
 As if distrusting that the stranger threw ; 
 
 Along the stranger's aspect fix'd and stern, 
 
 Flash' d more than thence the vulgar eye could learn. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " 'Tis he !" the stranger cried, and those that hoard 
 Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 
 "'Tis he !"— "'Tis who ?" they question far and near. 
 Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
 
 X 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 So widely spread, few bosoms well could brook 
 
 The general marvel, or that single look ; 
 
 But Lara stirr'd not, changed not ; the surprise 
 
 That sprung at first to his arrested eyes, 
 
 Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
 
 Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger gazed, 
 
 And drawing nigh exclaim' d with haughty sneer, 
 
 " 'Tis he !— -how came he thence?— what doth he here 1" 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 It were too much for Lara to pass by 
 
 Such question, so repeated fierce and high ; 
 
 With look collected, but with accent cold, 
 
 More mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
 
 He turn'd and met the inquisitorial tone — 
 
 "My name is Lara ! — when thine own is known, 
 
 Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
 
 The unlook'd-for courtesy of such a knight. 
 
 'Tis Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask ? 
 
 I shun no question, and I wear no mask." 
 
 u Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there none 
 
 Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would shun ? 
 
 And deem'st thou me unknown too ? Gaze again ! 
 
 At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
 
 Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
 
 Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
 
 With slow and searching glance upon his face 
 
 Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
 
 They knew, or chose to know — with dubious look 
 
 He deign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
 
 And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
 
 But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
 
 u A word ! I charge thee stay, and answer here 
 
 To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer ; 
 
 But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
 
 If false, 'tis easy to disprove the word — 
 
 But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
 
 Distrusts thy smiles, but shakes not at thy frown. 
 
 Art thou not he ? whose deeds * 
 
 "Whate'cr I be, 
 Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
 I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
 May hear the rest, nor venture to gainsay 
 The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can tell, 
 Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
 Let Otho cherish here his polish' d guest, 
 To him my thanks and thoughts shall be express'd." 
 And here their wondering host hath interposed—- 
 " Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
 This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
 The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
 If thou. Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
 Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
 
LARA. 
 
 To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
 
 Beseem your mutual judgment, speak the rest ; 
 
 I pledge myself for thee, as not unknown, 
 
 Though, like Count Lara, now return'd alone 
 
 From other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
 
 And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
 
 I augur right of courage and of worth, 
 
 He will not that untainted line belie, 
 
 Nor aught that knighthood may accord, deny." 
 
 "To-morrow be it," Ezzelin replied, 
 
 u And here our several worth and truth be tried ; 
 
 I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
 
 My words, so may I mingle with the blest ! " 
 
 What answers Lara ? to its centre shrunk 
 
 His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
 
 The words of many, and the eyes of all 
 
 That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall ; 
 
 But his were silent, his appear'd to stray 
 
 .in far forgetful ness away — away — 
 
 Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
 
 Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 M To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow ! " further word 
 
 Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 
 
 Upon his brow no outward passion spoke, 
 
 From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
 
 Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone 
 
 Which show'd resolve, determined, though unknown. 
 
 He seized his cloak — his head he slightly bow'd, 
 
 And passing Ezzelin, he loft the crowd ; 
 
 And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown 
 
 With which that chieftain's brow would bear him down 
 
 It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pride 
 
 That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hido ; 
 
 But that of one in his own heart secure 
 
 Of all that he would do, or could endure. 
 
 Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the good ? 
 
 Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood ? 
 
 Alas ! too like in confidence are each 
 
 For man to trust to mortal look or speech ; 
 
 From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
 
 Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart to learn. 
 
 xxv. 
 
 And Lara call'd his page, and went his way — 
 Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
 His only follower from those climes afar 
 Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star \ 
 For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
 In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
 Silent as him he served, his fate appears 
 Above his station, and beyond his years. 
 Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's lane 
 \u such from him he rarely heard command ; 
 
 T 2 • 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But fleet his step, and clear life tones would come, 
 When Lara's lip breathed forth the words of home : 
 Those accents, as his native mountains dear, 
 Awake their absent echoes in his ear, 
 Friends', kindred's, parents', wonted voice recall. 
 Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
 For him earth now disclosed no other guide ; 
 What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
 
 That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
 
 But had not marr'd, though in his beams he grew, 
 
 The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone through 3 
 
 Yet not such blush as mounts when health would show 
 
 All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
 
 But 'twas a hectic tint of secret care 
 
 That for a burning moment fever'd there ; 
 
 And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
 
 From high, and lighten' d with electric thought, 
 
 Though its black orb those long low lashes fringe, 
 
 Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
 
 Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
 
 Or, if 'twere grief, a grief that none should share : 
 
 And please not him the sports that please his age, 
 
 The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
 
 For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
 
 As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
 
 And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd lone, 
 
 Brief were his answers, and his questions none ; 
 
 His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
 
 His resting-place the bank that curbs the brook : 
 
 He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart 
 
 From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart: ; 
 
 To know no brotherhood, and take from earth 
 
 No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 If aught he loved, 'twas Lara ; but was shown 
 
 His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
 
 In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
 
 Each wish, fulfill' d it ere the tongue express' d. 
 
 Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
 
 A spirit deep that brook' d not to be chid ; 
 
 His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
 
 In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
 
 As if 'twas Lara's less than his desire 
 
 That thus he served, but surely not for hire. 
 
 Slight were the tasks enjoin' d him by his lord, 
 
 To hold the stirrup, or to bear the sword ; 
 
 To tune his lute, or, if he will'd it more, 
 
 On tomes of other times and tongues to pore ; 
 
 But ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 
 
 To wnom he show'd nor deference nor disdain, 
 
LARA. 
 
 But that well-worn reserve which proved he knew 
 
 No sympathy with that familiar crew : 
 
 His soul, whate'er his station or his stem, 
 
 Could bow to Lara, not descend to them. 
 
 Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 
 
 Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
 
 So femininely white it might bespeak 
 
 Another sex, when match'd with that smooth cheek, 
 
 But for his garb, and something in his gaze, 
 
 Mare wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 
 
 A latent fierceness that far more became 
 
 His fiery climate than his tender frame : 
 
 True, in his words it broke not from his breast, 
 
 But from his aspect might be more than guess' d. 
 
 Kaled his name, though rumour said he bore 
 
 Another ere he left his mountain shore ; 
 
 For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
 
 That name repeated loud without reply, 
 
 As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
 
 Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 
 
 Unless 'twas Lara's wonted voice that spake, 
 
 For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
 
 And mark'd that sudden strife so mark'd of all ; 
 
 And when the crowd around and near him told 
 
 Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 
 
 Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
 
 Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
 
 Tho colour of young Kaled went and came, 
 
 The lip of ashes, and the eUeek of flame ; 
 
 And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
 
 The sickening iciness of that cold dew 
 
 That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
 
 With heavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
 
 Yes — there bo things which we must dream and dare 
 
 And execute ere thought be half aware : 
 
 Whate'er might Kaled's be, it was enow 
 
 To seal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
 
 He gazea on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
 
 That sidelong smile upon the knight he pass'd ; 
 
 When Kaled saw that smile, his visage fell, 
 
 As if on something recognized right well : . 
 
 His memory read in such a meaning more 
 
 Than Lara's aspect unto others wore. 
 
 Forward he sprung — a moment, both were gone, 
 
 And all within that hall seem'd left alone ; 
 
 Each had so fix'd his eye on Lara's mien, 
 
 All had so mix'd their feelings with that scene, 
 
 That when his long dark shadow through the porch 
 
 No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
 
 Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
 
 To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Such as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
 Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
 And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
 With thoughtful visage and imperious air ; 
 But long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired, 
 He waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
 The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 
 Again to that accustom' d couch must creep 
 Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
 And man, o'erlabour'd with his being's strife, 
 Shrinks to that sweet forgetfulness of life : 
 There lie love's feverish hope, and cunning's guile, 
 Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile ; 
 O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
 And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
 What better name may slumber's bed become ? 
 Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
 Where weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk supine 
 Alike in naked helplessness recline ; 
 Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 
 Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
 And shun, though day but dawn on ills increased, 
 That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the least. 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 I. 
 
 Night wanes — the vapours round the mountains curl'd^ 
 
 Melt into morn, and Light awakes the world. 
 
 Man has another day to swell the past, 
 
 And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
 
 But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
 
 The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth ; 
 
 Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
 
 Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
 
 Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
 
 And cry, exulting inly, "They are thine ! 99 
 
 "raze on, while yet thy gladden'd eye may see, 
 
 i. morrow comes when they are not for thee ; 
 
 Ind grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
 
 *Jor earth nor sky will yield a single tear ; 
 
 ^or cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
 Nor gale breathe forth one sigh for thee, for all ; 
 But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
 And fit thy clay to fertilize the soil. 
 
 II. 
 
 Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the hall, 
 The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call : 
 
LARA 
 
 'Tis now the promised hour, that must proclaim 
 The life or death of Lara's future fame ; 
 When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
 And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
 His faith was pledged, and Lara's promise giver* 
 To meet it in the eye of man and Heaven. 
 Why comes he not ? Such truths to be divulged, 
 Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 
 
 PL 
 
 The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
 With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
 Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past, 
 And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow 's o'ercasU 
 u I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
 If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
 The roof that held him in the valley stands, 
 Between my own and noble Lara's lands ; 
 My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd, 
 Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
 But that some previous proof forbade his stay, 
 And urged him to prepare against to-day ; 
 The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
 Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 
 
 Ho ceased — and Lara answer'd, "I am here 
 
 To lend at thy demand a listening ear, 
 
 To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 
 
 Whose words already might my heart have wrung> 
 
 But that I deem'd him scarcely less than mad, 
 
 Or, at the worst, a foe ignobly bad. 
 
 I know him not ; but me it seems he knew 
 
 In lands where — but I must not trifle too : 
 
 Produce t his babbler — or redeem the pledge ; 
 
 Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge," 
 
 Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
 His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flew. 
 " The last alternative befits me best, 
 And thus I answer for mine absent guest." 
 
 With cheek uncharging from its sallow gloom, 
 
 However near his own or other's tomb ; 
 
 With hand, whose almost careless coolness spoko 
 
 Its grasp well used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
 
 With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
 
 Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
 
 In vain the circling chieftains round them closed, 
 
 For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed ; 
 
 And from his lip those words of insult fell— 
 
 His sword is good who can maintain them well. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 
 Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash : 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 He bled, and fell ; but not with deadly wound, 
 
 Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
 
 " Demand thy life ! " He answer'd not : and the& 
 
 From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 
 
 For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
 
 Almost to blackness in its demon hue ; 
 
 And fiercer shook his angry falchion now 
 
 Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 
 
 Then all was stern collectedness and art, 
 
 Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart ; 
 
 So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 
 
 That when the approaching crowd his arm withheld 
 
 He almost turn'd the thirsty point on those 
 
 Who thus for mercy dared to interpose ; 
 
 But to a moment's thought that purpose bent ; 
 
 Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 
 
 As if he loathed the ineffectual strife 
 
 That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life ; 
 
 As if to search how far the wound he gave 
 
 Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 
 
 v. 
 
 They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
 Forbade all present question, sign, and speech ; 
 The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
 And he, incensed and heedless of them all, 
 The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
 In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
 He back'd his steed, his homeward path he took, 
 Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 
 
 VI. 
 
 But where was he? that meteor of a night, 
 Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
 Where was this Ezzelin ? who came and went 
 To leave no other trace of his intent. 
 He left the dome of Otho long ere mora, 
 In darkness, yet so well the path was worn 
 He could not miss it : near his dwelling lay ; 
 But there he was not, and with coming day 
 Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
 Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
 A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
 His host alarm' d, his murmuring squires distress'^ 
 Their search extends along, around the path, 
 In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath : 
 But none are there, and not a brake hath borne 
 Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn ; 
 Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
 Which still retains a mark where murder was ; 
 Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
 The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
 When agonized hands that cease to guard. 
 Wound in that pang the smoothness of the sward. 
 
LARA. 
 
 Some such had been, if here a life was reft, 
 But these were not ; and doubting hope is left ; 
 And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's name, 
 Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame ; 
 Then sudden silent when his form appear'd, 
 A. waits the absence of the thing it fear'd ; 
 Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
 And dye conjecture with a darker hue, 
 
 VII. 
 
 Days roll along, and Otho's wounds are heal'd, 
 
 But not his pride ; and hate no moro conceal' d : 
 
 He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
 
 The friend of all who sought to work him woo, 
 
 And from his country's justice now demands 
 
 Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
 
 Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
 
 His presence ? who had made him disappear, 
 
 If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
 
 Had sate too deeply were he left at large ? 
 
 The general rumour ignorantly loud, 
 
 The mystery dearest to the curious crowd ; 
 
 The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
 
 To win no confidence, and wake no love ; 
 
 The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray'd, 
 
 The skill with which he wielded his keen blade ; 
 
 Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art ? 
 
 Where had that fierceness grown upon his heart ! 
 
 For it was not the blind capricious rage 
 
 A word can kindle and a word assuage ; 
 
 But the deep working of a soul unmix'd 
 
 With aught of pity where its wrath had fix'd ; 
 
 Such as long power and overgorged success 
 
 Concentrates into all that's merciless : 
 
 These, link'd with that desire which ever sway8 
 
 Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise, 
 
 'Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 
 
 Such as himself might fear, and foes would form, 
 
 And he must answer for the absent head 
 
 Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Within that land was many a malcontent, 
 Who cursed the tyranny to which he bent ; 
 That soil full many a wringing despot saw, 
 Who work'd his wantonness in form of law" ; 
 Long war without and frequent broil within 
 Had made a path for blood and giant sin, 
 That waited but a signal to begin 
 New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
 Which knows no neuter, owns but foes or friend? 
 Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 
 In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 
 
 And with them pining hearts and sluggish hands : 
 
 But that long absence from his native clime 
 
 Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 
 
 And now, diverted by his milder sway, 
 
 All dread by slow degrees had worn away ; 
 
 The menials felt their usual awe alone, 
 
 But more for. him than them that fear was grown ; 
 
 They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
 
 Their evil judgment augur' d of the worst, 
 
 And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
 
 Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
 
 And though his lonely habits threw of late 
 
 Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate ; 
 
 For thence the Wretched ne'er unsoothed withdrew, 
 
 For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
 
 Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
 
 The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
 
 Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
 
 They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
 
 And they who watch'd might mark that, day by day, 
 
 Some new retainers gather' d to his sway ; 
 
 But most of late, since Ezzelin was lost, 
 
 He play'd the courteous lord and bounteous host : 
 
 Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
 
 Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head ; 
 
 Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
 
 With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
 
 If this were policy, so far 'twas sound, 
 
 The million judged but of him as they found ; 
 
 From him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
 
 They but required a shelter, and 'twas given. 
 
 By him no peasant mourn' d his rifled cot, 
 
 And scarce the serf could murmur o'er his lot ; 
 
 With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
 
 With him contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 
 
 Youth present cheer and promised recompense 
 
 Detain' d till all too late to part from thence : 
 
 To hate he offer' d, with the coming change, 
 
 The deep reversion of delay' d revenge ; 
 
 To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
 
 The well-won charms success was sure to snatch. 
 
 All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
 
 That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
 
 The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
 
 Secure at last the vengeance which he sought : 
 
 His summons found the destined criminal 
 
 Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 
 
 Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
 
 Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
 
 That morning he had freed the soil-bound slave© 
 
 Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves ! 
 
 Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
 
 Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right : 
 
LARA 
 
 Religion — freedom — vengeance — what you will, 
 A word 's enough to raise mankind to kill ; 
 Some factious phrase by cunning caught and spread, 
 That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms be fed 
 
 IX. 
 
 Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had gain'd 
 
 Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign' d ; 
 
 Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
 
 The serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both : 
 
 They waited but a leader, and they found 
 
 One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
 
 By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
 
 In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
 
 Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
 
 Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
 
 Had Lara from that night, to him accurst, 
 
 Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst : 
 
 Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
 
 Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
 
 By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
 
 E'en if he fail'd, he still delay'd his fall. 
 
 The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
 
 The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
 
 Roused by events that seem'd foredoom'd to urgo 
 
 His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
 
 Burst forth, and made him all he once had been, 
 
 And is again; — he only changed the scene. 
 
 Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
 
 But not less fitted for the desperate game : 
 
 He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate, 
 
 And mock'd at ruin, so they shared his fate. 
 
 What cared he for the freedom of the crowd ? 
 
 Ho raised the humble but to bend the proud. 
 
 He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
 
 But man and destiny beset him there : 
 
 Inured to hunters, he was found at bay ; 
 
 And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
 
 Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
 
 Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene ; 
 
 But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
 
 A leader not unequal to the feud ; 
 
 In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature spoke, 
 
 And from his eye the gladiator broke. 
 
 X. 
 
 What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 
 The feast of vultures, and the waste of life ? 
 The varying fortune of each separate field, 
 The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield 1 
 The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall ? 
 In this the struggle was the same with all ; 
 Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
 In bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 None suod, for Mercy knew her cry was vaia, 
 
 The captive died upon the battle-slain : 
 
 In either cause, one rage alone possess' d 
 
 The empire of the alternate victor's breast ; 
 
 And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
 
 Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd to slay. 
 
 It was too late to check the wasting brand, 
 
 And Desolation reap'd the famish'd land ; 
 
 The torch was lighted, and the flame was spread, 
 
 And Carnage smiled upon her daily bread. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Fresh with the nerve the new-born impulse strung, 
 
 The first success to Lara's numbers clung ; 
 
 But that vain victory hath ruin'd all, — 
 
 They form no longer to their leader's call ; 
 
 In blind confusion on the foe they press, 
 
 And think to snatch is to secure success. 
 
 The lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 
 
 Lure on the broken brigands to their fate : 
 
 In vain he doth whate'er a chief may do, 
 
 To check the headlong fury of that crew ; 
 
 In vain their stubborn ardour he would tamo, 
 
 The hand that kindles cannot quench the flam© ; 
 
 The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 
 
 And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
 
 The feign' d retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
 
 The daily harass, and the fight delay' d, 
 
 The long privation of the hoped supply, 
 
 The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
 
 The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 
 
 And palls the patience of his baffled heart, 
 
 Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-day 
 
 They could encounter as a veteran may ; 
 
 But more preferr'd the fury of the strife, 
 
 And present death, to hourly suffering life : 
 
 And famine wrings, and fever sweeps away 
 
 His numbers melting fast from their array ; 
 
 Intemperate triumph fades to discontent, 
 
 And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent : 
 
 But few remain to aid his voice and hand, 
 
 And thousands dwindled to a scanty band : 
 
 Desperate, though few, the last and best remain 5 <5 
 
 To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
 
 One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
 
 And thence they may escape from native war ; 
 
 And bear within them to the neighbouring stato 
 
 An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate : 
 
 Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 
 
 But harder still to perish or submit. 
 
 XII. 
 
 It is resolved — they march — consenting Night 
 Guides with her star their dim and torehless flight « 
 
LARA 
 
 Already they perceive its tranquil beam 
 
 Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
 
 Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
 
 Away ! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
 
 Return or fly ! — What glitters in the rear ? 
 
 'lis Otho's banner — the pursuer's spear ! 
 
 Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height ? 
 
 Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight : 
 
 Cut off" from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
 
 Less blood, perchance, hath bought a richer spoil 1 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A moment's pause — 'tis but to breathe their band, 
 
 Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? 
 
 It matters little — if they charge the foes 
 
 Who by their border-stream their march oppose, 
 
 Some few, perchance, may break and pass the line, 
 
 However link'd to baffle such design. 
 
 " The charge be ours ! — to wait for their assault 
 
 Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
 
 Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every steed, 
 
 And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed : 
 
 In the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
 
 How many shall but hear the voice of death ! 
 
 XIV. 
 
 His blade is bared, — in him there is an air 
 
 As deep, but far too tranquil for despair ; 
 
 A something of indifference more than then 
 
 Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men — 
 
 He turn'd his eye on Kaled, ever near, 
 
 And still too faithful to betray one fear ; 
 
 Perchance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight threw 
 
 Along his aspect an unwonted hue 
 
 Of mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
 
 The truth, and not the terror of his breast. 
 
 This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his : 
 
 It trembled not in such an hour as this ; 
 
 His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
 
 His eye alone proclaim' d — 
 
 1 ' We will not part ! 
 Thy band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 
 Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee ! " 
 The word hath pass'd his lips, and onward driven, 
 Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder riven ; 
 Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 
 And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
 Outnumber' d, not outbraved, they still oppose 
 Despair to daring, and a front to foes ; 
 And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
 Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 
 
 xv. 
 
 Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
 
 Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Cheers Lara's voice, and waves or strikes his steel. 
 Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
 None fled, for well they knew that flight were vain, 
 But those that waver turn to smite again, 
 While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
 Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
 Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
 He foils their ranks, or reunites his own ; 
 Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to -fly — 
 Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
 And shook — why sudden droops that plumed crest ? 
 The shaft is sped — the arrow 's in his breast ! 
 That fatal gesture left the unguarded side, 
 And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
 The word of triumph fainted from his tongue ; 
 That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
 But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
 Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins ; 
 These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
 And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
 Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
 Beguiles his charger from the combat's rage : 
 Meantime his followers charge, and charge again ; 
 Too mix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 
 
 ' XVI. 
 
 Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
 The cloven cuirass, and the helmless head ; 
 The war-horse masterless is on the earth, 
 And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth ; 
 And near yet quivering with what life remain'd, 
 The heel that urged him and the hand that rein'd ; 
 And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
 Whose waters mock the lip of those that die ; 
 That panting thirst which scorches in the breath 
 Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
 In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
 One drop — the last — to cool it for the grave ; 
 With feeble and convulsive effort swept 
 Their limbs along the crimson'd turf have crept ; 
 The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
 But yet they reach the stream, and bend to taste : 
 They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
 Why pause ? — no further thirst have they to slak&«" 
 It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ; 
 It was an agony — but now forgot 1 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
 Where but for him that strife had never been, 
 A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
 'Twas Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
 His follower once, and now his only guide, 
 Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
 
"ttiARA. 
 
 And with his scarf would stanch the tides that rush 
 
 With each convulsion in a blacker gush ; 
 
 And then as his faint breathing waxes low, 
 
 In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 
 
 He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 
 
 And merely adds another throb to pain. 
 
 Ho clasps the hand that pang which would assuage, 
 
 And sadly smiles his thanks to that dark page, 
 
 Who nothing fears nor feels, nor heeds, nor sees, 
 
 Save that damp brow which rests upon his knees ; 
 
 Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 
 
 Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 The foe arrives, who long had search'd the fluid, 
 Their triumph nought till Lara too should yield ; 
 They would remove him, but they see 'twere vain, 
 And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
 That rose to reconcile him with his late, 
 And that escape to death from living hate : 
 And Otho comes, and leaping from his steed, 
 Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed, 
 And questions of his state ; ho answers not, 
 Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 
 And turns to Kaled : — each remaining word, 
 They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
 His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
 To which some strange remembrance wildly clung. 
 They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
 To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone ; 
 And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
 While gazed the rest in dumb amazement round : 
 They seem'd ev'n then — that twain — unto the last 
 To half forget the present in the past ; 
 To share between themselves some separate fate, 
 Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Their words though faint were many — from the tone 
 
 Their import those who heard could judge alone ; 
 
 From this, you might have deem'd young Kaled's death 
 
 More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
 
 So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
 
 The accent* bis scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
 
 But Lara's vOo, though low, at first was clear 
 
 And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely neap : 
 
 But from his visage little could we guess, 
 
 So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
 
 Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
 
 Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
 
 And once as Kaled's answering accents ceased, • 
 
 Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
 
 Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
 
 Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his eye, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Or that 'twas chance, or some remember 5 d scene 
 
 That raised his arm to point where such had been, 
 
 Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn'd away, 
 
 As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day, 
 
 And shrunk his glance before that morning light 
 
 To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night. 
 
 Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its loss ! 
 
 For when one near display'd the absolving cross, 
 
 And proffer 'd to his touch the holy bead 
 
 Of which his parting soul might own the need, 
 
 He look'd upon it with an eye profane, 
 
 And smiled — Heaven pardou I if 'twere with disdain ; 
 
 And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
 
 Prom Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 
 
 With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 
 
 Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift, 
 
 As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 
 
 Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 
 
 The life immortal, infinite, secure, 
 
 To all for whom that cross hath made it sure ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew, 
 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grew ; 
 
 His limbs stretch'd fluttering, and his head droop' d o'e? 
 
 The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
 
 He press'd the hand he held upon his heart — 
 
 It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
 
 With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain, 
 
 For that faint throb which answers not again. 
 
 u It beats !" — Away, thou dreamer ! he is gone — 
 
 It once was Lara which thou look'st upon. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
 
 The haughty spirit of that humble clay ; 
 
 And those around have roused him from his trance, 
 
 But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance ; 
 
 And when in raising him from where he bore 
 
 Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
 
 He saw the head his breast would still sustain 
 
 Roll down like earth to earth upon the plain ; 
 
 He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
 
 The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 
 
 But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and fell, 
 
 Scarce breathing more than that he loved so well. 
 
 Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 
 
 The breast of man such trusty love may breathe f 
 
 That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
 
 The secret long and yet but half-conceal'd ; 
 
 In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
 
 Its grief seem'd ended, but the sex confess'd ; 
 
 And life return'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
 
 What now to her was Womanhood or Fame f 
 
LARA. 
 
 xxn. 
 
 And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
 
 But where he died his grave was dug as deep ; 
 
 Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
 
 Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd the mound 
 
 And he was mourn' d by one whose quiet grief 
 
 Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief. 
 
 Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
 
 And vain e'en menace — silent to the last ; 
 
 She told nor whence nor why she left behind 
 
 Her all for one who seem'd but little kind. 
 
 "Why did she love him ? Curious fool ! — be still — 
 
 Is human love the growth of human will ? 
 
 To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
 
 Have deeper thoughts than your dull eyes discern, 
 
 And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
 
 Beats the strong heart, though less the lips avow. 
 
 They were not common links that form'd the chain 
 
 That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain ; 
 
 But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
 
 And seal'd is now each Hp that could have told. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
 Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
 They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar 
 Which were not planted there in recent war : 
 "Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
 It seems they vanish' d in a land of strife ; 
 But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
 These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
 And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
 Return' d no more — that night appear'd his last. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
 A serf that cross' d the intervening vale, 
 "When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
 And nearly veil'd in mist a waning horn ; 
 A serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
 And hew the bough that bought his children's food, 
 Pass'd by the river that divides tho plain 
 Of Otho s lands and Lara's broad domain : 
 He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
 From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
 Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow, 
 Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
 Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
 And some foreboding that it might be crime, 
 Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
 Who reach'd tho river, bounded from his horse, 
 
 y 
 
290 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And lifting thence the burthen which he bore, 
 
 Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the shore.*. 
 
 Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd io watch 
 
 And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
 
 And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
 
 As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
 
 At once he started, stoop'd, around him strown 
 
 The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone ; 
 
 Of these the heaviest thence he gather' d there, 
 
 And slung them with a more than common care* , 
 
 Meantime the serf had crept to where, unseen, 
 
 Himself might safely mark what this might mean ; 
 
 He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast, 
 
 And something glitter'd starlike on the vest, 
 
 But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk, 
 
 A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk : 
 
 It rose again, but indistinct to view, 
 
 And left the waters of a purple hue, 
 
 Then deeply disappear'd : the horseman gazed 
 
 Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
 
 Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
 
 And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
 
 His face was mask'd — the features of the dead, 
 
 If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread ; 
 
 But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
 
 Such is the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
 
 And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
 
 Upon the night that led to such a morn. 
 
 If thus he perish' d, Heaven receive his soul ! 
 
 His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
 
 And charity upon the hope would dwell 
 
 It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 And Kaled — Lara. — Ezzelin, are gone, 
 
 Alike without their monumental stone ! 
 
 The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
 
 From lingering where her chieftain's blood had been ; 
 
 Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
 
 Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
 
 But furious would you tear her from £he spot 
 
 Where yet she scarce believed that he was not, 
 
 Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
 
 That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 
 
 But left to waste her weary moments there, 
 
 She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
 
 Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
 
 And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
 
 And she would sit beneath the very tree 
 
 Where lay his drooping head upon her knee ; 
 
 And in that posture where she saw him fall. 
 
 His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall ; 
 
 • The reader who wishes to know whence Lord Byron took tho incident of the dl*. 
 appearance of Sir Ezzelin, may find it in Boscoe's Leo X. vol. i. p 265. 
 
CONDOLATORY ADDRESS. 
 
 291 
 
 And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair, 
 And oft would snatch it from her bosom there, 
 And fold, and press it gently to the ground, 
 As if she stanch'd anew some phantom's wound. 
 Herself would question and for him r eply ; 
 Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
 Prom some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
 Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
 And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
 Or trace strange characters along the sand. — 
 This could not last — she lies by him she loved ; 
 Her tale untold — her truth too dearly proved. 
 
 CONDOLATORY ADDRESS 
 
 TO SARAH, COUNTESS OP JERSEY, ON THE PRINCE REGENT'S 
 RETURNING HER PICTURE TO MRS. MEE. 
 
 When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
 Whom servile Rome obey'd, and yet abhorr'd, 
 Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
 That left a likeness of the* brave, or just ; 
 What most admired each scrutinizing eye 
 Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
 What spread from face to face that wondering air ? 
 The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
 That absence proved his worth, — that absence fix'd 
 His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd j 
 And more decreed his glory to endure, 
 Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 
 
 If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
 Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
 Amidst those pictured charms, whose loveliness, 
 Bright though they be, thine own had render'd less ; 
 If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
 Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits, 
 If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart, 
 Could with thy gentle image bear depart ; 
 That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
 To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
 Yet comfort still one selfish thought imparts, 
 We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 
 
 What can his vaunted gallery now disclose ? 
 A garden with all flowers — except the rose ; — 
 A fount that only wants its living stream ; — 
 A night, with every star, save Dian's beam. 
 Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, 
 That turn from tracing them to dream of thee ; 
 
 u 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And more on that recall'd resemblance pause, 
 Than all he shall not force on our applause. 
 
 Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine, 
 "With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine : 
 The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien — 
 The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene ; 
 The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
 Which shades, yet shows that forehead more than fair I 
 Each glance that wins us, and the life that throws 
 A spell which will not let our looks repose, 
 But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
 Some charm that well rewards another view. 
 These are not lessen' d, these are still as bright, 
 Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
 And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone, 
 To please the paltry heart that pleases none : — 
 That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
 In envious dimness pass'dthy portrait by; 
 Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
 Its hate of Freedom's loveliness, and thine, 
 
 August, 1814 
 
 ELEGIAC STANZAS 
 
 ON THE DEATH OP SIR PETER PARKER, BART. 
 
 There is a tear for all that die, 
 
 A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 
 But nations swell the funeral cry, 
 
 And Triumph weeps above the brave. 
 
 For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
 
 O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 
 In vain their bones unburied lie, 
 
 All earth becomes their monument ! 
 
 A tomb is theirs on every page, '■ 
 
 An epitaph on every tongue : 
 The present hours, the future age, 
 
 For them bewail, to them belong. 
 
 For them the voice of festal mirth ) 
 Grows hush'd, their name the only sound ; 
 
 While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
 The goblet's tributary round. 
 
 A theme to crowds that knew them not, 
 
 Lamented by admiring foes, 
 Who would not share their glorious lot ? 
 
 Who would not die the death they chose 
 
 And, gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
 
 Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be ; 
 And early valour, glowing, find 
 
 A model in thy memory. 
 
TO BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 293 
 
 But there are breasts that bleed with thee 
 In woe, that glory cannot quell ; 
 
 And shuddering hear of victory, 
 Where one so dear, so dauntless, fell. 
 
 Where shall they turn to mourn thee less ? 
 
 When cease to hear thy cherish'd name ? 
 Time cannot teach forge tfulness, 
 
 While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 
 
 Alas ! for them, though not for thee, 
 They cannot choose but weep the more ; 
 
 Deep for the dead the grief must be, 
 Who ne'er gave cause to mourn before. 
 
 TO BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 BELSHAZZAR \ from the banquet turn^ 
 
 Nor in thy sensual fulness fall ; 
 Behold ! while yet before thee burn 
 
 The graven words, the glowing walL 
 Many a despot men miscall 
 
 Crown'd and anointed from on high ; 
 But thou, the weakest, worst of all — 
 
 Is it not written, thou must die ? 
 
 Go ! dash the roses from thy brow — 
 
 Gray hairs but poorly wreath with them ; 
 Youth's garlands misbecome thee now, 
 
 More than thy very diadem, 
 Whero thou hast tarnish'd every gem : — 
 
 Then throw the worthless bauble by, 
 Which, worn by thee, ev'n slaves contemn ; 
 
 And learn like better men to die ! 
 
 Oh ! early in the balance weigh' d, 
 
 And ever light of word and worth, 
 Whose soul expired ere youth decay'd, 
 
 And left thee but a mass of earth. 
 To see thee moves the scorner's mirth : 
 
 But tears in Hope's averted eye 
 Lament that even thou hadst birth — 
 
 Unfit to govern, live, or die. 
 
 October, 181 • 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 Tub subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend, th« 
 H>on. Douglas Kinnaird, for a selection of Hebrew Melodies, and have 
 been published, with the music, arranged by Mr. Braham and Mr. Nathan. 
 
 SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 
 
 She walks in beauty, like the night 
 Of cloudless climes and starry skies : 
 
 And all that's best of dark and bright 
 Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 
 
 Thus mellow' d to that tender light 
 Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. 
 
 One shade the more, one ray the less, 
 Had half impair'd the nameless grace, 
 
 Which waves in every raven tress, 
 Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 
 
 Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
 How pure, how dear their dwelling-plaoe. 
 
 And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 
 
 So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
 The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
 
 But tell of days in goodness spent, 
 A mind at peace with all below, 
 
 A heart whose love is innocent ! 
 
 THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT. 
 
 The harp the monarch minstrel swept, 
 The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 
 
 Which Music hallow'd while she wept * 
 O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
 Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven ! 
 
 It soften'd men of iror mould, 
 It gave them virtues not their own ; 
 
 No ear so dull, no soul so cold, 
 That felt not, fired not to the tone, 
 Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throno 8 
 
Hebrew Melodies. 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 It told the triumphs of our King, 
 
 It wafted glory to our God ; 
 It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 
 
 The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 
 
 Its sound aspired to heaven and there abode ! 
 Since then, though heard on earth no more, 
 
 Devotion and her daughter Love, 
 Still bid the bursting spirit soar 
 
 To sounds that seem as from above, 
 
 In dreams that day's broad light can not remove. 
 
 IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 
 
 If that high world, which lies beyond 
 
 Our own, surviving Love endears ; 
 If there the cherish'd heart be fond, 
 
 The eye the same, except in tears — 
 How welcome those untrodden spheres ! 
 
 How sweet this very hour to die ! 
 To soar from earth and find all fears. 
 
 Lost in thy light — Eternity ! 
 
 It must be so : 'tis not for self 
 
 That we so tremble on the brink ; 
 And striving to o'erleap the gulf, 
 
 Yet cling to Being's severing link. 
 Oh ! in that future let us think 
 
 To hold each heart the heart that shares, 
 With them the immortal waters drink, 
 
 And soul in soul grow deathless theirs I 
 
 THE WILD GAZELLE. 
 
 The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 
 
 Exulting yet may bound, 
 And drink from all the living rills 
 
 That gush on holy ground ; 
 Its airy step and glorious eye 
 May glance in tameless transport by : — 
 
 A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
 
 Hath Judah witness' d there ; 
 And o'er her scenes of lost delight 
 
 Inhabitants more fair. 
 The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
 But Judah's statelier maids are gone ! 
 
 More blest each palm that shades those plains 
 
 Than Israel's scattered race ; 
 For, taking root, it there remains 
 
 In solitary grace : 
 
BYBON'fl POEMS. 
 
 It cannot quit its place of birth, 
 It will not live in other earth. 
 
 But we must wander witheringly, 
 
 In other lands to die ; 
 And where our fathers' ashes be. 
 
 Our own may never lie : 
 Our temple hath not left a stone, 
 And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. N 
 
 
 
 OH ! WEEP FOR THOSE. 
 
 Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
 Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream ; 
 Weep for the harp of J udah's broken shell ; 
 Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the godless dwell! 
 
 And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet ? 
 And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
 And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
 The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice ? 
 
 Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
 How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
 The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
 Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! * 
 
 ON JORDAN'S BANKS. 
 
 On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray, 
 
 On Sion's hill the False One's votaries pray, 
 
 The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 
 
 Yet there — even there — 0 God ! Thy thunders sleep t 
 
 There — where Thy finger scorch' d the tablet stone ! 
 There — where Thy shadow to Thy people shone ! 
 Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire : 
 Thyself — none living see and not expire ! 
 
 Oh ! in the lightning let Thy glance appear ; 
 Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor's spear j 
 How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
 How long Thy temple worshipless, oh God 1 
 
 JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 Since our Country, our God — oh, my sire ! 
 Demand that thy daughter expire ; 
 Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
 Strike the bosom that's bared for thee no** ! 
 
 And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
 And the mountains behold me no more : 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 If the hand that I love lay me low, 
 There cannot be pain in the blow ! 
 
 And of this, oh, my father ! be sure — 
 
 That the blood of thy child is as pure 
 
 As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
 
 And the last thought that soothes me below. 
 
 Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
 Be the judge and the hero unbent ! 
 I have won the great battle for thee, 
 And my father and country are free ! 
 
 When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
 When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
 Let my memory still be thy pride, 
 And forget not I smiled as I died ! 
 
 OH ! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S BLOOM. 
 
 Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
 On thee shall press no ponderous tomb ; 
 But on thy turf shall roses rear 
 Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
 And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : 
 
 And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
 Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
 
 And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
 And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
 Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead* 
 
 Away ! ye know that tears are vain, 
 That death nor heeds nor hears distress : 
 
 Will this unteach us to complain ? , 
 Or make one mourner weep the less ? 
 
 And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 
 
 Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 
 
 MY SOUL IS DARK. 
 
 My soul is dark — Oh ! quickly string 
 
 The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
 And let thy gentle fingers fling 
 
 Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
 If in this head, a hope be dear, 
 
 That sound shall charm it forth again , 
 If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 
 
 Twill flow, and cease to burn my braio 
 
 But bid the strain be wild and deep, 
 Nor let thy notes of joy be first : 
 
 I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 
 Or else this heavy heart will burst ; 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 For it hath been by sorrow nursed, 
 And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
 
 And now 'tis doom'd to know the worsts, 
 And break at once — or yield to song. 
 
 I SAW THEE WEEP. 
 
 I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 
 
 Came o'er that eye of blue : 
 And then methought it did appear 
 
 A violet dropping dew : 
 I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaze 
 
 Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
 It could not match the living rays 
 
 That fill'd that glance of thine. 
 
 As clouds from yonder sun receive 
 
 A deep and mellow dye, 
 Which scarce the shade of coming eve 
 
 Can banish from the sky, 
 Those smiles unto the moodiest mind 
 
 Their own pure joy impart ; 
 Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 
 
 That lightens o'er the heart. 
 
 THY DAYS ARE DONE. 
 
 Thy days are done, thy fame begun ; 
 
 Thy country's strains record 
 The triumphs of her chosen Son, 
 
 The slaughters of his sword ; 
 The deeds he did, the fields he won, 
 
 The freedom he restored ! 
 
 Though thou art fall'n, while we are fre© 
 Thou shalt not taste of death ! 
 
 The generous blood that flow'd from the * 
 Disdain' d to sink beneath : 
 
 Within our veins its currents be, 
 Thy spirit on our breath ! 
 
 Thy name, our charging hosts along, 
 
 Shall be the battle- word ! 
 Thy fall, the theme of choral song 
 
 From virgin voices pour'd ! 
 To weep would do thy glory wrong ; 
 
 Thou shalt not be deplored. 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST BATTLE. 
 
 Warriors and chiefs ! should the shaft or the sword 
 Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
 Heed not the corse, though a king's, in your path : 
 Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath ! 
 
 Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow, 
 Should the soldiers of Saul look away from the foe, 
 Stretch me that moment in blood at thy feet ! 
 Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet. 
 
 Farewell to others, but never we part, 
 Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
 Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
 Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day. 
 
 SAUL. 
 
 THOU whose spell can raise the dead, 
 
 Bid the prophet's form appear. 
 "Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
 
 King, behold the phantom seer ! n 
 
 Earth yawn'd : he stood the centre of a cloud : 
 
 Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud. 
 
 Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
 
 His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry ; 
 
 His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter' d there, 
 
 Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare ; 
 
 From lips that moved not, and unbreathing frame, 
 
 Like cavem'd winds, the hollow accents came. 
 
 Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
 
 At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 
 
 u Why is my sleep disquieted ?\ 
 Who is he that calls the dead ? 
 Is it thou, 0 King ? Behold, 
 Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
 Such are mine ; and such shall be 
 Thine to-morrow, when with me : 
 Ere the coming day is done, 
 Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
 Fare thee well, but for a day, 
 Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
 Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
 Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
 And the falchion by thy side 
 To thy heart thy hand shall guide : 
 Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
 Son and sire, the house of Saul." 
 
300 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER." 
 
 Fame, wisdom, love, and power were mine, 
 
 And health and youth possess'd me ; 
 My goblets blush'd from every vine, 
 
 And lovely forms caress'd me ; 
 I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes, 
 
 And felt my soul grow tender ; 
 All earth can give, or mortal prize, 
 
 Was mine of regal splendour. 
 
 I strive to number o'er what days 
 
 Remembrance can discover, 
 Which all that life or earth displays 
 
 Would lure me to live over. 
 There rose no day, there roll'd no hour 
 
 Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 
 And not a trapping deck'd my power, 
 
 That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 
 
 The serpent of the field, by art 
 
 And spells, is won from harming ; 
 But that which coils around the heart, 
 
 Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
 It will not list to wisdom's lore, 
 
 Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
 But there it stings for evermore 
 
 The soul that must endure it. 
 
 WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS SUFFERING CLAY 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay, 
 
 Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind ? 
 It cannot die, it cannot stray, 
 
 But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
 Then, unembodied, doth it trace 
 
 By steps each planet's heavenly way ? 
 Or fill at once the realms of space, 
 
 A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 
 
 Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 
 
 A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
 All, all in earth, or skies display'd, 
 
 Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
 Each fainter trace that memory holds 
 
 So darkly of departed years, 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 
 And all, that was, at once appears. 
 
 Before Creation peopled earth, 
 
 Its eye shall roll through chaos back ; 
 
 And where the furthest heaven had birth, 
 The spirit trace its rising track, 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 And where the future mars or makes, 
 
 Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
 While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 
 
 Fix'd in its own eternity. 
 
 Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 
 
 It lives all passionless and pure : 
 An age shall fleet like earthly year ; 
 
 Its years as moments shall endure. 
 Away, away, without a wing, 
 
 O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly j 
 A nameless and eternal thing. 
 
 Forgetting what it was to die. 
 
 VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 
 
 The King was on his throne, 
 
 The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
 A thousand bright lamps shone 
 
 O'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of gold, 
 
 In Judah deem'd divine — 
 Jehovah's vessels hold 
 
 The godless heathen's wine. 
 
 In that same hour and hall, 
 
 The fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, 
 
 And wrote as if on sand : 
 The fingers of a man ; — 
 
 A solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran, 
 
 And traced them like a wand. 
 
 The monarch saw, and shook, 
 
 And bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless wax'd his look, 
 
 And tremulous his voice. 
 ** Let the men of lore appear, 
 
 The wisest of the earth, 
 And expound the words of fear, 
 
 Which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 Chaldea's seers are good, 
 
 But here they have no skill ; 
 And the unknown letters stood 
 
 Untold and awful still. 
 And Babel's men of age 
 
 Are wise and deep in lore ; 
 But now they were not sage, 
 
 They saw — but knew no mora, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 A captive in the land, 
 
 A stranger and a youth, 
 He heard the king's command, 
 
 He saw that writing's truth. 
 The lamps around were bright, 
 
 The prophecy in view ; 
 He read it on that night, — 
 
 The morrow proved it true. 
 
 " Belshazzar's grave is made, 
 
 His kingdom pass'd away, 
 He, in the balance weigh' d, 
 
 Is light and worthless clay. 
 The shroud, his robe of state, 
 
 His canopy the stone : 
 The Mede is at his gate ! 
 
 The Persian on his throne 1" 
 
 SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS. 
 
 Sun of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 
 Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 
 That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel, 
 How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 
 So gleams the past, the light of other days, 
 Which shines, but warms not with its powerless rays 
 A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
 Distinct, but distant — clear — but oh, how cold ! 
 
 WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS THOU 
 DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 
 
 Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st it to be, 
 
 I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 
 
 It was but abjuring my creed to efface 
 
 The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of my race : 
 
 If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
 If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and free ! 
 If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 
 Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 
 
 I have lost for that faith more than thou canst bestow, 
 As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 
 In His hand is my heart and my hope — and in thine 
 The land and the life which for Him I resign. 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 303 
 
 HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE. 
 
 Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 
 
 The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding : 
 Revenge is lost in agony, 
 
 And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 
 Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 
 
 Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading. 
 Ah ! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 
 
 Though Heaven were to my prayer unheeding. 
 
 And is she dead ? — and did they dare 
 
 Obey my frenzy's jealous raving? 
 My wrath but doom'd my own despair : 
 
 The sword that smote her 's o'er me waving. — 
 But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 
 
 And this dark heart is vainly craving 
 For her who soars alone above, 
 
 And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 
 
 She's gone, who shared my diadem ; 
 
 She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
 I swept that flower from Judah's stem, 
 
 Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
 And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell, 
 
 This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
 And I have earn'd those tortures well, 
 
 Which unconsumed are still consuming ! 
 
 ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION OF 
 JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 
 
 From the last hill that looks on thy once holy dome 
 I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 
 'Twas thy last sun went down, and the flames of thy fall 
 Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy wall. 
 
 I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my home, 
 
 And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 
 
 I beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy fane, 
 
 And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance in vaiu. 
 
 On many an eve, the high spot whence I gazed 
 Had reflected the last beam of day as it blazed : 
 While I stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
 Of the rays from the mountain that shone on thy shrine. 
 
 And now on that mountain I stood on that day, 
 But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting away ; 
 Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
 And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head 1 
 
304 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But Ibe gods of the pagan shall never profane 
 The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to reign ; 
 And scatter' d and scorn'd as Thy people may be, 
 Our worship, oh Father, is only for Thee. 
 
 BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE SAT DOWN AND 
 
 WEPT. 
 
 We sate down and wept by the waters 
 
 Of Babel, and thought of the day 
 When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
 
 Made Salem's high places his prey • 
 And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
 
 Were scatter' d all weeping away. 
 
 While sadly we gazed on the river 
 
 Which roll'd on in freedom below, 
 They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
 
 That triumph the stranger shall know ! 
 May this right hand be wither 'd for ever, 
 
 Ero it string our high harp for the foe ! 
 
 On the willow that harp is suspended, 
 
 Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 
 And the hour when thy glories were ended 
 
 But left me that token of thee : 
 And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
 
 With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 
 
 k 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen : 
 Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay wither' d and strown. 
 
 For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd ; 
 And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still ! 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, 
 But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride * 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
 With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 
 
STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 305 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, un smote by the sword, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
 A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME. 
 
 FROM JOB. 
 
 A SPIRIT pass'd before me : I beheld 
 
 The face of immortality unveil' d — 
 
 Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — 
 
 And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : 
 
 Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake ; 
 
 And as my damp hair stiffen d, thus it spake : 
 
 " Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure 
 Than He who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
 Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! 
 The moth survives you, and are ye more just! 
 Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
 Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light !" 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 TllERE be none of Beauty's daughters 
 
 With a magic like thee ; 
 And like music on the waters 
 
 Is thy sweet voice to me : 
 When, as if its sound were causing 
 The charmbd ocean's pausing, 
 The waves lie still and gleaming, 
 And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 
 
 And the midnight moon is weaving 
 Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 
 
 Whose breast is gently heaving, 
 As an infant's asleep : 
 
 So the spirit bows before thee, 
 
 To listen and adore thee ; 
 
 With a full but soft emotion, 
 
 Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 
 
THE SIEGE (XF CORINTH.' 
 
 TO 
 
 JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., 
 
 THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY HIS 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 January 22, 1810 o 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 "The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under the Prime Vizier, to 
 open to themselves a way into the heart of the Morea, and to form the 
 siege of Napoli di Romania, the most considerable place in all that coun- 
 try,* thought it best, in the first place, to attack Corinth, upon which they 
 made several storms. The garrison being weakened, and the governor 
 seeing it was impossible to hold out against so mighty a force, thought it 
 fit to beat a parley : but while they were treating about the articles, one 
 of the magazines in the Turkish army, wherein they had six hundred 
 barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby six or seven hundred 
 men were killed ; which so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant 
 any capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury, that they took 
 it, and put most of the garrison, with Signior Minotti, the governor, to 
 the sword. The rest, with Antonio Bembo, proveditor extraordinary, were 
 made prisoners of war." — History of the Turks, vol. iii. p. 151. 
 
 * Napoli dl Romania is not now the most considerable place in the Morea, but 
 Tripolitza, where the Pacha resides, and maintains his government. Napoli is near 
 Aigos. I visited all tbree in 1810-11 ; and, in the course of journeying through the country 
 from my first arrival in 1809, 1 crossed the Isthmus eight times in my way from Attica to 
 the Morea, over the mountains, or in the other direction, when passing from the Gulf of 
 Athens to that of Lepanto. Both the routes are picturesque and beautiful, though very 
 different : that by sea has more sameness ; but the voyage being always within sight of 
 land, and often very near it, presents many attractive views of the islands Salami*, 
 0EgtM| Poro, Jfc\, an** the coast of the continent.— A . . . 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 
 
 ■ CI 
 
 I. 
 
 Many a vanish'd year and age, 
 
 And tempest's breath, and battle's rage, 
 
 Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands 
 
 A fortress form'd to Freedom's hands. 
 
 The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's shock 
 
 Have left untouch' d her hoary rock, 
 
 The keystone of a land, which still, 
 
 Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill, 
 
 The landmark to the double tide 
 
 That ; urpling rolls on either side, 
 
 As if their waters chafed to meet, 
 
 Yet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
 
 But could the blood before her shed 
 
 Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 
 
 Or baffled Persia's despot fled, 
 
 Arise from out the earth which drank 
 
 The stream of slaughter as it sank, 
 
 That sanguine ocean would o'erflow 
 
 Her isthmus idly spread below : 
 
 Or could the bones of all the slain, 
 
 Who perish'd there, be piled again, 
 
 That rival pyramid would rise 
 
 More mountain-like, through those clear skies, 
 
 Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 
 
 Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 
 
 n. 
 
 On dun Cithaeron's ridge appears 
 The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
 And downward to the Isthmian plain, 
 From shore to shore of either main, 
 The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
 Along the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
 And tho dusk Spahi's bands advance 
 Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
 And far and wide as eye can reach 
 The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
 And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
 And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
 The Turcoman hath left his herd,* 
 The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
 
 Tb« life or the Turcomans is wandering and patriarchal : they dwell In tents.' 
 
 x 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And there the volleying thunders pour, 
 Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
 The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
 Wings the far hissing globe of deatn ; 
 Fast whirl the fragments from the wall, 
 Which crumbles with the ponderous ball $ 
 And from that wall the foe replies, 
 O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
 With fires that answer fast and well 
 The summons of the Infidel. 
 
 III. 
 
 But near and nearest to the wall 
 Of those who wish and work its fall, 
 With deeper skill in war's black art 
 Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
 As any chief that ever stood 
 Triumphant in the fields of blood ; 
 From post to post, and deed to deed, 
 Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
 Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
 And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
 Or where the battery, guarded weil, 
 Remains as yet impregnable, 
 Alighting cheerly to inspire 
 The soldier slackening in his fire ; 
 The first and freshest of the host 
 Which Stamboul's sultan there can boast* 
 To guide the follower o'er the field, 
 To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
 Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
 Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 From Venice — once a race of worth 
 His gentle sires — he drew his birth ; 
 But late an exile from her shore, 
 Against his countrymen he bore 
 The arms they taught to bear ; and no^r 
 The turban girt his shaven brow. 
 Through many a change had Corinth pass 
 With Greece to Venice' rule at last ; 
 And here, before her walls, with those 
 To Greece and Venice equal foes, 
 He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
 Which young and fiery converts feel, 
 Within whose heated bosom throngs 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
 To him had Venice ceased to be 
 Her ancient civic boast — " the Free 
 And in the palace of St. Mark 
 Unnamed accusers in the dark 
 Within the " Lion's mouth " had placod 
 A charge against him uneffacetf : 
 
THE SIEGE OP CORINTH. 
 
 309 
 
 He fled in time, and saved his life, 
 To waste his future years in strife, 
 That taught his land how great her loss 
 In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross, 
 'Gainst which he rear'd the Crescent high, 
 And battled to avenge or dio, 
 
 v. 
 
 Coumourgi — he whose closing scene * 
 Adorn' d the triumph of Eugene, 
 When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
 The last and mightiest of the slain, 
 He sank, regretting not to die, 
 But cursed tbo Christian's victory — 
 Coumourgi — can his glory cease, 
 That latest conqueror of Greece, 
 Till Christian hands to Greece restore 
 The freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
 A hundred yearn liuve roll'd away 
 Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway, 
 And now he led the Mussulman, 
 And gave the guidance of the van 
 To Alp, who well repaid the trust 
 By cities levell'd with the dust ; 
 And proved, by many a deed of death, 
 How firm his heart in novel faith. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 
 
 Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 
 
 With unabating fury sent 
 
 From battery to battlement ; 
 
 And thunder-like the pealing din 
 
 Rose from each heated culverin ; 
 
 And here and there some crackling domo 
 
 Was fired before the exploding bomb : 
 
 And as the fabric sank beneath 
 
 The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 
 
 In red and wreathing columns flash' d 
 
 The name, as loud the ruin crash'd, 
 
 Or into countless meteors driven, 
 
 Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 
 
 Whoso clouds that day grew doubly dun, 
 
 Impervious to the hidden sun, 
 
 With volumed smoke that slowly grew 
 
 To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 
 
 • All Coumourgi, the favourite of three sultans, and Grand Vizier to Achmet III., aftev 
 recovering Peloponnesus from the Venetians in one campaign, was mortally wounded in 
 the next, against the Germans, at the battle of Peterwaradin (in the plain of Carlowiti), 
 In Hungary, endeavouring to rally his guards. lie died of his wounds next day. His la*t 
 order was the decapitation of General Breuner, and some other German prisoner* ; anrf 
 his last words, " Oh that I could thus serve all the Christian dogs I " a speech and act not 
 unlike one of Caligula. He was a young man of great ambition and unbounded pre- 
 sumption : ou being told that Prince Eugene, then opposed to him, " was a great general/ 
 he said, " I shall become a greater, and at his expense."— £ 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But not for vengeance, long delay'd, 
 Alone, did Alp, the renegade, 
 The Moslem warriors sternly teach 
 His skill to pierce the promised breach % 
 Within those* walls a maid was pent 
 His hope would win, without consent 
 Of that inexorable sire, 
 Whose heart refused him in its ire, 
 When Alp, beneath his Christian name. 
 Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 
 In happier mood, and earlier time., 
 While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 
 Gayest in gondola or hall, 
 He glitter' d through the Carnival ; 
 And tuned the softest serenade 
 That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 
 At midnight to Italian maid. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And many deem'd her heart was won; 
 For sought by numbers, given to none, 
 Had young Francesca's hand remain'd 
 Still by the church's bonds unchain'd : 
 And when the Adriatic bore 
 Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
 Her wonted smiles were seen to fail, 
 And pensive wax'd the maid and pale ; 
 More constant at confessional, 
 More rare at masque and festival ; 
 Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
 Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to pria& 
 With listless look she seems to gaze ; 
 With humbler care her form arrays ; 
 Her voice less lively in the song ; 
 Her step, though light, less fleet among 
 The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 
 Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sent by the state to guard the land, 
 (Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
 While Sobieski tamed his pride 
 By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
 The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
 From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 
 Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
 The Doge's delegated powers, 
 While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
 Smiled o'er her long-forgotten Greece : 
 And ere that faithless truce was broke 
 Which freed her from the unchristian yokfy 
 With him his gentle daughter came ; 
 Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
 
THE SIEGB OP OORINTH. 
 
 Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
 What woes await on lawless love, 
 Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
 Than she, the matchless stranger, bora. 
 
 X. 
 
 The wall is rent, the ruins yawn, 
 And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
 O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
 The foremost of the fierce assault. 
 The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
 Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
 The full of hope, misnamed "forlorn," 
 Who hold the thought of death in scorn, 
 And win their way with falchion's force, 
 Or pave the path with many a corse, 
 O'er which the following brave may rise, 
 Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 
 
 XI. 
 
 'Tis midnight : on the mountains brown 
 
 The cold round moon shines deeply down ; 
 
 Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
 
 Spreads like an ocean hung on high, 
 
 Bespangled with those isles of light, 
 
 So wildly, spiritually bright ; 
 
 Who ever gazed upon them shining, 
 
 And tum'd to earth without repining, 
 
 Nor wish'd for wings to flee away, 
 
 And mix with their eternal ray ? 
 
 The waves on either shore lay there, 
 
 Calm, clear, and azure as the air : 
 
 And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 
 
 But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 
 
 The winds were pillow'd on the waves ; 
 
 The banners droop'd along their staves, 
 
 And, as they fell around them furling, 
 
 Above them shone the crescent curling ; 
 
 And that deep silence was unbroke, 
 
 Save where the watch his signal spoke, 
 
 Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrill, 
 
 And echo answer'd from the hill, 
 
 And the wide hum of that wild host 
 
 Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 
 
 As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 
 
 In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 
 
 It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 
 
 Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain ; 
 
 'Twas musical, but sadly sweet, 
 
 Such as when winds and harp-strings uieso^ 
 
 And take a long unmeasured tone, 
 
 To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 
 
 It seem'd to those within the wall 
 
 A cry prophetic of their fall : 
 
BYRON'8 POEMS. 
 
 It struck even the besieger's ear 
 With something ominous and drear, 
 An undefined and sudden thrill, 
 Which makes the heart a moment still, 
 Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 
 Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 
 Such as a sudden passing-bell 
 Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 
 
 The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er 
 
 The watch was set, the night-round made, 
 
 All mandates issued and obey'd : 
 
 'Tis but another anxious night, 
 
 His pains the morrow may requite 
 
 With all revenge and love can pay, 
 
 In guerdon for their long delay. 
 
 Few hours remain, and he hath need 
 
 Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 
 
 Of slaughter ; but within his soul 
 
 The thoughts like troubled waters roll. 
 
 He stood alone among the host ; 
 
 Not his the loud fanatic boast 
 
 To plant the crescent o'er the cross, 
 
 Or risk a life with little loss, 
 
 Secure in Paradise to be 
 
 By Houris loved immortally : 
 
 Nor his, what burning patriots feel, 
 
 The stern exaltedness of zeal, 
 
 Profuse of blood, untired in toil, 
 
 When battling on the parent soil. 
 
 He stood alone — a renegade 
 
 Against the country he betray'd ; 
 
 He stood alone amidst his band, 
 
 Without a trusted heart or hand : 
 
 They follow'd him, for he was brave, 
 
 And great the spoil he got and gave ; 
 
 They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 
 
 To warp and wield the vulgar will : 
 
 But still his Christian origin 
 
 With them was little less than sin. 
 
 They envied even the faithless fame 
 
 He earn'd beneath a Moslem same ; 
 
 Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 
 
 In youth a bitter Nazarene. 
 
 ?They did not know how pride can stoop 
 
 When baffled feelings withering droop ; 
 
 They did not know how hate can bum 
 
 In hearts once changed from soft to stem g 
 
 Nor all the false and fatal zeal 
 
 The convert of revenge can feel. 
 
 He ruled them — man may rule the 
 
 By ever daring to be first ; 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 So lions o'er the jackal sway ; 
 The jackal points, he fells the prey, 
 Then on the vulgar yelling press, 
 To gorge the relics of success. 
 
 xin. 
 
 His head grows fever'd, and his pulse 
 The quick successive throbs convulse ; 
 In vain from side to side he throws 
 His form, in courtship of repose ; 
 Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 
 Awoke him with a sunken heart. 
 The turban on his hot brow press'd, 
 The mail weigh'd lead-like on his breast, 
 Though oft and long beneath its weight 
 Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 
 Without or couch or canopy, 
 Except a rougher field and sky 
 Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 
 Than now along the heaven was spread 
 He could not rest, he could not stay 
 Within his tent to wait for day, 
 But walk'd him forth along the sand, 
 Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand. 
 What pillow'd them ? and why should he 
 More wakeful than the humblest be ? 
 Since more their peril, worse their toil, 
 And yet they fearlesa dream of spoil ; 
 While he alone, where thousands pass'd 
 A night of sleep, perchance their last, 
 In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
 And envied all he gazed upon. 
 
 xrv. 
 
 He felt his soul become more light 
 Beneath the freshness of the night. 
 Cool was the silent sky, though calm, 
 And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
 Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
 In many a winding creek and bay, 
 Lepanto's gulf ; and, on the brow 
 Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
 High and eternal, such as shone 
 Through thousand summers brightly gone^ 
 Along the gulf, the mount, the clime ; 
 It will not melt, like man, to time : 
 Tyrant and slave are »wept away, 
 Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
 But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
 Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
 While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
 Shines o'er its craggy battlement ; 
 In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
 Iu texture like a hovering shroud. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
 As from her fond abode she fled, 
 And linger'd on the spot, where long 
 Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
 Oh ! still her step at moments falters 
 O'er wither' d fields and ruin'd altars, 
 And fain would wake, in souls too brok«a, 
 By pointing to each glorious token. 
 But vain her voice, till better days 
 Dawn in those yet remember'd rays, 
 Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
 And saw the Spartan smile in dying. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Not mindless of these mighty times 
 Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
 And through this night, as on he wander*d, 
 And o'er the past and present ponder'd, 
 And thought upon the glorious dead 
 Who there in better cause had bled, 
 He felt how faint and feebly dim 
 The fame that could accrue to him, 
 Who cheer'd the band, and waved the swor^ 
 A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
 And led them to the lawless siege, 
 Whose best success were sacrilege. 
 Not so had those his fancy numbered, 
 The chiefs whose dust around him slumber's! g 
 Their phalanx marshall'd on the plain, 
 Whose bulwarks were not then in vain. 
 They fell devoted, but undying ; 
 The very gale their names seem'd sighing : 
 The waters murmur' d of their name ; 
 The woods were peopled with their fame ; 
 The silent pillar, lone and gray, 
 Claim' d kindred with their sacred clay ; 
 Their spirits wrapt the dusky mountain, 
 'Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
 The meanest rill, the mightiest river, 
 Roll'd mingling with their fame for ever. 
 Despite of every yoke she bears, 
 That land is glory's still, and theirs ! 
 'Tis still a watch- word to the earth : 
 When man would do a deed of worth, 
 He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
 So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head : 
 He looks to her, and rushes on 
 Where life is lost, or freedom won. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 
 And woo'd the freshness night diffused, 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 315 
 
 There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,* 
 
 Which changeless rolls eternally ; 
 
 So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood, 
 
 Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood ; 
 
 And the powerless moon beholds them flow, 
 
 Heedless if she come or go : 
 
 Calm or high, in main or bay, 
 
 On their course she hath no sway. 
 
 The rock unworn its base doth bare, 
 
 And looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there ; 
 
 And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
 
 On. the line that it left long ages ago : 
 
 A smooth short space of yellow sand 
 
 Between it and the greener land. 
 
 He wandered on, along the beach, 
 
 Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
 
 Of the leaguer' d wall ; but they saw him not, 
 
 Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 
 
 Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold ? 
 
 Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts wax'd cold ? 
 
 I know not in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
 
 There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
 
 Though he stood beneath the bastion's frown, 
 
 That flank'd the sea-ward gate of the town ; 
 
 Though he heard the sound, and could almost tell 
 
 The sullen words of the sentinel, 
 
 As his measured step on the stone below 
 
 Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
 
 And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
 
 Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 
 
 Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb ; 
 
 They were too busy to bark at him ! 
 
 From a Tartar's skull they had stripp'd the flesh, 
 
 As ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
 
 And their white tusks crunch'd o'er the whiter skull, t 
 
 As it slipp'd through their jaws, when their edge grew dull, 
 
 As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
 
 When they scarce could rise from the spot where they fed ; 
 
 So well had they broken a lingering fast 
 
 With those who had fall'n for that night's repast. 
 
 And Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the sand, 
 
 The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
 
 Crimson and green were the shawls of their wear, 
 
 And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, $ 
 
 All the rest were shaven and bare. 
 
 * The reader need hardly be reminded that there are no perceptible tides in the 
 Mediterranean. — B. 
 
 f This spectacle I have seen, such as described, beneath the wall of the Seraglio at 
 Constantinople, in the little cavities worn by the Bosphorus in the rock, a narrow terrace 
 of which projects between the wall and the water. I think the fact is also mentioned in 
 Hob home's Travels. The bodies were probably those of some refractory Janizaries. — B. 
 
 X This tuft, or long lock, Is left, from a superstition that Mahomet will draw them into 
 Paradise by it,— IS. 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
 
 The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
 
 But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 
 
 There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
 
 Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
 
 Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
 
 But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
 
 Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : ' 
 
 Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
 
 But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
 
 Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
 
 Scorch 'd with the death-thrist, and writhing in vain, 
 
 Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
 
 There is something of pride in the perilous hour, 
 
 Whate'er be the shape in which death may lower ; 
 
 For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
 
 And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 
 
 But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
 
 O'er the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
 
 And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the air, 
 
 Beasts of the forest, all gathering there ; 
 
 All regarding man as their prey, 
 
 All rejoicing in his decay. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 There is a temple in ruin stands, 
 
 Fashion' d by long-forgotten hands ; 
 
 Two or three columns, and many a stone, 
 
 Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 
 
 Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 
 
 Of the things to come than the things before ? 
 
 Out upon time ! who for ever will leave 
 
 But enough of the past for the future to grieve 
 
 O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must ba 
 
 What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 
 
 Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
 
 Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay ! 
 
 XIX. 
 
 He sate him down at a pillar's base, 
 And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 
 Like one in dreary musing mood, 
 Declining was his attitude ; 
 His head was drooping on his breast, 
 Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress' d ; 
 And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 
 Oft his beating fingers went, 
 Hurriedly, as you may see 
 Your own run over the ivory key, 
 Ere the measured tone is taken 
 By the chords you would awaken. 
 
TITE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 317 
 
 There he sate all heavily, 
 
 As he heard the night-wind sigh. 
 
 Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,* 
 
 Sent that soft and tender moan '( 
 
 Ho lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 
 
 But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 
 
 He look'd on the long grass — it waved not a blade ; 
 
 How was that gentle sound convey'd ? 
 
 He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 
 
 So did the leaves on Cithaeron's hill, 
 
 And he felt not a breath come over his cheek ; 
 
 What did that sudden sound bespeak ? 
 
 He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight ? 
 
 There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 
 
 XX. 
 
 He started up with moro of fear 
 
 Than if an armed foo were near. 
 
 " God of my fathers ! what is here ? 
 
 Who art thou, and wherefore sent 
 
 So near a hostile armament ? " 
 
 His trembling hands refused to sign 
 
 The cross he deem'd no more divine : 
 
 He had resumed it in that hour, 
 
 But conscience wrung away the power. 
 
 He gazed — he saw : he knew the face 
 
 Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 
 
 It was Francesca by his side, 
 
 The maid who might have been his bride ! 
 
 The rose was yet upon her cheek, 
 
 But mcllow'd with a tenderer streak : 
 
 Where was the play of her soft lips fled ? 
 
 ( J one was the smile that enliven' a their red. 
 
 The ocean's calm within their view, 
 
 Beside her eye had less of blue ; 
 
 But like that cold wave it stood still, 
 
 And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
 
 Around her form a thin robe twining, 
 
 Nought conceal' d her bosom shining ; 
 
 Through the parting of her hair, 
 
 Floating darkly downward there, 
 
 Her rounded arm show'd white and bare : 
 
 And ere yet she made reply, 
 
 Once she raised her hand on high ; 
 
 It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 
 
 You might have seen the moon shine through, 
 
 * I must, here acknowledge a close, though unintentional, resemblance In these twelve 
 lines to a passage in an unpublished poem of Mr. Coleridge, called " Christabel." It wan 
 not till after these lines were written that I heard that wild and singularly original and 
 beautiful poem recited ; and the MS. of that production I never Baw till very recently, by 
 the kindness of Mr. Coleridge himself, who, I hope, is convinced that I have not been a 
 wilful plagiarist. The original idea undoubtedly pertains to Mr. Coleridge, whose poem 
 has been composed above fourteen years. Let me conclude by a hope that h* will not 
 longer delay the publication of a production, of which I can only add my mite of appro* 
 bation to the applause of far more competent Judges.— Ji. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " I come from my rest to him I love best, 
 
 That I may be happy, and he may be blest. 
 
 I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 
 
 Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 
 
 ,r Tis said the Hon will turn and flee 
 
 From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 
 
 And the Power on high, that can shield the good 
 
 Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 
 
 Hath extended its mercy to guard me as woll 
 
 From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 
 
 I come — and if I come in vain, 
 
 Never, oh never, we meet again ! 
 
 Thou hast done a fearful deed 
 
 In falling away from thy father's creed : 
 
 But dash that turban to earth, and sign 
 
 The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine ; 
 
 Wring the black drop from thy heart, 
 
 And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 
 
 u And where should our bridal couch be spread ? 
 
 In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 
 
 For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
 
 The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
 
 None, save thou and thine, I've sworn, 
 
 Shall be left upon the morn : 
 
 But thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
 
 Where our hands shall be join'd, and our sorrow forgofco 
 
 There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
 
 When once again I've quell' d the pride 
 
 Of Venice ; and her hated race 
 
 Have felt the arm they would debase, 
 
 Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
 
 Whom vice and envy made my foes." 
 
 Upon his hand she laid her own — 
 
 Light was the touch, but it thrill'd to the bone, 
 
 And shot a chillness to his heart, 
 
 Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 
 
 Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 
 
 He could not loose him from its hold ; 
 
 But never did clasp of one so dear 
 
 Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 
 
 As those thin fingers, long and white, 
 
 Froze through his blood by their touch that night, 
 
 The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 
 
 And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 
 
 As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, 
 
 So deeply changed from what he knew : 
 
 Fair but faint— without the ray 
 
 Of mind, that made each feature play 
 
 Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 
 
 And her motionless lips lay still as death, 
 
 And her words came forth without her breath, 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 319 
 
 And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's swell. 
 
 And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to dwell. 
 
 Though her eye shone out, yet the lids were fix'd, 
 
 And the glance that it gave was wild and unmix' d 
 
 With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
 
 Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream ; 
 
 like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
 
 Stirr'd by the breath of the wintry air, 
 
 So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 
 
 Lifeless, but life-like, and awful to sight ; 
 
 As they seem, through the dimness, about to come do w* 
 
 From the shadowy wall where their images frown ; 
 
 Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
 
 As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 
 
 u If not for love of me be given 
 Thus much, then, for the love of heaven,-' 
 Again I say — that turban tear 
 From off thy faithless brow, and swear 
 Thine injured country's sons to 6pare, 
 Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see — 
 Not eartfc. — that's past — but heaven or me. 
 If this thou dost accord, albeit 
 A heavy doom 'tis thine to meet, 
 That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 
 And mercy's gate may receive thee within : 
 But pause one moment more, and take 
 The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
 And look once more to heaven, and see 
 Its love for ever shut from thee. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon* — 
 'Tis passing, and will pass mil soon — 
 
 Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, 
 Thy heart within thee is not changed, 
 Then God and man are both avenged ; 
 Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
 Thine immortality of ill." 
 
 Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on high 
 
 The sign she spake of in the sky ; 
 
 But his heart was swoll'n, and turn'd aside, 
 
 By deep interminable pride. 
 
 This first false passion of his breast 
 
 Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest. 
 
 He sue for mercy ! He dismay'd 
 
 By wild words of a timid maid ! 
 
 • I have been told that the idea expressed from Hues 508 to 603 has been admired by 
 those whose approbation is valuable. I am glad of it : but it is not original— at least not 
 mine ; it may be found much better expressed in pages 182, 183, 184 of the English version 
 of "Vathek" (I forget the precise page of the French), a work to which I have before 
 referred ; and nevei recur to, or read, without a renewal of gratification. — B. 
 
 There is, likewise, something like the same idea, and bearing a comparison with both 
 la " Corinne." 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 "' " \ ' , 
 
 He, wrong' d by Venice, vow to save 
 
 Her sons, devoted to the grave ! 
 
 No — though that cloud were thunder's worst* 
 
 And charged to crush him — let it burst 1 
 
 He look'd upon it earnestly, 
 
 Without an accent of reply ; 
 
 He watch' d it passing ; it is flown : 
 
 Full on his eye the clear moon shone, 
 
 And thus he spake : — " Whate'er my fate, 
 
 I am no changeling — 'tis too late : 
 
 The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 
 
 Then rise again ; the tree must shiver. 
 
 What Venice made me, I must be. 
 
 Her foe in all, save love to thee : 
 
 But thou art safe : oh, fly with me !" 
 
 He turn'd, but she is gone ! 
 
 Nothing is there but the column stone. 
 
 Hath she sunk in the earth, or melted in air ? 
 
 He saw not — he knew not ; but nothing is therr. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The night is past, and shines the sun, 
 
 As if that morn were a jocund one. 
 
 Lightly and brightly breaks away 
 
 The Morning from her mantle gray, 
 
 And the Noon will look on a sultry day. 
 
 Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
 
 And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn, 
 
 And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne, 
 
 And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's hum, 
 
 And the clash, and the shout, " They come, they come ! w 
 
 The horsetails are pluck' d from the ground, and the sword * 
 
 From its sheath ; and they form, and but wait for the word. 
 
 Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
 
 Strike your tents, and throng to the van ! 
 
 Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain, 
 
 That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
 
 When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
 
 ^.ged or young, in the Christian shape ; 
 iVhile your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
 tloodstain the breach through which they pass. 
 
 f he steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
 
 Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
 
 White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
 
 The spears are uplifted ; the matches are lit ; 
 
 The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
 
 And crush the wall they have crumbled before : 
 
 Forms in his phalanx each Janizar ; 
 
 Alp at their head ; his right arm is baie, 
 
 So is the blade of his scimitar ; 
 
 * The horsetail, fixed upon a lance, a Pacha's standard.— B, 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 The khan and the pachas are all at their post ; 
 
 The vizier himself at the head of the host. 
 
 When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 
 
 Leave not in Corinth a living one — 
 
 A. priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 
 
 A. hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls. 
 
 God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 
 
 Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 
 
 " There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale ; 
 And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail 1 
 He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
 His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it and have ! n 
 
 Thus utter'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier ; 
 The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear, 
 And the shout of fierce thousands in joyous ire 
 Silence — hark to the signal — fire ! 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 As the wolves, that headlong go 
 
 On the stately buffalo, 
 
 Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 
 
 And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 
 
 He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 
 
 The foremost, who rush on his strength but to di« ; 
 
 Thus against the wall they went, 
 
 Thus the first were backward bent ; 
 
 Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
 
 Strew' d the earth like broken glass, 
 
 Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 
 
 The ground whereon they moved no more : 
 
 Even as they fell, in files they lay, 
 
 Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
 
 When his work is done on the levell'd plain ; 
 
 Such was the fall of the foremost slain. 
 
 xxrv. 
 
 As the spring- tides, with heavy splash, 
 
 From the cliffs invading dash 
 
 Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flow, 
 
 Till white and thundering down they go, 
 
 Like the avalanche's snow 
 
 On the Alpine vales below ; 
 
 Thus at length, outbreathed and worn, 
 
 Corinth's sons were downward borne 
 
 By the long and oft-renew'd 
 
 Charge of the Moslem multitude. 
 
 In firmness they stood, and in masses they fell, 
 
 Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 
 
 Hand to hand, and foot to foot : 
 
 Nothing there, save death, was mute ; 
 
 Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 
 
 For quarter, or for victory, 
 
«YRON*S POEMS. 
 
 Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 
 
 Which makes the distant cities wonder 
 
 How the sounding battle goes, 
 
 If with them, or for their foes ; 
 
 If they must mourn, or may rejoice 
 
 In that annihilating voice, 
 
 Which pierces the deep hills through and through 
 
 With an echo dread and new : 
 
 You might have heard it, on that day, 
 
 O'er Salamis and Megara ; 
 
 (We have heard the hearers say.) 
 
 feven unto Pirsus bay. ™ 
 
 XXV. 
 
 From the point of encountering blades to the hiSfc^ 
 
 Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 
 
 But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 
 
 And all but the after-carnage done. 
 
 Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
 
 From within the plunder' d dome : 
 
 Hark to the haste of flying feet, 
 
 That splash in the blood of the slippery street ; 
 
 But here and there, where 'vantage-ground 
 
 Against the foe may still be found, 
 
 Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
 
 Make a pause, and turn again — 
 
 With banded backs against the wall, 
 
 Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 
 
 There stood an old man — his hairs were whit% 
 
 But his veteran arm was full of might : 
 
 So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
 
 The dead before him, on that day, 
 
 In a semicircle lay ; 
 
 Still he combated unwounded, 
 
 Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
 
 Many a scar of former fight 
 
 Lurk'd beneath his corselet bright ; 
 
 But of every wound his body bore, 
 
 Each and all had been ta'en before : 
 
 Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
 
 Few of our youth could cope with him ; 
 
 And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay c 
 
 Outnumber'd Msddtrin hairs of silver gray. 
 
 From right to left his sabre swept : 
 
 Many an Othman mother wept 
 
 Sons that were unborn, when dipp'd 
 
 His weapon first in Moslem gore, 
 
 Ere his years could count a score. 
 
 Of all he might have been the sir# 
 
 Who fell that day beneath his ire : 
 
 For, sonless left long years ago, 
 
 His wrath made many a childless f o» ! 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 And since the day, when in the strait* 
 
 His only boy had met his fate, 
 
 His parent's iron hand did doom 
 
 More than a human hecatomb. 
 
 If shades by carnage be appeased, 
 
 Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 
 
 Than his, Minotti's son, who died 
 
 Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 
 
 Buried he lay, where thousands before 
 
 For thousands of years were inhumed on the shore ■ 
 
 What of them is left, to tell 
 
 Where they He, and how they fell ? 
 
 Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their grave* , 
 
 But they live in the verse that immortal l} r saves. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Hark to the Allah shout ! a band 
 
 Of the Mussulman bravest and best is at hand : 
 
 Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 
 
 Swifter to smite, and never to spare — 
 
 Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them on ; 
 
 Thus in the fight is he ever known : 
 
 Others a gaudier garb may show, 
 
 To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 
 
 Many a hand 's on a richer hilt, 
 
 But none on a steel more ruddily gilt ; 
 
 Many a loftier turban may wear, — # 
 
 Alp is but known by the white arm bare ; 
 
 Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis there ! 
 
 There is not a standard on that shore 
 
 So well advanced the ranks before ; 
 
 There is not a banner in Moslem war 
 
 Will lure the Delis half so far ; 
 
 It glances like a falling star ! 
 
 Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 
 
 The bravest be, or late have been ; 
 
 There the craven cries for quarter 
 
 Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 
 
 Or the hero, silent lying, 
 
 Scorns to yield a groan in dying J 
 
 Mustering his last feeble blow 
 
 'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe 
 
 Though faint beneath the mutual wound; 
 
 Grappling on the gory ground. 
 
 { 
 
 \ XXVII. 
 
 Still the old man stood erect, 
 
 And Alp's career a moment check'd. 
 
 u Yield thee, Minotti ; quarter take, 
 For thine own, thy daughter's sake." 
 
 r In the naval battle at the mouth of the Dardanelles, between the Venetian* and 1N# 
 fork*.— M, 
 
 Y 2 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 (< Never, renegado, never ! 
 
 Though the life of thy gift would last for ever." 
 
 " Franeesca ! — Oh, my promised bride ! 
 Must she too perish by thy pride ? " 
 
 " She is safe."—" Where ? where ? " In hexrm 
 
 From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
 
 Far from thee, and undefiled." 
 
 Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
 
 As he saw Alp staggering bow 
 
 Before his words, as with a blow. 
 
 " Oh God ! when died she?"— "Yesternight— 
 Nor weep I for her spirit's flight : 
 None of my pure race shall be 
 Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 
 Come on ! " — That challenge is in vain- 
 Alp 's already with the slain ! 
 While Minotti' s words were wreaking 
 More revenge in bitter speaking 
 Than his falchion's point had found, 
 Had the time allow 'd to wound, 
 From within the neighbouring porch 
 Of a long-defended church, 
 Where the last and desperate few 
 Would the failing fight renew, 
 The sharp shot dash'd Alp to the ground ; 
 Ere an eye could view the wound 
 That crash'd through the brain of the infidgjp 
 Round he spun, and down he fell ; 
 A flash like fire within his eyes 
 Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 
 And then eternal darkness sunk 
 Through all the palpitating trunk ; 
 Nought of life left, save a quivering 
 Where his limbs were slightly shivering : 
 They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 
 And brow were stain'd with gore and dus^ 
 And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 
 From its deep veins lately loosed ; 
 But in his pulse there was no throb, 
 Nor on his lips one dying sob ; 
 Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 
 Heralded his way to death : 
 Ere his very thought could pray, 
 Unaneled he pass'd away, 
 Without a hope from mercy's aid,—- 
 To the last — a Renegade. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Fearfully the yell arose 
 Of his followers, and his foes ; 
 These in joy, in fury those : 
 Then again in conflict mixing-, 
 
THE SIEGE OP CORINTH. 
 
 Clashing swords, and spears transfixing, 
 Interchanged the blow and thrust, 
 Hurling warriors in the dust. 
 Street by street, and foot by foot, 
 Still Minotti dares dispute 
 The latest portion of the land 
 Left beneath his high command ; 
 With him, aiding heart and hand, 
 The remnant of his gallant band. 
 
 Still the church is tenable, 
 Whence issued late the fated ball 
 That half avenged the city's fall, 
 
 When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell : 
 Thither bending sternly back, 
 They leave before a bloody track ; 
 And, with their faces to the foe, 
 Dealing wounds with every blow, 
 The chief, and his retreating train, 
 Join to those within the fane ; 
 There they yet may breathe awhile, 
 Shelter' d by the massy pile. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Brief breathing-time ! the turban'd host, 
 
 With added ranks and raging boast, 
 
 Press onwards with such strength and heat, 
 
 Their numbers balk their own retreat ; 
 
 For narrow the way that led to the spot 
 
 Where still the Christians yielded not ; 
 
 And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try, 
 
 Through the massy column to turn and. fly ; 
 
 They perforce must do or die. 
 
 They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 
 
 Avengers o'er their bodies rose ; 
 
 Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
 
 The ranks unthinn'd though slaughter'd etili 
 
 And faint the weary Christians wax 
 
 Before the still renews attacks : 
 
 And now the Othmans gain the gate ; 
 
 Still resists its iron weight, 
 
 And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 
 
 From every crevice comes the shot ; 
 
 From every shatter' d window pour 
 
 The volleys of the sulphurous shower 
 
 But the portal wavering grows and weak " 
 
 The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
 
 It bends — it falls — and all is o'er ; 
 
 Lost Corinth may resist no more ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Darkly, sternly, and all alone, 
 Minotti stood o'er the altar stone : 
 Madonna's face upon him shone, 
 Painted in heavenly hues above, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 With eyes of light and looks of love ; 
 And placed upon that holy shrine 
 To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
 When pictured there, we kneeling so© 
 Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
 Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
 To heaven, as if to waft it there. 
 Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 
 Though slaughter streams along her aisles : 
 Minotti lifted his aged eye, 
 And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
 Then seized a torch which blazed thereby ; 
 And still he stood, while, with steel and flam^ 
 Inward and onward the Mussulman came. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The vaults beneath the mosaic stone 
 
 Contain'd the dead of ages gone ; 
 
 Their names were on the graven floor, 
 
 But now illegible with gore ; 
 
 The carved crests, and curious hues 
 
 The varied marble's veins difluse, 
 
 Were smear' d, and slippery — stain'd, and strowa 
 
 With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 
 
 There were dead above, and the dead below 
 
 Lay cold in many a comn'd row ; 
 
 You might see them piled in sable state, 
 
 By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 
 
 But War had enter'd their dark caves, 
 
 And stored along the vaulted graves 
 
 Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
 
 In masses by the fleshless dead : 
 
 Here, throughout the siege, had been 
 
 The Christian's chiefest magazine ; 
 
 To these a late-form' d train now led, 
 
 Minotti's last and stern resource, 
 
 Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 The foe came on, and few remain 
 To strive, and those must strive in vain : 
 For lack of furtiii0S , lives, to slake 
 The thirst of vengeance now awake, 
 With barbarous blows they gash the dead^ 
 And lop the already lifeless head, 
 And fell the statues from their niche, 
 And spoil'the shrines of offerings rich, 
 And from each other's rude hands wreak 
 The silver vessels saints had bless' d. 
 To the high altar on they go ; 
 Oh, but it made a glorious show ! 
 On its table still behold 
 The cup of consecrated golH • 
 
THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 
 
 Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 
 
 Brightly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes : 
 
 That morn it held the holy wine, 
 
 Converted by Christ to His blood so divine, 
 
 Which His worshippers drank at the break of day,, 
 
 To shrive their souls ere they join'd in the fray, 
 
 Still a few drops within it lay ; 
 
 And round the sacred table glow 
 
 Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
 
 From the purest metal cast ; 
 
 A spoil — the richest, and the last. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 So near they came, the nearest stretch' d 
 To grasp the spoil he almost reach' d, 
 
 When old Minotti's hand 
 Touch'd with a torch the train — 
 
 'Tis fired ! 
 
 Spire, vaults, and shrine, the spoil, the slain* 
 
 The turban* d victors, the Christian band, 
 All that of living or dead remain, 
 Hurl'd on high with the shiver'd fane, 
 
 In one wild roar expired ! 
 The shattered town, the walls thrown down — 
 The waves a moment backward bent — 
 The hills that shake, although unrent, 
 
 As if an earthquake pass'd — 
 The thousand shapeless things all driven 
 In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 
 
 By that tremendous blast — 
 Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
 On that too long afflicted shore : 
 Up to the sky like rockets go 
 All that mingled there below : 
 Many a tall and goodly man, 
 Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
 When he fell to earth again 
 Like a cinder strew* d the plain : 
 Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
 Some fell in the gulf, which received the sprinkles 
 With a thousand circling wrinkles ; 
 Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
 Scatter 'd o'er the isthmus lay ; 
 Christian or Moslem, which be they I 
 Let their mothers see and say ! 
 When in cradled rest they lay, 
 And each nursing mother smiled 
 On the sweet sleep of her child, 
 Little deem'd she such a day 
 Would rend those tender limbs away. 
 Not the matrons that them bore 
 Could discern their offspring more } 
 That one moment left no trace 
 More of human form or face 
 
823 
 
 BYRON'S POEUSo 
 
 Save a scattered scalp or bone : 
 And down came blazing rafters, strcwR 
 Around, and many a falling stone, 
 Deeply dinted in the clay, 
 All blacken' d there and reeking lay. 
 All the living things that heard 
 That deadly earth-shock disappear'd : 
 The wild birds flew ; th* wild dogs fled, 
 And howling left the unburied dead ; 
 The camels from their keepers broke ; 
 The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
 The nearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
 And burst his girth, and tore his rein ; 
 The bull-frog's note, from out the marsh, 
 Deep-mouth' d arose, and doubly harsh ; 
 The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
 Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
 The jackal's troop, in gathered cry,* 
 Bay'd from afar complainingly, 
 With a mix'd and mournful sound, 
 Like crying babe, and beaten hound : 
 With sudden wing, and ruffled breast, 
 The eagle left his rocky nest, 
 And mounted nearer to the sun, 
 The clouds beneath him seem'd so dua ; 
 Their smoke assail' d his startled beak, 
 And made him higher soar and shriek- 
 Thus was Corinth lost and won 1 
 
 " O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
 Ducentiuin ortus ex animo : quater 
 Felix ! in imo qui scatenttm 
 Fectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 
 
 Cray's Potmata, 
 
 There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, 
 When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay 
 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades s* 
 
 But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. 
 
 Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness 
 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : 
 The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain 
 The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. 
 
 * I believe I have taken a poetical license to transplant the jackal from Asia. In 
 Ckeece I never saw nor heard these animals ; but among the ruins oi Epbesus 1 have heard 
 them b;jr hundreds. They haunt ruins, and follow armies.— &» 
 
 STANZAS FOE MUSIC. 
 
 fast, 
 
STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 329 
 
 Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself cornea 
 down ; 
 
 It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own ; 
 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
 And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. 
 
 Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the 
 breast, 
 
 Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hopo 
 of rest ; 
 
 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreath, 
 
 All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. 
 
 Oh ! could I feel as I have felt, or bo what I have beon, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanish'd scene ; 
 As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though 
 they be, 
 
 So midst the- wither' d waste of life, thoso tears would flow to mfe, 
 
PAEISINA* 
 
 TO 
 
 SCROPE BERDMORE DAVIES, ESQ., 
 
 THE FOLLOWING POEM IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY ONE WHO HAS LONG ADMIRED HIS TALENTS AND VALUBD HIS 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following: poem is grounded on a circumstance mentioned In 
 Gibbon's " Antiquities of the House of Brunswick." I am aware, that in 
 modern times the delicacy or fastidiousness of the reader may deem such 
 subjects unfit for the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramatists, and some 
 of the best of our old English writers, were of a different opinion: as Alfieri 
 and Schiller have also been, more recently, upon the Continent. The 
 following: extract will explain the fact* on which the story is founded. The 
 name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, as more metrical. 
 
 " Under the reign of Nicholas III., Ferrara was polluted with a domestic 
 tragedy. By the testimony of an attendant, and his own observation, the 
 Marquis of Este discovered the incestuous loves of his wife Farisma, and 
 Hugo his bastard son ; a beautiful ana vauant youth. They were beheaded 
 in the castle by the sentence of a father and husband, who published his 
 shame, and survived their execution. He was unfortunate, if they were 
 guilty ; if they were innocent, he was still more unfortunate ; nor is there 
 any possible situation in which I can sincerely approve the last act of the 
 justice of a parent." — Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470. 
 
 * The facta on which tne prevent poem was grounded axe to he round in Piixzi'e " History 
 of Ferrara." 
 
PAKISINA, 
 
 I. 
 
 It is the hour when from the boughs 
 
 The nightingale's high note is heard ; 
 It is the hour when lovers' vows 
 
 Seem sweet in every whisper' d word ; 
 And gentle winds, and waters near, 
 Make music to the lonely ear. 
 Kach flower the dews have lightly wet, 
 And in the sky the stars are met, 
 And on the wave is deeper blue, 
 And on the leaf a browner hue, 
 And in the heaven that clear obscure, 
 So softly dark, and darkly pure, 
 Which follows the decline of day, 
 As twilight melts beneath the moon away. 
 
 n. 
 
 But it is not to list to the waterfall 
 
 That Parisina leaves her hall, 
 
 And it is not to gaze on the heavenly light, 
 
 That the lady walks in the shadow of night ; 
 
 And if she sits in Este's bower, 
 
 Tis not for the sake of its full-blown flower — 
 
 She listens — but not for the nightingale — 
 
 Though her ear expects as soft a tale. 
 
 There glides a step through the foliage thick, 
 
 And her cheek grows pale — and her heart beats quick* 
 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling leaven, 
 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves : 
 
 A moment more — and they shall meet — 
 
 'Tis past — her lover 's at her feet. 
 
 m. 
 
 And what unto them is the world beside, 
 With all its change of time and tide ? 
 Its living things — its earth and sky — ■ 
 Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
 And heedless as the dead are they 
 
 Of aught around, above, beneath. 
 As if all else had pass'd away, 
 
 They only for each other breathe $ 
 
BYRON'S F0EM3. 
 
 Their very sighs are full of joy 
 
 So deep, that did it not decay, 
 That happy madness would destroy 
 
 The hearts which feel its fiery sway : 
 Of guilt, of peril, do they deem 
 In that tumultuous tender dream ? 
 Who that have felt that passion's power, 
 Or paused, or fear'd, in such an hour ? 
 Or thought how brief such moments last ? 
 But yet — they are already past. 
 Alas ! we must awake before 
 We know such vision comes no more. 
 
 TV. 
 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 
 The spot of guilty gladness past ; 
 And though they hope, and vow. they grieve 
 
 As if that parting were the last. 
 The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 
 
 The lip that there would cling for ever, 
 While gleams on Parisina's face 
 
 The Heaven she fears will not forgive hsr. 
 As if each calmly conscious star 
 Beheld her frailty from afar — 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
 Yet binds them to their trysting-place. 
 But it must come, and they must part 
 In fearful heaviness of heart, 
 With all the deep and shuddering chill 
 Which follows fast the deeds of ill. 
 
 v. 
 
 An I Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 
 
 To covet there another's bride ; 
 But she must lay her conscious head 
 
 A husband's trusting heart beside. 
 But fever'd in her sleep she seems, 
 And red her cheek with troubled dreams^ 
 
 And mutters she in her unrest 
 A name she dare not breathe by day, 
 
 And clasps her lord unto the breast 
 Which pants for one away : 
 And he to that embrace awakes, 
 And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
 That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
 For such as he was wont to bless ; 
 And could in very fondness weep 
 O'er her who loves him even in sleep. 
 
 VI. 
 
 He clasp* d her sleeping to his heart, 
 And listen' d to each broken word : 
 
 He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 
 As if the Archangel's voice he heard 9 
 
 And well he may — a deeper doom 
 
 Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb. 
 
TARISINA 
 
 When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
 And stand the eternal throne before. 
 And well he may — his earthly peace 
 Upon that sound is doom'd to cease. 
 That sleeping whisper of a name 
 Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame. 
 And whose that name ? that o'er his pillow 
 Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
 Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 
 
 And dashes on the pointed rock 
 The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 
 
 So came upon his soul the shock. 
 And whose that name ? 'tis Hugo's — hi*— 
 In sooth he had not deem'd of this ! — 
 Tis Hugo's — he, the child of one 
 He loved — his own all-evil son — 
 The offspring of his wayward youth, 
 When he betray'd Bianca's truth, 
 The maid whose folly could confide 
 In him who made her not his bride. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He pluck* d his poniard in its sheath, 
 
 But sheath'd it ere the point was bars-* 
 Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
 He could not slay a thing so fair — 
 At least, not smiling — sleeping — there — 
 Nay more : — he did not wake her then, 
 But gazed upon her with a glance, 
 Which, had she roused her from her trano% 
 Had frozen her sense to sleep again — 
 And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
 Gleam'd on the dew-drops big and damp. 
 She spake no more — but still she slumber* d — 
 While, in his thought, her days are number' d, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And with the morn he sought, and found, 
 
 In many a tale from those around, 
 
 The proof of all he fear'd to know, — 
 
 Their present guilt, his future woe ; 
 
 The long-conniving damsels seek 
 
 To save themselves, and would transfer 
 The guilt — the shame — the doom — to hai* Y 
 
 Concealment is no more — they speak 
 
 All circumstance which may compel 
 
 Full credence to the tale they tell : 
 
 And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
 
 Have nothing more to feel or fear. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He was not one who brook'd delay : 
 
 Within the chamber of his state, 
 The chief of Este's ancient sway 
 
 Upon his throno of judgment sata 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 His nobles and his guards are there,— 
 Before him is the sinful pair ; 
 Both young, — and one how passing fair 
 With swordless belt, and fettered hand, 
 Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 
 
 Before a father's face ! 
 Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
 And hear the sentence of his ire, 
 
 The tale of his disgrace ! 
 And yet he seems not overcome, 
 Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 
 
 x. 
 
 And still, and pale, and silently 
 
 Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
 flow changed since last her speaking eye 
 
 Glanced gladness round the glittering roocs^ 
 Where high-born men were proud to wait- 
 Where Beauty watch' d to imitate 
 
 Her gentle voice — her lovely mien — 
 And gather from her air and gait 
 
 The graces of its queen : 
 Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 
 A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 
 A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 
 And made her quarrel all their own. 
 Now, — what is she ! and what are they f 
 Can she command, or these obey ? 
 All silent and unheeding now, 
 With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 
 And folded arms, and freezing air, 
 And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 
 Her knights and dames, her court — is thert? 
 And he, the chosen one, whose lance 
 Had yet been couch'd before her glano*, 
 Who — were his arm a moment free — 
 Had died or gain'd her liberty ; 
 The minion of his father's bride, — 
 He, too, is fetter'd by her side : 
 Nor sees her swoln and full eyes swim 
 Less for her own despair than him : 
 Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 
 Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 
 Shining through the smoothest white 
 That e'er did softest kiss invite — 
 Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 
 To press, not shade, the orbs below; 
 Which glance so heavily, and fill, 
 As tear on tear grows gathering still. 
 
 And he for her had also wept, * 
 But for the eyes that on him gazed 1 
 
 His sorrow, if he felt it, slept ; 
 Stern and erect his brow was raised 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 Whate'er the grief his soul avow*d, 
 He would not shrink before the crowd ; 
 But yet he dared not look on her : 
 Remembrance of the hours that were — 
 His guilt — his love — his present state — 
 His lather's wrath — all good men's hate*- 
 His earthly, his eternal fate — 
 And hers,— oh, hers ! he dared not throw 
 One look upon that deathlike brow 1 
 Else had his rising heart betrayed 
 Remorse for all the wreck it made. 
 
 XII. 
 
 And Aeo spake : — "But yesterday 
 
 I gloried in a wife and son ; 
 That dream this morning pass'd away ; 
 
 Ere day declines, I shall have none. 
 My life must linger on alone ; 
 Well, — let that pass, — there breathes not osso 
 Who would not do as I have done : 
 Those ties are broken — not by me ; 
 
 Let that too pass ; — the doom 's prepared 2 
 Hugo, the priest awaits on thee, 
 
 And then thy crime's reward ! 
 Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 
 
 Before its evening stars are met — 
 Learn if thou there canst be forgiven ; 
 Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 
 But here, upon the earth beneath, 
 
 There is no spot where thou and I 
 Together, for an hour, could breathe : 
 
 Farewell ! I will not see thee die — 
 But thou, frail thing ! shalt view his head-** 
 
 Away ! I cannot speak the rest : 
 
 Go ! woman of the wanton breast ; 
 Not I, but thou, his blood doth shed : 
 Go ! if that sight thou canst outlive, 
 And joy thee in the life I give." 
 
 xm. 
 
 And here stern Azo hid his face — 
 For on his brow the swelling vein 
 Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 
 The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again j 
 And therefore bow*d he for a space, 
 And pass'd his shaking hand along 
 His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 
 While Hugo raised his chained hand*, 
 And for a brief delay demands 
 His father's ear : the silent sire 
 forbids not what his words require. 
 
 "It is not that I dread the death— 
 For thou hast seen me by thy side 
 
83P BYRON'S POEM*. 
 
 All redly through the battle ride, 
 And that not once a useless brand 
 Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 
 Hath shed more blood in cause of thine, 
 Than e'er can stain the axe of mine ; 
 
 Thou gav'st, and mayst resume my breath, 
 A gift for which I thank thee not ; 
 Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 
 Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 
 Her offspring's heritage of shame ; 
 But she is in the grave, where he, 
 Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 
 Her broken heart— my sever'd head— 
 . Shall witness for thee from the dead 
 How trusty and how tender were 
 Thy youthful love — paternal care. 
 'Tis true that I have done thee wrong — 
 
 But wrong for wrong : — this, deem'd thy brides 
 
 The other victim of thy pride, 
 Thou know'st for me was destined long. 
 Thou sav/st, and covetedst her charms — 
 
 And with thy very crime — my birth, 
 
 Thou tauntedst me — as little worth ; 
 A match ignoble for her arms, 
 Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
 The lawful heirship of thy name, 
 Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 
 
 Yet, were a few short summers mine, 
 
 My name should more than Este's shina 
 With honours all my own. 
 I had a sword — and have a breast 
 That should have won as haught a crest * 
 As ever waved along the line 
 Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
 Not always knightly spurs are worn 
 The brightest by the better born ; 
 And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
 Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
 When charging to the cheering cry 
 Of ' Este and of Victory ! ' 
 I will not plead the cause of crime, 
 Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
 A few brief hours or days that must 
 At length roll o'er my reckless dust ; — 
 Such maddening moments as my past, 
 They could not, and they did not, last. 
 Albeit my birth and name be base, 
 And thy nobility of race 
 Disdain'd to deck a thing like me— 
 
 Yet in my lineaments they trace 
 
 Some features of my father's face, 
 And in my spirit — all of thee. 
 
 • flaught— haughty.— "Away, haught man, thou art insulting fiE*xjr*s«U|, 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 From thee this tamelessness of heart ; 
 
 From thee — nay, wherefore dost thou start P*» 
 
 From thee in all their vigour camo 
 
 My arm of strength, my soul of flame : 
 
 Thou didst not give me life alone, 
 
 But all that made me more thine own. 
 
 See what thy guilty love hath done ! 
 
 Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
 
 I am no bastard in my soul, 
 
 For that, like thine, abhorr'd control : 
 
 And for my breath, that hasty boon 
 
 Thou gav'st, and wilt resume so soon, 
 
 I value it no more than thou, 
 
 When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
 
 And we, all side by side, have striven 
 
 And o'er the dead our coursers driven : 
 
 The past is nothing — and at last 
 
 The future can but be the past ; 
 
 Yet would I that I then had died ; 
 
 For though thou work'dst my mother's 15^ 
 And made thy own my destined bride, 
 
 I feel thou art my father still ; 
 \nd harsh as sounds thy hard decree, 
 'Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
 Begot in sin, to die in shame, 
 My life begun and ends the same : 
 As err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
 And thou must punish both in one. 
 My crime seems worst to human view, 
 But God must judge between us two I" 
 
 XIV. 
 
 He ceased — and stood with folded arms, 
 On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
 And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
 Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, 
 When those dull chains in meeting clank'd I 
 Till Parisina's fatal charms 
 A.gain attracted every eye — 
 Would she thus hear him doom'd to die ! 
 She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
 The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
 Her eyes unmoved, but fall and wide, 
 Not once had turn'd to either side — 
 Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
 Or shade the glance o'er which they rosej 
 But round their orbs of deepest blue 
 The circling white dilated grew — 
 And there with glassy gaze she stood 
 As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
 But every now and then a tear, 
 So large and slowly gather' d, slid 
 From the long dark fringe of that fair lid: 
 It was a thing to see, not hear ! 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And those who saw, it did surprise, 
 
 Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
 
 To speak she thought — the imperfect not* 
 
 Was choked within her swelling throat, 
 
 Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
 
 Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
 
 It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
 
 Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
 
 And to the earth she fell like stone 
 
 Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
 
 More like a thing that ne'er had life — 
 
 A monument of Azo's wife — 
 
 Than her, that living guilty thing, 
 
 Whose every passion was a sting, 
 
 Which urged to guilt, but could not bew 
 
 That guilt's detection and despair. 
 
 But yet she lived — and all too soon 
 
 Recover' d from that death-like swoon — 
 
 But scarce to reason — every sense 
 
 Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense ; 
 
 And each frail fibre of her brain 
 
 (As bowstrings, when relax' d by rain, 
 
 The erring arrow launch aside) 
 
 Sent forth her Noughts all wild and wide-— 
 
 The past a blank, the future black, 
 
 With glimpses of a dreary track, 
 
 Like lightning on the desert path, 
 
 When midnight storms are mustering wratfer, 
 
 She fear'd — she felt that something ill 
 
 Lay on her soul, so deep and chill — 
 
 That there was sin and shame she knew ; 
 
 That some one was to die — but who ? 
 
 She had forgotten : — did she breathe ? 
 
 Could this be still the earth beneath, 
 
 The sky above, and men around ; 
 
 Or were they fiends who now so frown'd 
 
 On one, before whose eyes each eye 
 
 Till then had smiled in sympathy ? 
 
 All was confused and undefined 
 
 To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind ; 
 
 A chaos of wild hopes and fears : 
 
 And now in laughter, now in tears, 
 
 But madly still in each extreme, 
 
 She strove with that convulsive dream $ 
 
 For so it seem'd on her to break : 
 
 Oh 1 vainly must she strive to wake I 
 
 XV. 
 
 The Convent bells are ringing, 
 
 But mournfully and slow ; 
 In the gray square turret swinging^ 
 
 With a deep sound, to and fro. 
 
 Heavily to the heart they go t 
 Hark ! the hymn is singing — 
 
PARISINA. 
 
 The song for the dead below, 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall be so ! 
 
 For a departing being's soul 
 
 Phe death-hymn peals and the hollow bells knoll : 
 
 He is near his mortal goal ; 
 
 Kneeling at the friar's knee ; 
 
 Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
 
 Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
 
 With the block before and the guards around — 
 
 And the headsman with his bare arm ready, 
 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
 
 Feels if the axe be sharp anc~ true — 
 
 Since he set its edge anew : 
 
 While the crowd in speechless circle gather 
 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 It is a lovely hour as yet, 
 Before the summer sun shall set, 
 Which rose upon that heavy day, 
 And mock'd it with his steadiest ray ; 
 And his evening beams are shed 
 Full on Hugo's fated head, 
 As his last confession pouring 
 To the monk, his doom deploring 
 In penitential holiness, 
 He bends to hear his accents bless 
 With absolution such as may 
 Wipe our mortal stains away. 
 That high sun on his head did glisten 
 As he there did bow and listen — 
 And the rings of chestnut hair 
 Curl'd half down his neck so bare ; 
 But brighter still the beam was thrown 
 Upon the axe which near him shone 
 With a clear and ghastly glitter. — 
 Oh ! that parting hour was bitter ! 
 Even the stern stood chill'd with awe • 
 Dark the crime, and just the law — 
 Yet they shudder'd as they saw. 
 
 xvn. 
 
 The parting prayers are said and over 
 Of that false son — and daring lover ! 
 His beads and sins are all recounted, 
 His hours to their last minute mounted— 
 His mantling cloak before was stripp'd, 
 His bright brown locks must now be clipp'd f 
 'Tis done — all closely are they shorn — 
 The vest which till this moment worn — 
 The scarf which Parisina gave — 
 Must not adorn him to the grave. 
 Even that must now be thrown aside, 
 And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
 
 I 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But no — that last indignity- 
 Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye, 
 All feelings seemingly subdued, 
 In deep disdain were half renew'd, 
 When headsman's hands prepared to bind 
 Those eyes which would not brook such blind j 
 As if they dared not look on death. 
 " No — yours my forfeit blood and breath— 
 These hands are chain'd, but let me die 
 At least with an unshackled eye — 
 Strike :" — and as the word he said, 
 Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 
 These the last accents Hugo spoke : 
 " Strike :" — and flashing fell the stroke — 
 RolTd the head — and, gushing, sunk 
 Back the stain' d and heaving trunk, 
 In the dust, which each deep vein 
 Slaked with its ensanguined rain ; 
 His eyes and lips a moment quiver, 
 Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 
 He died, as erring man should die, 
 Without display, without parade ; 
 
 As not disdaining priestly aid, 
 Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
 And while before the prior kneeling, 
 His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling ; 
 His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
 What were they in such an hour ? 
 No more reproach — no more despair ; 
 No thought but heaven — no word but prayep«» 
 Save the few which from him broke, 
 When, bared to meet the headsman's stroke^ 
 He claim'd to die with eyes unbound, 
 His sole adieu to those around. 
 
 Still as the lips that closed in death, 
 
 Each gazer's bosom held his breath : 
 
 But yet, afar, from man to man, 
 
 A cold electric shiver ran. 
 
 As down the defcdly blow descended 
 
 On him whose life and love thus ended ; 
 
 And, with a hushing sound compress' d, 
 
 A sigh shrunk back on every breast ; 
 
 But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
 Beyond the blow that to the block 
 Pierced through with forced and sullen shocks 
 
 Save one : — what cleaves the silent air 
 
 So madly shrill — so passing wild ? 
 
 That, as a mother's o'er her child, 
 
 Done to death by sudden blow, 
 
 To the sky these accents go, 
 
 Like a soul's in endless woe. 
 
 xvm. 
 
UARISINA. 
 
 Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 
 That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
 And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
 But sound and sight alike are gone ! 
 Tt was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
 In madlier accents rose despair ; 
 And those who heard It, as it past. 
 In mercy wish'd it were the last, 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Hugo is fallen ; and from that hour 
 
 No more in palace, hall, or bower, 
 
 Was Parisina heard or seen : 
 
 Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 
 
 Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 
 
 Like words of wantonness or fear ; 
 
 And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 
 
 Was mention heard of wife or son ; 
 
 No tomb — no memory had they ; 
 
 Theirs was unconsecrated clay ; 
 
 At least the knight's who died that day. 
 
 But Parisina's fate lies hid 
 
 Like dust beneath the coffin-lid : 
 
 Whether in convent she abode, 
 
 And won to heaven her dreary road, 
 
 By blighted and remorseful years 
 
 Of scourge and fast, and sleepless tears ; 
 
 Or if she fell by bowl or steel, 
 
 For that dark love she dared to feel ; 
 
 Or if, upon the moment smote, 
 
 She died by tortures less remote ; 
 
 Like him she saw upon the block, 
 
 With heart that shared the headsman's shock? 
 
 In quicken'd brokenness that came, 
 
 In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 
 
 None knew — and none can ever know : 
 
 But whatsoe'er its end below, 
 
 Her life began and closed in woe I 
 
 XX. 
 
 And Azo fovind another bride, 
 
 And goodly sons grew by his side ; 
 
 But none so lovely and so brave 
 
 As him who wither' d in thd grave ; 
 
 Or if they were — on his cold eye 
 
 Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 
 
 Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 
 
 But never tear his cheek descended, 
 
 And never smile his brow unbended ; 
 
 And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought 
 
 The intersected lines of thought ; 
 
 Those furrows which the burning share 
 
 Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Scars of the lacerating mind 
 Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 
 He was past all mirth or woe : 
 Nothing more remain' d below 
 But sleepless nights and heavy days, 
 A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 
 A heart which shunn'd itself — and yet 
 That would not yield — nor could forget, 
 Which, when it least appear'd to melt* 
 Intently thought — intensely felt : 
 The deepest ice which ever froze 
 Can only o'er the surface close — 
 The living stream lies quick below, 
 And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 
 Still was his sealed-up bosom haunted 
 By thoughts which nature had implanted J 
 Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 
 Howe'er our stifled fea«rs we banish ; 
 When, struggling as they rise to start, 
 We check those waters of the heart, 
 They are not dried — those tears unshed, 
 But flow back to the fountain-head, 
 And resting in their spring more pure, 
 For ever in its depth endure, 
 Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, 
 And cherish'd most where least reveal'd. 
 With inward starts of feeling left, 
 To throb o'er those of life bereft ; 
 Without the power to fill again 
 The desert gap which made his pain ; 
 Without the hope to meet them where 
 United souls shall gladness share, 
 With all the consciousness that he 
 Had only pass'd a just decree ; 
 That they had wrought their doom of ill 9 
 Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 
 The tainted branches of the tree, 
 
 If lopp'd with care, a strength may gi^ 
 By which the rest shall bloom and live 
 All greenly fresh and wildly free : 
 But if the lightning, in its wrath, 
 The waving boughs with fiiry scath, 
 The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
 And never more a leaf reveals. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 * Alas ! they have been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth J 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny, and youth ia vain : 
 And to be wroth with one we love, 
 Doth work like madness in the brain ; 
 • ••••• 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hollow hear* from paining— 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, I 
 
 Like cliffs, which had been rent asunder ; 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between, 
 
 Rut neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been." 
 
 COLERIDGE'* Chr Utaboi 
 
 Fare the© well ! and if for ever, 
 
 Still for ever, fare thee well ; 
 Even though unforgiving, never 
 
 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 
 
 Would that breast were bared before thee 
 Where thy head so oft hath lain, 
 
 While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
 Which thou ne'er canst know again : 
 
 Would that. breast, by thee glanced over, 
 Every inmost thought could show ! 
 
 Then thou wouldst at last discover 
 *Twas not well to spurn it so. 
 
 Though the world for this commend thoo — 
 
 Though it smile upon the blow, 
 Even its praises must offend thee, 
 
 Founded on another's woe : 
 
 Though my many faults defaced me, 
 
 Could no other arm be found, 
 Than the one which once embraced me, 
 
 To inflict a cureless wound ? 
 
 Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not : 
 
 Love may sink by slow decay, 
 But by sudden wrench, believe not 
 
 Hearts can thus be torn away ; 
 
 Still thine own its life retaineth — 
 
 Still must mine, though bleeding, beat j 
 
 And the undying thought which paineth 
 Is — that we no more may meet. 
 
 These are words of deeper sorrow 
 
 Than the wail above the dead ; 
 Both shall live, but every morrow 
 
 Wake us from a widowed bsd. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And when thou wouldst solace gather, 
 
 When our child's first accents flow, 
 Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 
 
 Though his care she must forego ? 
 
 When her little hands shall press thee, 
 
 When her lip to thine is press'd, 
 Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, 
 
 Think of him thy love had bless' d ! 
 
 Should her lineaments resemble 
 
 Those thou never more mayst see, 
 Then thy heart will softly tremble 
 
 With a pulse yet true to me. 
 
 All my faults perchance thou knowest. 
 
 All my madness none can know ; 
 All my hopes, where'er thou goest, 
 
 Whither, yet with thee they go. 
 
 Every feeling hath been shaken ; 
 
 Pride, which not a world could bow, 
 Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 
 
 Even my soul forsakes me now : 
 
 But 'tis done — all words are idle — 
 
 Words from me are vainer still ; 
 But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
 
 Force their way without the will. 
 
 Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, 
 
 Torn from every nearer tie. 
 Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, 
 
 More than this I scarce can die. 
 
 March 17, 103C 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 ** Honest— honest Iago ! 
 If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
 Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 
 Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd, 
 And from its wages only to be guess'd — 
 Raised from the toilette to the table, — where 
 Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 
 With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 
 She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 
 Quick with the tale, and ready with the he — 
 The genial confidante, and general spy — 
 Who could, ye gods ! her next employment guess- 
 An only infant's earliest governess ! 
 She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 
 That she herself by teaching, learn'd to spell. 
 
A SKETCH. 
 
 An adept next in penmanship she grows, 
 
 As many a nameless slander deftly shows : 
 
 What she had made the pupil of her art, 
 
 None know — but that high Soul secured the heart, 
 
 And panted for the truth it could not hear, 
 
 With longing breast and undeluded ear. 
 
 Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 
 
 Which Flattery fool'd not — Baseness could not blind, 
 
 Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 
 
 Indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 
 
 Nor master' d Science tempt her to look down 
 
 On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 
 
 Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 
 
 Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 
 
 Nor Fortune change — Pride raise — nor Passion bow, 
 
 Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 
 
 Serenely purest of her sex that live, 
 
 But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 
 
 Too shock' d at faults her soul can never know, 
 
 She deems that all could be like her below : 
 
 Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 
 
 For virtue pardons those she would amend. 
 
 But to the theme : — now laid aside too long, 
 The baleful burthen of this honest song — 
 Though all her former functions are no more, 
 She rules the circle which she served before. 
 If mothers — none know why — before her quake ; 
 If daughters dread her for the mothers' sake ; 
 If early habits — those false links, which bind 
 At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
 Have given her power too deeply to instil 
 The angry essence of her deadly will ; 
 If like a snake she steal within your walls, 
 Till the black slime betray her as she crawls ; 
 If like a viper to the heart she wind, 
 And leave the venom there she did not find ; 
 What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
 Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
 To make a Pandemonium where she dwells, 
 .And reign the Hecate of domestic hells ? 
 Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
 With all the kind mendacity of hints, 
 While mingling truth with falsehood — sneers with smiles 
 A thread of candour with a web of wiles ; 
 A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming, 
 To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden 'd scheming ; 
 A lip of lies — a face form'd to conceal; 
 And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 
 With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown ; 
 A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 
 Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
 Oozo to her skin, and stagnate there to mud. 
 
BYRON^S POEMS. 
 
 Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
 Or darker greenness of the scorpion's seal*— 
 (For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
 Congenial colours in that soul or face) — 
 Look on her features ! and behold her mind 
 As in a mirror of itself denned : 
 Look on the picture ! deem it not o'ercharged — 
 There is no trait which might not be enlarged : 
 Yet true to " Nature's journeymen," who made 
 This monster when their mistress left off trade — 
 This female dog-star of her little sky, 
 Where all beneath her influence droop or die. 
 
 Oh ! wretch without a tear — without a thought, 
 Save joy above the ruin thou hast wrought — 
 The time shall come, nor long remote, when thou 
 Shalt feel far more than thou iDflictest now ; 
 Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 
 And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
 May the strong curse of crush'd affections light 
 Back on thy bosom with reflected blight ! 
 And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
 As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
 Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
 Black — as thy will for others would create : 
 Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 
 And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
 Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, 
 The widow' d couch of fire, that thou hast spread ! 
 Then, when thou fain wouldst weary Heaven with pra 
 Look on thine earthly victims — and despair ! 
 Down to the dust ! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
 Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
 But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
 To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
 Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
 The climax of all scorn would hang on high, 
 Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — 
 And festering in the infamy of years. 
 
 March W, ISIS. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 When all around grew drear and dark, 
 And reason half withheld her ray— 
 
 And hope but shed a dying spark 
 Which more misled my lonely way ; 
 
 In that deep midnight of the mind, 
 And that internal strife of heart. 
 
 When dreading to be deem'd too kind,, 
 The weak despair— the cold depart ; 
 
STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
 And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast 
 
 Thou wert the solitary star 
 Which rose, and set not to the last. 
 
 Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 
 
 That watch' d me as a seraph's eye, 
 And stood between me and the night, 
 
 For ever shining sweetly nigh. 
 
 And when the cloud upon us came, 
 
 Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray- 
 Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
 And dash'd the darkness all away. 
 
 Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 
 And teach it what to brave or brook—- 
 
 There's more in one soft word of thine 
 Than in the world's defied rebuke. 
 
 Thou stood' st, as stands a lovely tree, 
 That still unbroke, though gently bent, 
 
 Still waves with fond fidelity 
 Its boughs above a monument. 
 
 The winds might rend — the skies might pcnx 
 But there thou wert — and still wouldst bo 
 
 Devoted in the stormiest hour 
 To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 
 
 But thou and thine shall know no blight, 
 
 Whatever fate on me may fall ; 
 For Heaven in sunshine will requite 
 
 The kind — and thee the most of all. 
 
 Then let the ties of baffled love 
 Be broken — thine will never break ; 
 
 Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
 Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 
 
 And these, when all was lost beside, 
 Were found, and still are fix'd in the© 
 
 And bearing still a breast, so tried, 
 Earth is no desert— ev'n to me. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 When this poem was composed, I was not sufficiently aware of the 
 history of Bonnivard, or I should have endeavoured to dignify the subject 
 by an attempt to celebrate his courage and his virtues. Some account of 
 his life will be found below, furnished me by the kindness of a citizen of 
 that republic, which is still proud of the memory of a man worthy of the 
 best age of ancient freedom : — 
 
 Francis de Bonnivard, son of Louis de Bonnivard, a native of Seysel, 
 and Seigneur of Lunes, was born in 1496 ; he was educated at Turin. Jn 
 1510 his uncle, Jean- Reine de Bonnivard, resigned to him the Priory of 
 Saint- Victor, which adjoins the walls of Geneva, and which was a consi- 
 derable living. 
 
 This great man — Bonnivard is deserving of this title from his greatness 
 of soul, the uprightness of his heart, the nobility of his intentions, the 
 wisdom of his counsels, the courage of his actions, the extent of his 
 learning, and the brilliancy of his wit — this great man, who will ever 
 excite the admiration of all those whom an heroic virtue can move, will 
 always inspire the most lively gratitude in the hearts of those Genoese 
 who love Geneva. Bonnivard was always one of its firmest supports? to 
 protect the liberty of our republic, he never feared to lose his own ; he 
 forgot his ease, he despised his wealth ; he neglected nothing to render 
 certain the happiness of the country that he dignified by his adoption ; 
 from that moment he loved it as the most zealous of its citizens, he served 
 it with the intrepidity of a hero, and he wrote its history with the simpli- 
 city of a philosopher, and the ardour of a patriot. 
 
 He says in the commencement of his " History of Geneva," that, " As 
 soon as he commenced to read the histories of nations, he felt himself 
 carried way by his love for republics, the interest of which he always 
 advocated." It was, doubtless, this very love of liberty, that made him 
 adopt Geneva as his country. 
 
 Bonnivard while yet young, boldly stood forward as the defender of 
 Geneva, against the Duke of Savoy and the Bishop. 
 
 In 1519, Bonnivard became the martyr of his country; the Duke of 
 Savoy having entered Geneva with five hundred men, Bonnivard feared 
 the resentment of the Duke; he wished to return to Flabourg to avoid the 
 consequences ; but he was betrayed by two men who accompanied him, 
 and conducted by order of the prince to Grolee, where for two years he 
 remained a prisoner. 
 
 Bonnivard was unfortunate in his travels. As his misfortunes had not 
 slackened his zeal for Geneva, he was always a redoubtable enemy to 
 those who threatened it, and accordingly was likely to be exposed to 
 their violence. He was met in 1530 on the Jura, by thieves, who stripped 
 him of everything, and placed him again in the hands of the Duke of 
 Savoy. This prince caused him to be confined in the Chateau of Chillon, 
 where he remained without being submitted to any interrogatory, until 
 1536; he was then delivered by the Bernois, who took possession of the 
 Pays de Vaud. 
 
 Bonnivard, on leaving his captivity, had the pleasure of finding Geneva 
 free and reformed. The Republic hastened to testify its gratitude to him, 
 
BONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 3*9 
 
 and to recompense him for the evils which he had suffered. It received 
 him as a citizen of the town, in the month of June, 1536; it gave him the 
 house formerly inhabited by the Vicar- General, and assigned to him a 
 pension of two hundred gold crowns, as long as he should sojourn in 
 Geneva. He was admitted into the council of Two Hundred in 1 537. 
 
 Bonnivard did not now cease to be useful ; after having laboured to 
 make Geneva free, he succeeded in making it tolerant. Bonnivard pre- 
 vailed upon the council to accord to the Calvinists and peasants a sufficient 
 time for examining the propositions which were made to them ; he suc- 
 ceeded by his meekness. Christianity is always preached with success, 
 when it is preached with charity. 
 
 Bonnivard was learned. His manuscripts, which are in the public 
 library, prove that he had diligently studied the Latin classics, and that he 
 had penetrated the depths of theology and history. This great man loved 
 the sciences, and thought they would constitute the glory of Geneva; 
 accordingly, he neglected nothing to establish them in this rising town. 
 In 1551, he gave his library to the public; it was the commencement of our 
 public library. And a portion of his books, are those rare and beautiful 
 editions of the fifteenth century, which are seen in our collection. Finally, 
 during the same year, this good patriot appointed the republic his heir, on 
 condition that it would employ his wealth in supporting the college, the 
 foundation of which was being projected, 
 
 It appears that Bonnivard died in 1570; but this cannot be certified, 
 as an hiatus occurs in the Necrology, from the month of July 1670 to 
 1571. 
 
 SONNET ON CHILLON. 
 
 ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 
 
 Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 
 
 For there thy habitation is the heart — 
 The heart which love of thee alone can bind ; 
 And when thy sons to fetters are consign' d — 
 
 To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 
 
 Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 
 And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
 Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place, 
 
 And thy sad floor an altar — for 'twas trod, 
 Until his very steps have left a trace 
 
 Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
 By Bonnivard ! — May none those marks efface I 
 
 For they appeal from tyranny to God. 
 
THE PKISONEK OF CHILLON.* 
 
 10 1 
 
 b i 
 
 I. 
 
 My hair is gray, but not with years, 
 Nor grew it white 
 In a single night, 
 As men's have grown from sudden fears :*f 
 My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil, 
 
 But rusted with a vile repose, 
 For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
 
 And mine has been the fate of those 
 To whom the goodly earth and air 
 Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fare ; 
 But this was for my father's faith 
 I suffered chains and courted death ; 
 That father perish' d at the stake 
 For tenets he would not forsake ; 
 And for the same his lineal race 
 In darkness found a dwelling-place ; 
 We were seven — who now are one, 
 
 Six in youth, and one in age, 
 Finish' d as they had begun, 
 
 Proud of Persecution's rage ; 
 One in fire, and two in field, 
 Their belief with blood have seal'd ; 
 Dying as their father died, 
 For the God their foes denied ; 
 Three were in a dungeon cast, 
 Of whom this wreck is left the last. 
 
 II. 
 
 There are seven pillars of Gothic mould, 
 In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
 There are seven columns, massy and graj, 
 Dim with a dull imprison'd ray — 
 A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
 And through the crevice and the cleft 
 Of the thick wall is fallen and left, 
 Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
 Like a marsh's meteor lamp— 
 
 * Thii 1b a beautiful poem ; and we cannot help considering It the more so from there 
 being nothing of the author's idiosyncrasy mingled with it— a very rare circumstance 
 in Byron's writings 1 
 
 t Ludovico Sforza, and others.— The same is asserted of Marie Antoinette's, the wife of 
 Louis XVI., though not in quite so short a period. Grief is said to have the same effect : 
 to such, and net to few, tbis change in hers was to be attributed.— B. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 SSI 
 
 And in each pillar there is a ring, 
 
 And in each ring there is a chain ; 
 That iron is a cankering thing, 
 
 For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
 With marks that will not wear away, 
 Till I have done with this new day, 
 Which now is painful to those eyes, 
 Which have not seen the sun to rise 
 For years — I cannot count them o'er, 
 I lost their long and heavy score 
 When my last brother droop'd and died, 
 And I lay living by his side. 
 
 ill. 
 
 They chain'd us each to a column stone* 
 
 And we were three — yet each alone : 
 
 We could not move a single pace, 
 
 We could not see each other's face, 
 
 But with that pale and livid light 
 
 That made us strangers in our sight ; 
 
 And thus together — yet apart, 
 
 Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart ; 
 
 'Twas still some solace in the dearth 
 
 Of the pure elements of earth, * 
 
 To hearken to each other's speech, 
 
 And each turn comforter to each 
 
 With some new hope, or legend old, 
 
 Or song heroically bold ; 
 
 But even these at length grew cold. 
 
 Our voices took a dreary tone, 
 
 An echo of the dungeon-stone, 
 
 A grating sound — not full and free 
 As they of yore were wont to be ; 
 It might be fancy — but to me 
 They never sounded like our own. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I was the eldest of the three, 
 And to uphold and cheer the rest 
 I ought to do — and did — my best, 
 
 And each did well in his degree. 
 
 The youngest, whom my father lovcd^ 
 ' Because our mother's brow was given 
 
 To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
 For him my soul was sorely moved ; 
 
 And truly might it be distress'd 
 
 To see such bird in such a nest ; 
 
 For he was beautiful as day 
 (When day was beautiful to me 
 As to young eagles, being free) — 
 A polar day, which will not see 
 
 A sunsef till its summer's gone, 
 Its sleepless summer of long light, 
 
 The snow-clad offspring of the sun : 
 And thus he was as pure and bright^ 
 
S53 
 
 BTRON'B poems. 
 
 And in his natural spirit gay, 
 With tears for nought but others' ills, 
 And then they flow'd like mountain rill J, 
 Unless he could assuage the woe 
 Which he abhorr'd to view below. 
 
 V. 
 
 The other was as pure of mind, 
 But form'd to combat with his kind ; 
 Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
 Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
 And perish' d in the foremost rank 
 
 With joy : — but not in chains to pin© : 
 His spirit wither'd with their clank, 
 
 I saw it silently decline — 
 
 And so perchance in sooth did mine ; 
 But yet I forced it on to cheer 
 Those relics of a home so dear. 
 He was a hunter of the hills, 
 
 Had follow'd thore the deer and wolf ; 
 
 To him this duygeon was a gulf, 
 And fetter'd feet the worst of ills. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls : 
 A thousand feet in depth below 
 Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
 Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
 From Chillon's snow-white battlement,* 
 
 Which round about the wave enthralls : 
 A double dungeon wall and wave 
 Have made — and like a living grave. 
 Below the surface of the lake 
 The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
 We heard it ripple night and day ; 
 
 Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd ; 
 And I have felt the winter's spray 
 Wash through the bars when winds were high, 
 And wanton in the happy sky ; 
 
 And then the very rock hath rock'd, 
 
 And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
 
 • The Chftteau de Chillon is situated between Clarens and Villeneuve, which last Si 
 at one extremity of the Lake of Geneva. On its left are the entrances of the Rhone, ana 
 opposite are the heights of Meillerie and the range of Alps above Boveret and St. Gingo. 
 
 Near it, on a hill behind, is a torrent ; below it, washing its walls, the lake has been 
 fathomed to the depth of 800 feet (French measure) ; within it are a range of dungeons, 
 in which the early reformers, and subsequently prisoners of state, were confined. Across 
 one of the vaults is a beam black with age, on which we were informed that the con- 
 demned were formerly executed. In the cells are seven pillars, or, rather, eight, die 
 being half merged in the wall ; In some of these are rings for the fetters and the fettered : 
 in the pavement the steps of Bonnivard have left their traces — he was confined here 
 several years. 
 
 It is by this castle that Rousseau has fixed the catastrophe of his Heloise, in the rescue 
 of one of her children by Julie from the water ; the shock of which, and the illness 
 produced by the immersion, is the cause of her death. 
 
 The chateau is large, and seen along the lake for a great distance. The walls are 
 white.-*. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLOJT, 
 
 Because I could have smiled to see 
 The death that would have set me free* 
 
 vn. 
 
 I said my nearer brother pined, 
 I said his mighty heart declined, 
 He loathed and put away his food ; 
 It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
 For we were used to hunter's fare, 
 And for the like had little care : 
 The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
 Was changed for water from the moat. 
 Our bread was such as captives' tears 
 Have moisten'd many a thousand yean. 
 Since man first pent his fellow-men 
 Like brutes within an iron den : 
 But what were these to us or him ? 
 These wasted not his heart or limb ; 
 My brother's soul was of that mould 
 Which in a palace had grown cold, 
 Had his free breathing been denied 
 The range of the steep mountain's sid<* ; 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vail;. 
 To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
 He died — and they unlock'd his chain 
 And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
 Even from the cold earth of our cave. 
 I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 But then within my brain it wrought, 
 That even in death his freeborn breast 
 In such a dungeon could not rest. 
 I might have spared my idle prayer — 
 They coldly laugh'd — and laid him ther* 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant,* 
 8uch murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 vin. 
 
 But he, the favourite and the flower, 
 Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 
 H is mother's image in fair face, 
 The infant love of all his race, 
 His martyr'd father's dearest thought, 
 My latest care, for whom I sought 
 To hoard my life, that his might be 
 Less wretched now, and one day free ; 
 
 * This is a fine linage, however ah;>r& 
 2 A 
 
354 
 
 byron's poems. 
 
 He, too, who yet had held untired 
 
 A spirit natural or inspired — 
 
 He, too, was struck, and day by day 
 
 Was wither'd on the stalk away. 
 
 Oh God ! it is a fearful thing 
 
 To see the human soul take wing 
 
 In any shape, in any mood : — 
 
 i've seen it rushing forth in blood, 
 
 I've seen it on the breaking ocean 
 
 Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 
 
 I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 
 Of Sin delirious with its dread : 
 
 But these were horrors — this was wo© 
 
 Unmix' d with such — but sure and slows 
 
 He faded, and so calm and meek, 
 
 So softly worn, so sweetly weak, 
 
 So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 
 
 And grieved for those he left behind ; 
 
 With all the while a cheek whose bloo23 
 
 "Was as a mockery of the tomb, 
 
 Whose tints as gently sunk away 
 
 As a departing rainbow's ray — 
 
 An eye of most transparent light, 
 
 That almost made the dungeon bright, 
 
 And not a word of murmur — not 
 
 A groan o'er his untimely lot, — 
 
 A little talk of better days, 
 
 A little hope my own to raise, 
 
 For I was sunk in silence — lost 
 
 In this last loss, of all the most ; 
 
 And then the sighs he would suppress 
 
 Of fainting nature's feebleness, 
 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 
 1 listen' d, but I could not hear — 
 
 I call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 
 
 I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 
 
 Would not be thus admonished ; 
 
 I call'd, and thought I heard a sound — 
 
 I burst my chain with one strong boun<i. 
 
 And rush'd to him : — I found him not 
 
 I only stirr'd in this black spot, 
 
 / only lived — / only drew 
 
 The accursed breath of dungeon-dew ; 
 
 The last — the sole — the dearest link 
 
 Between me and the eternal brink, 
 
 Which bound me to my failing race, 
 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 One on the earth, and one beneath — 
 
 My brothers — both had ceased to breathe 
 
 I took that hand which lay so still, 
 
 Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 
 
 I had not strength to stir, or striv®, 
 
 But felt that I was still alive— 
 
THE PRISONER OP CHILLOBc 
 
 A frantic feeling, when we know 
 That what we love shall ne'er be so. 
 
 I know not why 
 
 I could not die, 
 I had no earthly hope — but faith, 
 And that forbade a selfish death. 
 
 What next befell me then and there 
 1 know not well — I never knew. — 
 First came the loss of light, and air, 
 
 And then of darkness too : 
 I had no thought, no feeling — none — 
 Among the stones I stood a stone, 
 And was scarce conscious what I wist, 
 As shrubless crags within the mist ; 
 For all was blank, and bleak, and gray, 
 It was not night — it was not day, 
 It was not even the dungeon-light, 
 Bo hateful to my heavy sight, 
 But vacancy absorbing space, 
 And fixedness — without a place ; 
 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 t 
 
 X. 
 
 A light broke in upon my brain, — 
 
 It was the carol of a bird ; 
 It ceased, and then it came again, 
 
 The sweetest song ear ever hoard, 
 And mine was thankful till my eyes 
 Ran over with the glad surprise, 
 And they that moment could not sea 
 I was the mate of misery ; 
 But then by dull degrees came back 
 My senses to their wonted track, 
 I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
 Close slowly round me as before, 
 I saw the glimmer of the sun 
 Creeping as it before had done, 
 But through the crevice where it came 
 That bird was perch' d, as fond and tam^ 
 
 And tamer than upon the tree ; 
 A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
 And song that said a thousand things, 
 
 And seem'd to say them all for mo I 
 I never saw its like before, 
 I ne'er shall see its likeness more : 
 
 2 a 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 It seem'd, like me, to want a mate, * 
 
 But was not half so desolate, ' 
 
 And it was come to love me when 
 
 None lived to love me so again, 
 
 And cheering from my dungeon's brinl^, 
 
 Had brought me back to feel and think. 
 
 I know not if it late were free, 
 
 Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
 But knowing well captivity, 
 
 Sweet bird ! I could not wish for thin* ! 
 Dr if it were, in winged guise, 
 A visitant from Paradise ; 
 For — Heaven forgive that thought ! the wUfl^ 
 Which made me both to weep and smile — 
 I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
 My brother's soul come down to mo ; 
 But then at last away it flew, 
 And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
 For he would never thus have flown, 
 And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
 Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
 Lone — as a solitary cloud, 
 
 A single cloud on a sunny day, 
 While all the rest of heaven is clear, 
 A frown upon the atmosphere, 
 That hath no business to appear 
 
 When skies are blue, and earth is g»$ 4 
 
 A kind of change came in my fate, 
 My keepers grew compassionate, 
 I know not what had made them bo, 
 They were inured to sights of woe. 
 But so it was : — my broken chain 
 With links unfasten'd did remain, 
 And it was liberty to stride 
 Along my cell from side to side, 
 And up and down, and then athwart, 
 And tread it over every part ; 
 And round the pillars one by one, 
 Returning where my walk begun, 
 Avoiding only, as I trod, 
 xtfy brothers' graves without a sod ; 
 For if I thought with heedless tread 
 My step profaned their lowly bed, 
 My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
 
 And my crush'd heart fell blind and ttklb 
 
 » 
 
 XII. 
 
 I made a footing in the wall, 
 It was not therefrom to escape, 
 
 For I had buried one and all, 
 Who loved me in a human shape ; 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLOH. 
 
 And the whole earth would henceforth b* 
 
 A wider prison unto me : 
 
 No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
 
 No partner in my misery ; 
 
 I thought of this, and I was glad, 
 
 For thought of them had made me mad * 
 
 But I was curious to ascend 
 
 To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
 
 Once more, upon the mountains higa, 
 
 The quiet of a loving eye. 
 
 xin. v 
 I saw them — and they were the same. 
 They were not changed like me in frama X 
 I saw their thousand years of snow 
 On high — their wide long lake below, 
 And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
 I heard the torrents leap and gush 
 O'er channell'd rock and broken bush ; 
 I saw the white-wall' d distant town, 
 And whiter sails go skimming down ; 
 And then there was a little isle,* 
 Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
 But in it there were three tall trees, 
 And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
 And by it there were waters flowing, 
 And on it there were young flowers growing, 
 
 Of gentle breath and hue. 
 The fish swam by the castle wall, 
 And they seem'd joyous each and all ; 
 The eagle rode the rising blast, 
 Methought he never flew so fast 
 As then to me he seem'd to fly, 
 And then new tears came in my eye, 
 And I felt troubled — and would fain 
 I had not left my recent chain ; 
 And when I did descend again, 
 The darkness of my dim abode 
 Fell on me as a heavy load ; 
 It was as is a new-dug grave, 
 Closing o'er one we sought to save, 
 And yet my glance, too much opprest, 
 Had almost need of such a rest. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 It might be months, or years, or days, 
 
 I kept no count — I took no note, 
 I had no hope my eyes to raise. 
 
 And clear them of their dreary mote ; 
 
 • Between the entrances of the Rhone and Vllleneuve, not far from Chlllon, ts a ?«7 
 •mall ialand ; the only one I could perceive, in my voyage round and over the Iat« 
 within its circumference. It contains a few trees { I think not above three), and Q0T 
 singleness and diminutive size has a peculiar effect upon the view.— B. 
 
 • ) 
 
858 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 I ask'd not why, and reck'd not whers, 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 I learn'd to love despair. 
 And thus when they appear'd at last, 
 And all my bonds aside were cast, 
 These heavy walls to me had grown 
 A hermitage — and all my own ! 
 And half I felt as they were come 
 To tear me from a second home : 
 With spiders I had friendship made, 
 And watch' d them in their sullen trade } 
 Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 
 And why should I feel less than they ? 
 We were all inmates of one place, 
 And I, the monarch of each race, 
 Had power to kill — yet, strange to tell ! 
 In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 So muck a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are : — even I 
 Regain' d my freedom with a sigh. 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON, 
 
 R. B. SHERIDAN. 
 
 SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 
 
 WHEN the last sunshine of expiring day 
 
 In summer's twilight weeps itself away, 
 
 Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
 
 Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
 
 With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
 
 While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 
 
 Her breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
 
 Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 
 
 Who hath not shared that calm so still and deep, 
 
 The voiceless thought which would not speak but wo©j», 
 
 A holy concord — and a bright regret, 
 
 A glorious sympathy with suns that sot ? 
 
 'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 
 
 Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below. 
 
 Felt without bitterness — but full and clear, 
 
 A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
 
 Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
 
 Shed without shame — and secret without pain* 
 
 Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
 When summer's day declines along the hills* 
 
MONODY. 
 
 So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes, 
 
 When all of Genius which can perish die3. 
 
 A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a rower 
 
 Hath pass'd from day to darkness* — to whose hour 
 
 Of light no likeness is bequeath' d — no name, 
 
 Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
 
 The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence, 
 
 The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
 
 Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
 
 The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; 
 
 Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
 
 A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
 
 But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
 
 These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 
 
 Which all embraced — and lighten'd over all, 
 
 To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 
 
 From the charm'd council to the festive board, 
 
 Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 
 
 In whose acclaim the loftiest voices vied, 
 
 The praised — the proud — who made his praise their pride. 
 
 When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
 
 Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
 
 His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 
 
 The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 
 
 Which shook the nations through his lips — and blazed 
 
 Till vanquish'd senates trembled as they praised. 
 
 And here, oh ! here, where yet all young and warm 
 The gay creations of his spirit charm, 
 The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 
 Which knew not what it was to intermit ; 
 The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring 
 Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring ; 
 These wondrous beings of his Fancy, wrought 
 To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 
 Here in their first abodo you may still meet, 
 Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat : 
 A halo of the light of other days, 
 Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 
 
 But should there be to whom the fetal blight 
 Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight, 
 Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
 Jar in the music which was born their own, 
 Still let them pause — ah ! little do they know 
 That what to them seem'd Vice might be but Wo* 
 Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
 Is fix'd for ever to detract or praise ; 
 Kepose denies her requiem to his name, 
 And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
 The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
 Stands sentinel — accuser — judge — and spy, 
 The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain, 
 The envious who but breathe in others' pain,, 
 
360 
 
 B IRON'S POEMS, 
 
 Behold the host ! delighting to deprave, . 
 
 Who track the steps of glory to the grave, 
 
 Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
 
 Half to the ardour which its birth bestowg, 
 
 Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 
 
 And pile the pyramid of Calumny ! 
 
 These are his portion — but if join'd to these 
 
 Gaunt Poverty should league with deep Disease, 
 
 If the high Spirit must forget to soar, 
 
 And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
 
 To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
 
 Meet sordid Bage — and wrestle with Disgrace, 
 
 To find in Hope but the renew' d caress, 
 
 The serpent-foJd of further Faithlessness 
 
 if such may be the ills which men assail, 
 
 What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
 
 Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling given. 
 
 Bear hearts electric — •harged with fire from heaven, 
 
 Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
 
 By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds borne, 
 
 Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
 
 Thoughts which have turn'd to thunder — scorch — and burst, 
 
 But far from us and from our mimic scene 
 Such things should be — if such have ever been ; 
 Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task, 
 To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
 To mourn the vanish'd beam — and add our mite 
 Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
 Ye Orators ! whom yet our councils yield, 
 Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field ! ' 
 The worthy rival of the wondrous Three I * 
 Whose words were sparks of Immortality ! 
 Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear. 
 He was your Master — emulate him here I 
 Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
 He was your brother — bear his ashes hence ! 
 While Powers of mind, almost of boundless range, 
 Complete in kind — as various in their change, 
 While Eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 
 That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth, 
 Survive within our souls — while lives our sense 
 Of pride in Merit's proud pre-eminence, 
 Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 
 And turn to all of him which may remain, 
 Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man, 
 And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan. 
 
 Diodaii, Jufl 17. i£* 
 
 • Pitt, Foxj and Bark* 
 
BTAPT2AS. 
 
 STANZAS TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 THOUGH the day of my destiny's over, 
 
 And the star of my fate hath declined, 
 Thy soft heart refused to discover 
 
 The faults which so many could find ; 
 Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted, 
 
 It shrunk not to share it with me, 
 And the love which my spirit hath painted 
 
 It never hath found but in thee. 
 
 Then when nature around me is smilinp*. 
 
 The last smile which answers to mine, 
 I do not believe it beguiling, 
 
 Because it reminds me of thine ; 
 And when winds are at war with the ocean, 
 
 As the breasts I believed in with me, 
 If their billows excite an emotion, 
 
 It is that they bear me from thee. 
 
 Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 
 
 And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
 Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 
 
 To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
 There is many a pang to pursue me : 
 
 They may crush, but they shall not contemn— 
 They may torture, but shall not subdue me — 
 
 'Tis of thee that I think — not of them. 
 
 Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 
 
 Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
 Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 
 
 Though slander' d, thou never couldst shak*,— • 
 Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 
 
 Though parted, it was not to fly, 
 Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 
 
 Nor mute, that the world might belie. 
 
 Yot I blame not the world, nor despise it, 
 
 Nor the war of the many with one — 
 If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 
 
 'Twas folly not sooner to shun : 
 And if dearly that error hath cost me, 
 
 And more than I once could foresee, 
 I have found that, whatever it lost me, 
 
 It could not deprive me of thee. 
 
 From the wreck of the past, which hath perisVd, 
 
 Thus much I at least may recall, 
 It hath taught me that what I most cherish'd 
 
 Deserved to be dearest of all : 
 In the desert a fountain is springing, 
 
 In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
 And a bird in the solitude singing, 
 
 Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA. 
 
 My sister! my sweet sister ! if a name 
 Dearer and purer were, it should be thin®, 
 
 Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
 No tears, but tenderness to answer mine : 
 
 Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
 A loved regret which 1 would not resign. 
 
 There yet are two things in my destiny, — 
 
 A world to roam through, and a home with thea, 
 
 The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
 It were the haven of my happiness ; 
 
 But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
 And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
 
 A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past 
 Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
 
 Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of yore, — 
 
 He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore. 
 
 If my inheritance of storms hath been 
 In other elements, and on the rocks 
 
 Of perils, overlook' d or unforeseen, 
 
 I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 
 
 The fault was mine ; nor do I seek to screen 
 My errors with defensive paradox ; 
 
 I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
 
 The careful pilot of my proper woe. 
 
 Mine were my faults, and mine be their reward, 
 My whole life was a contest, since the day 
 
 That gave me being, gave me that which marr'd 
 The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
 
 And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
 And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay : 
 
 But now I fain would for a time survive, 
 
 If but to see what next can well arrive. 
 
 Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
 I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
 
 And when I look on this, the petty spray 
 
 Of my own years of trouble, which have rolFd 
 
 Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
 
 Something — I know not what — does still uphold 
 
 A spirit of slight patience ; — x<ot in vain, 
 
 Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 
 
 Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
 Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
 
 Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
 Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
 
 (For even to this may change of soul refer, 
 And with light armour we may learn to bear, ) 
 
 Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
 
 The chief companion of a calmer lot. 
 
EPISTLE. 
 
 I feel almost at times as I have felt 
 
 In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and brook 
 Which do remember me of where I dwelt, 
 
 Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
 Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
 
 My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
 And even at moments I could think I see 
 Borne living thing to love — but none like thee. 
 
 Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 
 A fund for contemplation ; — to admire 
 
 Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; 
 
 But something worthier do such scenes inspire. 
 
 Here to be lonely is not desolate, 
 
 For much I view which I could most desire, 
 
 And, above all, a lake I can behold 
 
 Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old. 
 
 Oh, that thou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
 The fool of my own wishes, and forget 
 
 The solitude which I have vaunted so 
 Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
 
 There may be others which I less may show j — 
 I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
 
 I feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
 
 And the tide rising in my alter' d eye. 
 
 I did remind thee of our own dear Lake, 
 
 By the old Hall which may be mine no more. 
 
 Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
 
 Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, they are 
 
 Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 
 
 The world is all before mo ; I but ask 
 
 Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
 
 It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
 To mingle with the quiet of her sky, 
 
 To see her gentle face without a mask, 
 And never gaze on it with apathy. 
 
 She was my early friend, and now shall be 
 
 My sister — till I look again on thee. 
 
 I can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
 
 And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
 Such scenes as those wherein my life begun. 
 
 The earliest — even the only paths for me— 
 Bad I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
 
 I had been better than I now can be ; 
 The passions which have torn me would have slept } 
 I had not suffer* d, and thou hadst not wept. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
 
 Little with Love, and lea&fc of all with Fame ; 
 And yet they came unsought, and with me grev, 
 
 And made me all which they can make — a nam* 
 Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
 
 Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
 But all is over — I am one the more 
 To baffled millions which have gone before. 
 
 Aod for the future, this world's future may 
 From me demand but little of my care ; 
 
 I have outlived myself by many a day ; 
 Having survived so many things that were ; 
 
 My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
 Of ceaseless vigils ; for I had the share 
 
 Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
 
 Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 
 
 And for the remnant which may be to come, 
 I am content ; and for the past I feel 
 
 Not thankless, — for within the crowded sum 
 Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
 
 And for the present, I would not benumb 
 My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
 
 That with all this I still can look around, 
 
 And worship Nature with a thought profound. 
 
 For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
 I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
 
 We were and are — I am, even as thou art- 
 Beings who ne'er each other can resign ; 
 
 It is the same, together or apart, 
 From life's commencement to its slow decline 
 
 We are entwined — let death come slow or fast, 
 
 The tie which bound the first endures the last 9 
 
 — ^ ■a t q ffK few -* 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 X. 
 
 Our life is twofold : Sleep hath its own world, 
 
 A boundary between the things misnamed 
 Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
 And a wide realm of wild reality, 
 And dreams in their development have breath, 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
 They leave a weight upon our waking thought*. 
 They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
 They do divide our being ; they become 
 A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
 And look like heralds of eternity ; 
 They pass like spirits of the past-— they speak 
 Like sibyls of the future ; they have power — 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; 
 They make us what we were not — what they wil\» 
 And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
 The dread of vanish' d shadows — Are they so ? 
 Is not the past all shadow ? What are they ? 
 Creations of the mind ? — The mind can make 
 Substance, and people planets of its own 
 With beings brighter than have been, and give 
 A breath to forms which can outlive all liesh. 
 I would recall a vision which I dream'd 
 Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought, 
 A slumbering thought, is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long life into one horn-. 
 
 XL 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
 
 Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
 
 Green and of mild declivity, the last 
 
 As 'twere the cape of a long ridge of such, 
 
 Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
 
 But a most living landscape, and the wave 
 
 Of woods and corn-fields, and the abodes of mctt 
 
 Scatter' d at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
 
 Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
 
 Was crown'd with a peculiar diadom 
 
 Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
 
 Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
 
 These two, a maiden and a youth, were thora 
 
 Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
 
 fair as herself— but the boy gazed on her ; 
 
BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 And both were young, and one was beautiful : 
 
 And both were young — yet not alike in youth. 
 
 As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
 
 The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
 
 The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
 
 Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
 
 There was but one beloved face on earth, 
 
 And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
 
 Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
 
 He had no breath, no being, but in hers : 
 
 She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
 
 But trembled on her words : she was his sights 
 
 For his eye follow' d hers, and saw with hers, 
 
 Which colour 'd all his objects ; — he had ceased 
 
 To live within himself ; she was his life, 
 
 The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
 
 Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
 
 A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, 
 
 And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
 
 Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
 
 But she in these fond feelings had no share : 
 
 Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
 
 Even as a brother — but no more ; 'twas much, 
 
 For brotherless she was, save in the name 
 
 Her infant friendship had bestow' d on him ; 
 
 Herself the solitary scion left 
 
 Of a time-honour' d race.— It was a name 
 
 Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not— and wLj ! 
 
 Time taught him a deep answer — when she loved 
 
 Another ; even now she loved another, 
 
 And on the summit of that hill she stood 
 
 Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
 
 Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 
 
 III. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 
 There was an ancient mansion, and before 
 
 Its walls there was a steed caparison'd: 
 
 Within an antique Oratory stood 
 
 The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
 
 And pale, and pacing to and fro : anon 
 
 He sate him down, and seized a pen, and traced 
 
 Words which I could not guess of ; then he lean'<3 
 
 His bow'd head on his hands and shook, as 'twere 
 
 With a convulsion — then rose again, 
 
 And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear 
 
 What he had written, but he shed no tears. 
 
 And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
 
 Into a kind of quiet : as he paused, 
 
 The Lady of his love re-enter'd there ; 
 
 She was serene and smiling then, and yet 
 
 She knew she was by him beloved ; — she knew — 
 
 For quickly comes such knowledge — that his heart 
 
 Was darken'd with her shadow, and she saw 
 
THE BREAM. 
 
 That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 
 
 He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
 
 He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
 
 A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 
 Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
 
 He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow stepa 
 
 Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
 
 For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
 
 From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
 
 And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
 
 And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 
 
 IV. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
 Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
 And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
 Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
 And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
 There was a mass of many images 
 Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
 A part of all ; and in the last he lay 
 Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
 Couch' d among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
 Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping si do 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man, 
 Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, 
 While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
 And they were canopied by the blue sky, 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
 That God alone was to be seen in heaven. 
 
 v. 
 
 A chratge came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Lady of his love was wed with One 
 Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
 A thousand leagues from his, — her native hom-a, 
 She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
 Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
 And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
 As if its lid were charged with unshed tears. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had all she lovod, 
 And he who had so loved her was not there 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
 Or ill-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
 What could her grief be ? — she had loved him nsi, 
 Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, 
 Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
 Upon her mind— a spectre of the past. 
 
3oa 
 
 BYRON*S POEMS. 
 
 VI. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Wanderer was return'd. — I saw him stand 
 Before an Altar — with a gentle bride ; 
 Her face was fair, but was not that which mads 
 The Starlight of his Boyhood ; — as he stood 
 Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
 The selfsame aspoot, and the quivering shock 
 That in the antique Oratory shook 
 His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
 As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
 The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
 Was traced — and then it faded as it came, 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, 
 And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
 Not that which was, nor that which should have bo3a— > 
 But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hall, 
 And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
 The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shad©, 
 All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
 And her who was his destiny, came back 
 And thrust themselves between him and the light : 
 What business had they there at such a time ? 
 
 VIT. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
 The Lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed, 
 As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
 Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
 They had not their own lustre, but the look 
 Which is not of the earth ; she was become 
 The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
 Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
 And forms impalpable and unperceived 
 Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
 And this the world calls phrenzy : but the wlae 
 Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 
 Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
 What is it but the telescope of truth ? 
 Which strips the distance of its fantasies, 
 And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
 Making the cold reality too real ! 
 
 vin. 
 
 A change came o'er the spirit of my dream* 
 The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 
 The beings which surrounded him were gonfl^ 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
 With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'A 
 In all which was served up to him, until, 
 
 . * 
 
DARKNESS, i , 
 
 Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, 
 
 He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
 
 But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
 
 Through that which had been death to many raon, 
 
 And made him friends of mountains : with the start 
 
 And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
 
 Ho held his dialogues ; and they did teach 
 
 To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
 
 To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
 
 And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd 
 
 A marvel and a secret. — Be it so. 
 
 My dream is past ; it had no further change. 
 
 It was of a strange order, that the doom 
 
 Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
 
 Almost like a reality — the one 
 
 To end in madness — both in misery. 
 
 I HAD a dream, which was not all a dream. 
 Tho bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars 
 Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
 Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth 
 Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air ; 
 Morn came and went — and came, and brought no day, 
 A nd men forgot their passions in the dread 
 01' this their desolation ; and all hearts 
 Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light : 
 And they did live by watenfires — and the thrones, 
 Tho palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
 Tho habitations of all things which dwell, 
 Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
 Vnd men were gather' d round their blazing homcij 
 To look once more into each other's face ; 
 Happy were those who dwelt within tho eye 
 Of the volcanoes, and their mountain-torch : 
 /V foarful hope was all the world contain 'd; 
 Foyosts were set on fire — but hour by hour 
 They fell and fadod — and the crackling trunks 
 Extinguish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
 The brows of men by the despairing light 
 Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
 The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
 /Ynd hid their eyes and wept ; and some did rest 
 Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled | 
 And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
 Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
 With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
 
 IX. 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
370 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The pall of a past world ; and then again 
 
 With curses cast them down upon the dust, 
 
 And gnash' d their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek 'd, 
 
 And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, 
 
 And flap their useless wings ; the wildest brutes 
 
 Came tame and tremulous ; and vipers crawl'd 
 
 And twined themselves among the multitude, 
 
 Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for food: 
 
 And War, which for a moment was no more, 
 
 Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
 
 With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
 
 Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left ; 
 
 All earth was but one thought — and that was death, 
 
 Immediate and inglorious ; and the pang 
 
 Of famine fed upon all entrails — men 
 
 Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh ; 
 
 The meagre by the meagre were devour' d, 
 
 Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
 
 And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
 
 The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, 
 
 Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
 
 Lured their lank jaws ; himself sought out no food, 
 
 But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 
 
 And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
 
 Which answer'd not with a caress — he died. 
 
 The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but two 
 
 Of an enormous city did survive, 
 
 And they were enemies : they met beside 
 
 The dying embers of an altar-place 
 
 Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things 
 
 For an unholy usage ; they raked up, 
 
 And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton handa 
 
 The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
 
 Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
 
 Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
 
 Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
 
 Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and died-* 
 
 Even of their mutual hideousness they died, 
 
 Unknowing who he was upon whose brow 
 
 Famine had written Fiend. The world wa& void, 
 
 The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
 
 Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless — 
 
 A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
 
 The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still, 
 
 And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths ; 
 
 Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
 
 And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they dropp'd 
 
 They slept on the abyss without a surge— 
 
 The waves were dead ; the tides were in their grave, 
 
 The Moon, their mistress, had expired before ; 
 
 The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, 
 
 And the clouds perish'd ! Darkness had no need 
 
 Of aid from them — She was the Universe 1 
 
 Diodatl,*ul?,ia& 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 CHURCHILL'S GRAVE. 
 
 A FACT LITERALLY RENDERED, 
 
 I STOOD beside the grave of him who blazed 
 
 The comet of a season, and I saw 
 The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 
 
 With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
 On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
 With name no clearer than the names unknown, 
 Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 
 
 The Gardener of that ground, why it might bo 
 That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 
 
 Through the thick deaths of half a century ? 
 And thus he answered — " Well, I do not know 
 Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so ; 
 He died before my day of Sextonship, 
 
 And I had not the digging of this grave." 
 And is this all? I thought, — and do we rip 
 
 The veil of Immortality ? and crave 
 I know not what of honour and of light 
 Through unborn ages, to endure this blight ? 
 So soon, and so successless ? As I said, 
 The Architect of all on which we tread, 
 For Earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
 To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
 Whose minglings might confuse a Newton's thought, 
 
 Were it not that all life must end in one, 
 Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 
 As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
 Thus spoke he, — " I believe the man of whom 
 You wot, who lies in this selected tomb, 
 Was a most famous writer in his day, 
 And therefore travellers step from out their way 
 To pay him honour, — and myself whate'er 
 
 Your honour pleases," — then most pleased I snook 
 From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
 Some certain coins of silver, which as 'twere 
 Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
 So much but inconveniently :— Ye smile, 
 I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
 Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
 You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
 With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 
 On that Old Sexton's natural homily, 
 In which there was Obscurity and Fame, — 
 The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 
 
 2 B 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 
 
 The sufferings of mortality, 
 
 Seen in their sad reality, 
 Were not as things that gods despico \ 
 What was thy pity's recompense '! 
 A silent suffering, and intense ; 
 The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
 All that the proud can feel of pain, 
 The agony they do not show 
 The suffocating sense of woe, 
 
 Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
 And then is jealous lest the sky 
 Should have a listener, nor will sigh 
 
 Until its voice is echoless. 
 
 Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
 Between the suffering and the will, 
 Which torture where they cannot kill I 
 And the inexorable Heaven, 
 And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
 The ruling principle of Hate, 
 Which for its pleasure doth create 
 The things it may annihilate, 
 Refused thee even the boon to die ; 
 The wretched gift eternity 
 Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
 All that the Thunderer wrung from the© 
 Was but the menace which flung back 
 On him the torments of thy rack ; 
 The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
 But would not to appease him tell ; 
 And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
 And in his Soul a vain repentance, 
 And evil dread so ill dissembled, 
 That in his hand the lightnings trembled. 
 
 Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 
 To render with thy precept less 
 The sum of human wretchedness, 
 
 And strengthen Man with his own mind ; 
 
 But baffled as thou wert from high, 
 
 Still in thy patient energy, 
 
 In the endurance, and repulse 
 Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
 
 Which Earth and Heaven could not conml.«s<8 ; 
 A mighty lesson we inherit : 
 
 Thou art a symbol and a sign 
 To Mortals of their fate and force ; 
 
 Like thee, Man is in part divine. 
 A troubled stream from a pure source j 
 
♦ 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 873 
 
 And Man in portions can foresee 
 
 His own funereal destiny ; 
 
 His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
 
 And his sad unallied existence : 
 
 To which his Spirit may oppose 
 
 Itself — and equal to all woes, i 1 
 
 And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
 Which even in torture can descry 
 
 Its own concenter' d recompense, 
 Triumphant where it dares defy, 
 And making Death a Victory ! 
 
 DiodAti, Jelj JOi 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Could I remount the river of my years 
 
 To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
 
 I would not trace again the stream of hours 
 
 Between their outworn banks of wither'd flowers, 
 
 But bid it flow as now — until it glides 
 
 Into the number of the nameless tides. . . . 
 
 What is this Death ? — a quiet of the heart ? 
 The whole of that of which we are a part ? 
 For life is but a vision — what I see 
 Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
 And being so — the absent are the dead, 
 Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
 A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
 With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 
 
 The absent are the dead, for they are cold, 
 And ne'er can be what once we did behold ; 
 And they are changed, and cheerless, — or if yet 
 The unforgotten do not all forget, 
 Since thus divided — equal must it be 
 If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea ; 
 It may be both — but one day end it must 
 In the dark union of insensate dust. 
 
 The under-earth inhabitants — are thoy 
 But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
 The ashes of a thousand ages spread 
 Wherever man has trodden or shall tread ? 
 Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
 Each in his incommunicative cell ? 
 Or have they their own language ? and a sense 
 Of breathless being ? darken'd and intense 
 As midnight in her solitude?— 0 Earth ! 
 Where are the past ? — and wherefore had they birth ? 
 The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
 But bubbles op thy surface ; and the koy 
 
874 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
 
 The ebon'd portal of thy peopled cave, 
 
 Where I would walk in spirit, and behold 
 
 Our elements resolved to things untold, 
 
 And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
 
 The essence of great bosoms now no more. . . . 
 
 Diodati, Jvlj t 1223 
 
 TO LAKE LEMAN. 
 
 Rousseau— Voltaire — our Gibbon — and De Stael — 
 Leman ! these names are worthy of thy shore, 
 Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou no mort 
 
 Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 
 
 To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 
 
 But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
 Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
 
 Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
 Where dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but by thee, 
 
 How much more, Lake of Beauty ! do we feel, 
 In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
 
 The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
 Which of the heirs of immortality 
 
 Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 018 HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL. 
 
 And thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ! 
 
 And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 
 Metho aght that joy and health alone could be 
 
 Where I was not — and pain and sorrow here. 
 And is it thus ? — it is as I foretold, 
 
 And shall be more so ; for the mind recoils 
 Upon itself, and the wreck' d heart lies cold, 
 
 While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. 
 It is not in the storm nor in the strife 
 
 We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, 
 
 But in the after-silence on the shore 
 When all is lost, except a little life. 
 
 I am too well avenged ! — but 'twas my right ; 
 
 Whate'er my sins might be, thou wert not senfc 
 To be the Nemesis who should requite — 
 
 Nor did Heaven choose so near an instrument* 
 Mercy is for the merciful ! — if thou 
 .Hast been of such* 'twill be accorded now. 
 
UNES 
 
 Thy nights are banish'd from the realms of sleep !— 
 Yes ! they may flatter thee, but thou shalt feel 
 A hollow agony which will not heal, 
 
 For thou art pillow' d on a curse too deep ; 
 
 Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 
 The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
 
 I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 
 For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, 
 And be avenged, or turn them into friend ; 
 
 But thou in safe implacability 
 
 Hadst nought to dread — in thy own weakness shielded, 
 And in my love, which hath but too much yielded, 
 
 And spared, for thy sake, some I should not spare— 
 And thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
 And t\e wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 
 
 On things that were not, and on things that are^- 
 Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
 A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 
 The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, 
 And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
 Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 
 
 Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart, 
 Might still have risen from out the grave of strife, 
 And found a nobler duty than to part. 
 But of thy virtues didst thou make a vice, 
 
 Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 
 
 For present anger, and for future gold — 
 And buying other's grief at any price. 
 And thus once enter'd into crooked ways, 
 The early truth, which was thy proper praise, 
 Did not still walk beside thee — but at times, 
 And with a breast unknowing its own crimes, 
 Deceit, averments incompatible, 
 Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 
 
 In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
 Which learns to lie with silence — the pretest 
 Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
 The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
 No matter how, to the desired end — 
 
 All found a place in thy philosophy. 
 The means were worthy, and the end is won — 
 I would not do by thee as thou hast done I 
 
MANFRED* 
 
 A DRAMATIC POEM. 
 
 i 
 
 There are more things in heaven and earth, Uorati^, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 
 
 Uramatts Personam 
 
 Manfred. 
 
 Chamois Hunter. 
 
 Abbot of St. Maurice. 
 
 Manuel. 
 
 Herman. 
 
 Witch of the Alps. 
 
 Arimanes. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 
 The Destinies. 
 
 Spirits, &c. 
 
 The Scene of the Drama is amongst the Higher Alps— partly in tht 
 Castle of Manfred, and partly in the Mountains. 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 Manfred alone.~Scene, a Gothic Gallery. — Time, Midnight* 
 
 Man. The lamp must be replenish' d, but even then 
 It will not burn so long as I must watch : 
 My slumbers — if I slumber — are not sleep, 
 But a continuance of enduring thought, 
 Which then I can resist not : in my heart 
 There is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
 To look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
 The aspect and the forms of breathing men. 
 But grief should be the instructor of the wise ; 
 Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the most 
 Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
 The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 
 Philosophy and science, and the springs 
 Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
 I have essay' d, and in my mind there is 
 A power to make these subject to itself — 
 But they avail not : I have done men good, 
 And I have met with good even among men — 
 But this avail'd not : I have had my foes, 
 And none have baffled, many fallen before mo— 
 But this avail'd not : — Good, or evil, life, 
 Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
 Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
 
 * Finished in February, 1817* but not published. ProVwlly rublishad la the ipriag 
 *f that year. 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread, 
 
 And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
 
 Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wiihca t 
 
 Or lurking love of something on the earth. — 
 
 Now to my task. — 
 
 Mysterious Agency ! 
 Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
 Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
 Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
 In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
 Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 
 And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
 I call upon ye by the written charm 
 
 Which gives me power upon you Rise ! appem ! 
 
 [A pau*& 
 
 They come not yet. — Now by the voice of him 
 Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
 Which makes you tremble — by the claims of him 
 
 Who is undying, — Rise ! appear ! Appear ! 
 
 [A pauss. 
 
 If it be so.— Spirits of earth and air, 
 Ye shall not thus elude me : by a power, 
 Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell, 
 Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd, 
 The burning wreck of a demolish'd world, 
 A wandering hell in the eternal space ; 
 By the strong curse which is upon my soul, 
 The thought which is within me and around me, 
 I do compel ye to my will. — Appear ! 
 
 [A star is seen at the darker end o f the gallery 
 it is stationary ; and a voice is heard $ing%n$ 
 
 f irst Spirit. 
 
 Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
 From my mansion in the cloud, 
 Which the breath of twilight builda, 
 And the summer's sunlight gilds 
 With the azure and vermilion, 
 Which is mix'd for my pavilion ; 
 Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
 On a star-beam I have ridden ; 
 To thine adjuration bow'd, 
 Mortal ! be thy wish avow'd ! 
 
 Voice of the Second Spirit. 
 
 Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains : 
 
 They crown'd him long ago 
 On a throne of rocks, in a robe of cloudy 
 
 With a diadem of snow. 
 / Around his waist are forests braced, 
 
 The Avalanche in his hand ; 
 But ere it fall, that thundering ball 
 
 Must pause for my command. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The Glacier's cold and restless mass 
 
 Moves onward day by day ; 
 But I am he who bids it pas*, 
 
 Or with its ice delay. 
 I am the spirit of the place, 
 
 Could make the mountain bow 
 And quiver to his cavern' d base — 
 
 And what with me wouldst Thou $ 
 
 Voice of the Third SpirEU 
 
 In the blue depth of the waters,, 
 
 Where the wave hath no strife,, 
 Where the wind is a stranger, 
 
 And the sea-snake hath life, 
 Where the Mermaid is decking 
 
 Her green hair with shells ; 
 Like the storm on the surface 
 
 Came the sound of thy spoils ; 
 O'er my calm Hall of Coral 
 
 The deep echo rolTd — 
 To the Spirit of Ocean 
 
 Thy wishes unfold ! 
 
 FbuRTH Spirit. 
 
 Where the slumbering earthquake 
 
 Lies pillow'd on fire, 
 And the lakes of bitumen 
 
 Rise boilingly higher ; 
 Where the roots of the Andes 
 
 Strike deep in the earth, 
 As their summits to heaven 
 
 Shoot soaringly forth. ; 
 I have quitted my birthplace, 
 
 Thy bidding to bide — 
 Thy spell hath subdued me, 
 
 Thy will be my guide ! 
 
 Fifth Spirit. 
 I am the Rider of the wind, 
 
 The Stirrer of the storm ; 
 The hurricane I left behind 
 
 Is yet with lightning warm ; 
 To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 
 
 I swept upon the blast : 
 The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 
 
 'Twill sink ere night be past. 
 
 Sixth Spirit. 
 My dwelhng is the shadow of the nignt, 
 Why dotia thy magic torture me with ligjb&i? 
 
 Seventh Spirit. 
 The star which rules thy destiny 
 Was ruled, ere earth began, by me : 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 379 
 
 tt was a world as fresh and fair 
 
 As e'er revolved round sun in air ; 
 
 Its course was free and regular, 
 
 Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. 
 
 The hour arrived — and it became 
 
 A wandering mass of shapeless name, 
 
 A pathless comet, and a curse, 
 
 The menace of the universe ; 
 
 Still rolling on with innate force, 
 
 Without a sphere, without a course, 
 
 A bright deformity on high, 
 
 The monster of the upper sky I 
 
 And thou ! beneath its influence born — 
 
 Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
 
 Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
 
 And lent thee but to make thee mine) 
 
 For this brief moment to descend, 
 
 Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
 
 And parley with a thing like thee — 
 
 What wouldst thou, Child of Clay ! with mo I 
 
 The Seven Spirits. 
 Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy a tar, 
 
 Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay 1 
 Before thee at thy quest their spirits are — 
 
 What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals — say? 
 
 Man. Forgetfulness 
 
 First Spirit. Of what — of whom — and why ? 
 
 Man. Of that which is within me ; read it thei o~ 
 Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 
 
 Spirit. We can but give thee that which we possess : 
 Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power 
 O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
 Which shall control the elements, whereof 
 We are the dominators, each and all, 
 These shall be thine. 
 
 Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 
 
 Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
 Ye offer so profusely what I ask ? 
 
 Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
 But — thou may'st die. 
 
 Man. Will death bestow it on me ? 
 
 Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget ; 
 We are eternal ; and to us the past 
 Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd ? 
 
 Man. Ye mock me — but the power which brought ye ber* 
 Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will ! 
 The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
 The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
 Pervading, and far-darting as your own, 
 And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in ela/ 1 
 Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 
 
 Spirit. We answer as we answer' d ; our reply 
 la even in thine own words. 
 
580 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Man. Why say ye so ? 
 
 Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours, 
 We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
 Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 
 
 Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms iu vain ; 
 Ye cannot, or ye will rot, aid me. 
 
 Spirit. Say ; 
 What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
 Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
 Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days 
 
 Man. Accursed ! what have I to do with days ? 
 They are too long already. — Hence— begone ! 
 
 Spirit. Yet pause : being here, our will would do thoo service ; 
 Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
 Which we can make not, worthless in thine eyes ? 
 
 Man. No, none ; yet stay — one moment, ere we part — 
 1 would behold ye face to face. I hear 
 Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, 
 As music on the waters ; and I see 
 The steady aspect of a clear large star; 
 But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
 Or one, or all, in your accustom' d forms. 
 
 Spirit. We have no forms beyond the elements 
 Of which we are the mind and principle : 
 But choose a form — in that we will appear. 
 
 Man. I have no choice ; there is no form on earth 
 Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him 
 Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspect 
 As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 
 
 Seventh Spirit. (Appearing in the shape of a "beautiful 
 female figure.) Behold! 
 
 Man. 0 God ! if it be thus, and ilwu 
 Are not a madness and a mockery, 
 I yet might be most happy. I will clasp thee, 
 
 And we again will be [The figure vanishet. 
 
 My heart is crush'd. 
 
 [Manfred falls senseless. 
 
 (A Voice is heard in the Incantation which follows. ) 
 
 When the moon is on the wave, 
 
 And the glow-worm in the grass, 
 And the meteor on the grave, 
 
 And the wisp on the morass ; 
 When the falling stars are shooting, 
 And the answer'd owls are hooting;, 
 And the silent leaves are still 
 In the shadow of the hill, 
 Shall my soul be upon thine, 
 With a power and with a sign. 
 
 Though thy slumber may be deep, 
 Yet thy spirit shall not sleep ; 
 There are shades which will not vanish, 
 There are thoughts thou canst not banish ; 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 By a power to thee unknown, 
 Thou canst never bo alone ; 
 Thou art wrapt as with a shrotftf. 
 Thou art gather' d in a cloud ; 
 And for ever shalt thou dwell 
 In the spirit of this spell. 
 Though thou seest me not pass bj s 
 Thou shalt feel me with thine eyo 
 As a thing that, though unseen, 
 Must be near thee, and hath been ; 
 And when in that secret dread 
 Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 
 Thou shalt marvel I am not 
 As thy shadow on the spot, 
 And the power which thou dost fBoi 
 Shall be what thou must conceal. 
 
 And a magic voice and verse 
 Hath baptized thee with a curse ; 
 And a spirit of the air 
 Hath begirt thee with a snare ; 
 In the wind there is a voice 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
 And to thee shall Night deny 
 All the quiet of her sky ; 
 And the day shall have a sun, 
 Which shall make thee wish it dona. 
 
 From thy false tears I did distil 
 
 An essence which has strength to kill ; 
 
 From thine own heart I then did wring 
 
 The black blood in its blackest spring ; 
 
 From thine own smile I snatch'd tho sna 
 
 For there it coil'd as in a brake ; 
 
 From thine own lip I drew the charm 
 
 Which gave all these their chiefest harm 
 
 In proving every poison known, 
 
 I found the strongest was thine owr? 
 
 By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 
 
 By thy unfathom'd gulfe of guile, 
 
 By that most seeming virtuous eye, 
 
 By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 
 
 By the perfection of thine art 
 
 Which pass'd for human thine own heart 
 
 By thy delight in others' pain, 
 
 And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 
 
 1 cull upon thee ! and compel 
 
 Thyself to be thy proper Hell ! 
 
 And on thy head I pour the vial 
 Which doth devote thee to this trial ; 
 Nor to slumber, nor to die, 
 Shall be in thy destiny ; 
 
BYRON'3 POEMS. 
 
 Though thy death shall still seem near 
 
 To thy wish, but as a fear ; 
 
 Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 
 
 And the clankless chain hath bound theo 
 
 O'er thy heart and brain together 
 
 Hath the word been pass'd — now witner ! 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 The Mountain of the Jung/ran. — Time, Morning. — MAHFBID 
 
 alone upon the Cliffs. 
 
 Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
 The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
 The remedy I reck'd of tortured me ; 
 I lean no more on superhuman aid, 
 It hath no power upon the past, and for 
 The future, till the past be gulfd in darkness, 
 It is not of my search. — My mother Earth ! 
 And thou, fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, 
 Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
 And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
 That openest over all, and unto all 
 Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
 And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge 
 I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
 Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
 In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
 A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
 My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
 To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause ? 
 I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
 I see the peril — yet do not recede ; 
 And my brain reels — and yet my foot is firm : 
 There is a power upon me which withholds, 
 And makes it my fatality to live ; 
 If it be life to wear within myself 
 This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
 My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
 To justify my deeds unto myself — 
 The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
 Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 
 
 [An eagle 
 
 Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
 
 Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be 
 
 Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets ; thou art gone 
 
 Where the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
 
 Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
 
 With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
 
 How beautiful is all this visible world ! 
 
 How glorious in its action and itself! 
 
 But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
 
 Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
 
 To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence, mak® 
 
 A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 The breath of degradation and of pride, 
 
 Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
 
 Till our mortality predominates, 
 
 And men are — what they name not to themselves 
 
 And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note, 
 
 [The Shepherd's pipe in the distance iz heard. 
 The natural music of the mountain reed — 
 For here the patriarchal days are not 
 A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
 Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering held ; 
 My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, that I were 
 The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
 A living voice, a breathing harmony, 
 A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
 With the blest tone which made me ! 
 
 Enter from below a Chamois Huntf.r. 
 
 Chamois Hunter, Even sc 
 
 This way the chamois leapt : her nimblo feet 
 Have baffled me ; my gains to-day will scarce 
 Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here ? 
 Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
 A height which none even of our mountaineers, 
 Save our best hunters, may attain : his garb 
 Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
 Proud as a freeborn peasant's, at this distance — 
 I will approach him nearer. 
 
 Man. {not perceiving the other). To be thus — 
 Gray-hair' d with anguish, like these blasted pines, 
 Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, 
 A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
 Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
 And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
 Having been otherwise ! Now furrow* d o'er 
 With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years 
 And hours — all tortured into ages — hours 
 Which I outlive ! — Ye toppling crags of ice ! 
 Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws dawn 
 In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me ! 
 I hear ye momently above, beneath, 
 Crash with a frequent conflict ; but ye pass 
 And only fall on things that still would live ; 
 On the young nourishing forest, or the hut 
 And hamlet of the harmless villager. 
 
 C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the valley j; 
 I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance 
 To lose at once his way and life together. 
 
 Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers : cloud* 
 Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, 
 Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
 Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
 Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. 
 
 C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously ; if near, 
 A sudden step will startle him, and he 
 Seems tottering already. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Man. Mountains have fallen, 
 
 Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
 Rocking their Alpine brethren ; filling up 
 The ripe green valleys with destruction's splintera ; 
 Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
 Which crush' d the waters into mist, and made 
 Their fountains find another channel — Thus, 
 Thus, in its old age, did Mount Kosenberg — 
 Why stood I not beneath it ? 
 
 C. Hun. Friend ! have a care, 
 
 Your next step may be fatal ! — for the love 
 Of Him who made you, stand not on that brink ! 
 
 Man. (not hearing him). Such would have been for me o 
 fitting tomb ; 
 My bones had then been quiet in their depth : 
 They had not then been strewn upon the rocks 
 For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus they shall bo — 
 In this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening heavens ! 
 Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
 You were not meant for me — Earth ! take these atoms ! 
 
 [As Manfred is in act to spring from the cliff, the Chamois 
 Hunter seizes and retains him with a sudden grasp.] 
 
 C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary of thy lifo, 
 Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood — 
 Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 
 
 Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp me not — 
 I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
 Spinning around me 1 grow blind What art thou? 
 
 C. Hun. I'll answer that anon. — Away with me 
 
 The clouds grow thicker there — now lean on me — 
 
 Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and cling 
 A moment to that shrub — now give me your hand, 
 And hold fast by my girdle — softly — well — 
 The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 
 Come on, we'll quickly find a surer footing, 
 And something like a pathway, which the torrent 
 Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 'tis bravely done— 
 You should have been a hunter. — Follow me. 
 
 [A$ they descend the rocks with difficulty, the scene closes,^ 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A Cottage amongst the Bernese Alps. 
 
 Manfred and the Chamois Hunter. 
 
 C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thou must not yet go forth : 
 Thy mind and body are alike unfit 
 To trust each other, for some hours, at least ; 
 When thou art better, I will be thy guide— 
 But whither? 
 
MANFRED* ZS* 
 
 Man, It imports not : I do know 
 My route full well, and need no further guidance. 
 
 C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high lineage 
 One of the many chiefs whose castled crags 
 Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
 May call thee lord ? I only know their portals ; 
 My way of life leads me but rarely down 
 To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
 Carousing with the vassals ; but the paths, 
 Which step from out our mountains to their doors, 
 I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 
 
 Man. No matter. 
 
 C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon mo the question, 
 
 And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine ; 
 Tis of an ancient vintage : many a day 
 Thos thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now 
 Let it do thus far thine — Come, pledge mo fairly. 
 
 Man. Away, away, there's blood upon the brim ! 
 Will it then never— never sink in the earth '( 
 
 C. Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thok 
 
 Man. I say 'tis blood — my blood ! the pure warm stream 
 Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours 
 When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
 And loved each other as we should not love, 
 And this was shed : but still it rises up, 
 Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven, 
 Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 
 
 C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some half-maddening f\% 
 Which makes thee people vacancy, whato'er 
 Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet — 
 The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience 
 
 Man. Patience and patience ! llence — that word was made 
 3\)r brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey ; 
 Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine, — 
 I am not of thine order. 
 
 C. Hun. Thanks to Heaven ! 
 
 I would not be of thine for the free fame 
 Of William Tell : but whatso'er thine ill, 
 It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless. 
 
 Man. Do I not bear it ? — Look on me — I live. 
 \ C. Hun. This is convulsion, and no healthful lifo, 
 
 Man. I tell thee, man ! I have lived many years, 
 Many long years, but they are nothing now 
 To those which I must number : ages — ages — 
 Space and eternity — and consciousness, 
 With the fierce thirst of death — and still unslaked ! 
 
 C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle aga 
 Hath scarce been set, I am thine elder far. 
 
 Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on tim« f 
 It doth ; but actions are our epochs : mine 
 Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
 Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore, 
 ; (nnumerable atoms ; and one desert, 
 
586 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
 But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
 Rocks, and the salt-surf* weeds of bitterness. 
 
 C. Hun. Alas ! he's mad — but yet. I must not leave hiru. 
 
 Man. I would I were — for then the things I see 
 Would be but a distemper 'd dream. 
 
 C. Hun. What is it 
 
 That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon K 
 
 Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of the Alpg— 
 Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
 And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free ; 
 Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts ; 
 Thy days of health, and nights of sleep ; thy toils, 
 By danger dignified, yet guiltless ; hopes 
 Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
 With cross and garland over its green turf, 
 And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
 This do I see — and then I look within — 
 It matters not — my soul was scorch' d already ! 
 
 C. Hun. And wouldst thou then exchange thy lot for mine ] 
 
 Man. No friend ! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange 
 My lot with living being : I can bear — 
 However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear — 
 In life what others could not brook to dream, 
 But perish in their slumber. 
 
 C. Hun. And with this — 
 
 This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
 Canst thou be black with evil ? — say not so. 
 Can one of gentle thoughts have wreak' d revenge 
 Upon his enemies ? 
 
 Man. Oh ! no, no, no ! 
 
 My injuries came down on those who loved me — 
 On those whom I best loved : I never quell 'd 
 An enemy, save in my just defence — 
 But my embrace was fatal ! 
 
 C. Hun. Heaven give thee rest ! 
 
 And penitence restore thee to thyself; 
 My prayers shall be for thee. 
 
 Man. I need them not, 
 
 )ut can endure thy pity. I depart — 
 'Tis time — farewell ! — Here's gold, and thanks for thee— 
 No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not, 
 I know my path — the mountain peril 's past : — 
 And once again, I charge thee, follow not ! 
 
 [Exit Manfred. 
 
 scene II. 
 
 A lower Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract, 
 
 Enter Manfred. 
 
 It is not noon — the sunborv's rays still arch * 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
 
 • This iris is formed by the rays of the sun over the lower part of the Alpine torrents ; 
 it Lb exactly like a rainbow come down to pay a visit, and so close that you may walk into 
 It : this effect lasts till noon. 
 
MANFRED. Z87 
 
 And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
 O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
 And fling its lines of foaming light along, 
 And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
 The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
 As told in the Apocalypse. No eyes 
 But mine now drink this sight of loveliness ; 
 I should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
 And with the Spirit of the place divide 
 The homage of these waters. I will call her. 
 
 [Manfred takes some of the water into the palm of his hand, 
 and flings it in the air, muttering the abjuration. Aji> > a 
 pause, the Witch op the Alps rises beneath the arch qftht 
 sunbow of the torrent. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light, 
 
 And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
 
 The charms of earth's least mortal daughters grow 
 
 To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
 
 Of purer elements ; while the hues of youth, — 
 
 Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
 
 Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
 
 Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leavos 
 
 Upon the lofty glacier's virgin snow, 
 
 The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven, — 
 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er the©. 
 
 Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
 
 Wherein is glass' d serenity of soul, 
 
 Which of itself shows immortality, 
 
 I read that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
 
 Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
 
 At times to commune with them, if that he 
 
 Avail him of his spells to call thee thus, 
 
 And gaze on thee a moment. 
 
 Witch. Son of Earth ! 
 
 I know thee, and the powers which give thee power ; 
 I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
 And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
 Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
 I have expected this — what wouldst thou with mr ? 
 
 Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing further. 
 The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and I 
 Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those who govern her — 
 But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
 From them what they could not bestow, and now 
 I search no further. 
 
 Witch. What could be the quest 
 
 Which is not in the power of the most powerful, 
 The rulers of the invisible ? 
 
 Man. A boon ; 
 
 But why should I repeat it ? 'twere in vain. 
 
 Witch. I know not that ; let thy lips utter it* 
 
 2o2 
 
888 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but the same ; 
 My pang shall find a voice. From my youth upwards 
 My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
 Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes ; 
 The thirst of their ambition was not mine, 
 The aim of their existence was not mine ; 
 My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
 Made me a stranger ; though I wore the form, 
 I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
 Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded mo 
 
 Was there but one who but of her anon. 
 
 I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men 
 
 I held but slight communion ; but, instead, 
 
 My joy was in the wilderness, to breathe 
 
 The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 
 
 Where the birds dare not build, nor insects Tflng 
 
 Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
 
 Into the torrent, and to roll along 
 
 On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave 
 
 Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow. 
 
 In these my early strength exulted ; or 
 
 To follow through the night the moving moon, 
 
 The stars and their development ; or catch 
 
 The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim ; 
 
 Or to look, list'ning, on the scatter' d leaves, 
 
 While Autumn winds were at their evening song. 
 
 These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
 
 For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
 
 Hating to be so, — crossed me in my path, 
 
 I fet myself degraded back to them, 
 
 And was all clay again. And then I dived, 
 
 In my lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 
 
 Searching its cause in its effect ; and drew 
 
 From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heaped-up dust, 
 
 Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
 
 The nights of years in sciences untaught, 
 
 Save in the old time ; and with time and toil, 
 
 And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
 
 As in itself hath power upon the air, 
 
 And spirits that do compass air and earth, 
 
 Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 1 
 
 Mine eyes familiar with Eternity ; 
 
 Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
 
 He who from out their fountain dwellings raised 
 
 Eros and Anteros,* at Gadara, 
 
 As I do thee ; — and with my knowledge grew 
 
 The thirst of knowledge, and the power and joy 
 
 Of this most bright intelligence, until 
 
 Witch. Proceed. 
 
 Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong my words, 
 
 Boasting these idle attributes, because 
 
 * The philosopher Jamblicus. The story of the raining of Eros and Antercc may q§ 
 found in hie life by Eunapius. It is weli told 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 Ab 1 approach the core of my heart's grief- 
 But to my task. I have not named to thee 
 Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being;, 
 With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
 If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
 Yet there was one 
 
 Witch. Spare not thyself — proceed. 
 
 Man. She was like me in lineaments — her oy&z, 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
 Even of her voice, they said were like to mino ; 
 But soften' d all, and temper'd into beauty : 
 She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
 The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
 To comprehend the universe : nor these 
 Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
 And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
 Humility — and that I never had. 
 Her faults were mine — her virtues were her own — 
 I loved her, and destroy' d her ! 
 
 Witch. With thy hand ? 
 
 Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which broke her heart 
 It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
 Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was shed ; — 
 I saw — and could not stanch it. 
 
 Witch. And for this — 
 
 A being of the race thou dost despise, 
 The order which thine own would rise above, 
 Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
 The gifts of our great knowledge, and shrink'st back 
 To recreant mortality Away ! 
 
 Man. Daughter of Air ! I tell thee, since that hour— 
 But words are breath — look on mo in my sleep, 
 Or watch my watchings — Come and sit by me ! 
 My solitude is solitude no more, 
 But peopled with the Furies ; — I have gnash'd 
 My teeth in darkness till returning morn, 
 Then cursed myself till sunset ; I have pray'd 
 For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me ; 
 I have affronted death — but in the war 
 Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 
 And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
 Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
 Back by a single hair, which would not break* 
 In fantasy, imagination, all 
 The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
 A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
 But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
 Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
 I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulnesa 
 I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found. 
 And that I have to learn — my sciences. 
 My long-pursued and superhuman art 
 
BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 Is mortal here — I dwell in my despair— 
 And live — and live for ever. 
 
 Witch. It may be 
 
 That I can aid thee. 
 
 Man. To do this thy power 
 
 Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
 Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
 With any torture — so it be the last. 
 
 Witch. That is not in my province ; but if thou 
 Wilt swear obedience to my will, and do 
 My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 
 
 Man. I will not swear — Obey ! and whom ? the spirits 
 Whose presence I command, and be the slave 
 Of those who served me — Never ! 
 
 Witch. Is this all ? 
 
 Hast thou no gentler answer ? — Yet bethink thee, 
 And pause ere thou rejectest. 
 
 Man. I have said it 
 
 Witch. Enough ! — I may retire then — say ! 
 
 Man, Retire ! 
 
 [The Witch disappear 
 
 Man. (alone). We are the fools of time and terror : days 
 Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
 Loathing our life, and dreading still to die. 
 In all the days of this detested yoke — 
 This vital weight upon the struggling heart, 
 Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with paia, 
 Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
 In all the days of past and future, for 
 In life there is no present, we can number 
 How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
 Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
 As from a stream in winter, though the chill 
 Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
 Still in my science — I can call the dead, 
 And ask them what it is we dread to be : 
 The sternest answer can but be the Grave, 
 And that is nothing. If they answer not-— 
 The buried Prophet answer' d to the Hag 
 Of Endor ; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
 From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
 An answer and his destiny — he slew 
 That which he loved, unknowing what he slew. 
 And died unpardon'd — though he call'd in aid 
 The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
 The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
 The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
 Or fixed her term of vengeance — she replied 
 In words of dubious import, but fulfhTd.* 
 If I had never lived, that which I love 
 
 • The story of Pausanias, king of Sparta (who commanded the Greeks at tha battle «< 
 flatea, aad afterwards perished for an attempt to betray the Lacedaemonians), ana 
 Cleouice, is told in Plutarch's Life of Cimon ; and in the Laconics of Pausanias tbe 
 ■ophist, in his deseiiption of Greece. 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 Had still been living : had I never love 1 
 
 That which. I love would still be beautiful — 
 
 Happy and giving happiness. What is she ? 
 
 What is she now 1 — a sufferer for my sins — 
 
 A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
 
 Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
 
 Yet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
 
 Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
 
 On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
 
 And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
 
 But I can act even what I most abhor, 
 
 And champion human fears. The night approaches 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The summit of the Jungfrau Mountain* 
 
 Enter First Destiny. 
 
 The moon is rising broad, and round, and bright ; 
 
 And here on snows, where never human foot 
 
 Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
 
 And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
 
 The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 
 
 We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
 
 The aspect of a tumbling tempest's foam, 
 
 Frozen in a moment — a dead whirlpool's imago : 
 
 And this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 
 
 The fretwork of some earthquake — where the cloudj 
 
 Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
 
 Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
 
 Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
 
 To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
 
 Is our great festival — 'tis strange they come not. 
 
 A Voice without, singing. 
 
 The Captive Usurper, 
 
 Hurl'd down from the throne, 
 Lay buried in torpor, 
 
 Forgotten and lone ; 
 I broke through his slumbers, 
 
 I shiver'd his chain, 
 I leagued him with numbers — 
 
 He 's Tyrant again ! 
 With the blood of a million he'll answer my care, 
 With a nation's destruction — his flight and despair. 
 
 Second Voice, without. 
 
 The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
 But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast ; 
 There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 
 And there is not a wretch to lament o'er his wreck J 
 Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by the hair, 
 And he was a subject well worthy my care, 
 
BYllON'S POEMS. 
 
 A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
 
 But I saved him to wreak further havoc for u j ■ 
 
 First Destiny, answering. 
 
 The city lies sleeping ; 
 
 The morn, to deplore it, 
 May dawn on it weeping : 
 
 Sullenly, slowly, 
 The black plague flew o'er it — 
 
 Thousands lie lowly ; 
 Tens of thousands shall perish — 
 
 The living shall fly from 
 The sick they shall cherish ; 
 
 But nothing can vanquish 
 The touch that they die from. 
 
 Sorrow and anguish, 
 And evil and dread, 
 
 Envelope a nation — 
 The blest are the dead, 
 
 Who see not the sight 
 Of their own desolation — 
 This work of a night — 
 This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doing— 
 For ages I've done, and shall still be renewing ! 
 
 Enter the Second and Third Destinies. 
 The Three. 
 
 Our hands contain the hearts of men, 
 
 Our footsteps are their graves ; 
 We only give to take again 
 
 The spirits of our slaves ! 
 
 First Des. Welcome ! — Where's Nemesis ? 
 Second Des. At some great work ; 
 
 But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
 Third Des. Behold she cometh. 
 
 Enter Nemesis. 
 
 First Des. Say where hast thou been ? 
 
 My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 
 
 Nem. I was detain 'd repairing shatter'd thrones, 
 Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
 Avenging men upon their enemies, 
 And making them repent their own revenge ; 
 Goading the wise to madness ; from the dull 
 Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
 Afresh, for thoy were waxing out of date, 
 And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
 To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
 Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away ! 
 We kave outstay' d the hour — mount we our clouds ! 
 
MANFRED* 
 
 Scene iv. 
 
 The Ball of Arimanes — Arimaneson his Throne, a Gloc 
 of Fire, surrounded by the Spirits. 
 
 Hymn of Hie Spirits. 
 
 Hail to our Master ! — Prince of Earth and Air ! 
 
 Who walks the clouds and waters — in his hand 
 The sceptre of the elements, which tear 
 
 Themselves to chaos at his high command ! 
 He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea ; 
 
 He speaketh — and the clouds reply in thunder ; 
 He gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 
 
 He moveth — earthquakes rend the world asunder. 
 Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 
 
 His shadow is the Pestilence ; his path 
 The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 
 
 And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
 To him War offers daily sacrifice ; 
 
 To him Death pays his tribute ; Life is his 
 With all its infinite of agonies — 
 
 And his the spirit of whatever is ! 
 
 Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 
 
 First Des. Glory to Arimanes ! on the earth 
 His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
 His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 
 
 Second Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we who bow 
 The necks of men, bow down before his throne ! 
 
 Third Des. Glory to Arimanes ! we wait 
 His nod ! 
 
 Nem. Sovereign of sovereigns ! we are thine, 
 And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
 And most things wholly so ; still to increase 
 Our power, increasing thine, demands our care, 
 And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
 Have been fulfill'd to the utmost. 
 
 Enter Manfred. 
 
 A Spirit. What is here? 
 
 A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
 Bow down and worship ! 
 
 Second Spirit. I do know the man — 
 
 A Magian of great power, and fearful skill ! 
 
 Third Spirit. Bow down, and worship, slave ! — 
 What, know'st thou not 
 Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble and obey ! 
 
 All the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned J a 
 Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 
 
 Man. I know it ; 
 
 And yet ye see I kneel not. 
 
 Fourth Spirit. 'Twill be taught thee. 
 
 Man. Tis taught already ; — many a night on the earth, 
 On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my face, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And strew* d my head with ashes ; I have known 
 The fulness of humiliation, for 
 I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
 To my own desolation. 
 
 Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 
 
 Refuse to Arimanes on his throne 
 What the whole earth accords, beholding not 
 The terror of his Glory ? — Crouch ! I say. 
 
 Man. Bid him bow down to that which is above him 6 
 The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
 Who made him not for worship — let him kneel, 
 And we will kneel together. 
 
 The Spirits. Crush the worm ! 
 
 Tear him in pieces ! — 
 
 First Des. Hence ! Avaunt ! he's mine, 
 Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
 Is of no common order, as his port 
 And presence here denote ; his sufferings 
 Have been of an immortal nature, like 
 Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and will, 
 As far as is compatible with clay, 
 Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been such 
 As clay hath seldom borne ; his aspirations 
 Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
 And they have only taught him what we know — 
 That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
 But an exchange of ignorance for that 
 Which is another kind of ignorance. 
 This is not all — the passions, attributes 
 Of earth and heaven, from which no power, nor being, 
 Nor breath from the worm upwards, is exempt, 
 Have pierced his heart ! and in their consequence 
 Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, 
 Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
 And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 
 No other Spirit in this region hath 
 A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 
 
 Nem. What doth he here then ? 
 
 First Des. Let him answer thai 
 
 Man. Ye know what I have known ; and without power 
 
 I could not bo amongst ye : but there are 
 
 Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
 
 Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 
 Nem. What wouldst thou ? 
 
 Man. Thou canst not reply to ma 
 
 Call up the dead — my question is for them. 
 
 Nem. Great Arimanes, doth thy will avouch 
 The wishes of this mortal ? 
 
 Ari. Yea. 
 
 Nem. Whom wouldst thoa 
 
 UncharnelT 
 
 Man. One without a tomb — call up 
 As tar to. 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 Nemesis 
 
 Shadow ! or Spirit ! 
 
 Whatever thou art, 
 Which still doth inherit 
 
 The whole or a part 
 Of the form of thy birth, 
 
 Of the mould of thy clay, 
 Which return'd to the earth, 
 
 Reappear to the day ! 
 Bear what thou borest. 
 
 The heart and the form, 
 And the aspect thou worest 
 
 Redeem from the worm. 
 Appear ! — Appear ! — Appear ! 
 Who sent thee there requires thee here ! 
 
 [The Phantom of Astarte rises and stci7ids 
 in the midst. 
 
 Man. Can this be death ? there *s bloom upon her choek 
 Bat now I see it is no living hue, 
 But a strange hectic, like the unnatural red 
 Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf. 
 It is the same ! Oh, God ! that I should drea* 
 To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
 I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 Nemesis. 
 By the power which hath broken 
 
 The grave which enthrall* d thee, 
 S] >cak to him who hath spoken, 
 
 Or those who have call d thee ! 
 
 Man. She is silent. 
 
 And in that silence I am more than answer'd. 
 
 Nem. My power extends no further. Prince of Air I 
 It rests with thee alone — command her voice. 
 
 Art. Spirit — obey this sceptre 1 
 
 Nem. Silent still ! 
 
 She is not of our order, but belongs 
 To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
 And we are baffled also. 
 
 Man. Hear me, hear me- 
 
 Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
 I have so much endured — so much endure — 
 Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
 Than I am changed for thee. Thou lovedst me 
 Too much, as I loved thee : we were not mado 
 To torture thus each other, though it were 
 The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
 Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do bear 
 This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
 One of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
 For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 To bind me in existence — in a life 
 
 Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
 
 A future like the past. I cannot rest. 
 
 I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
 
 I feel but what thou art — and what I am ; 
 
 And I would hear yet once before I perish 
 
 The voice which was my music — Speak to me ! 
 
 For I have call'd on thee in the still night, 
 
 Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughe 
 
 And woke the mountain wolves, and made the caves 
 
 Acquainted with thy vainly-echoed name, 
 
 "Which answer 'd me — many things answer' d me — 
 
 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
 
 Yet speak to me ; I have outwatch'd the stars, 
 
 And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
 
 Speak to me ! I have wander' d o'er the earth, 
 
 And never found thy likeness — Speak to me ! 
 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for me : 
 
 I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
 
 I reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
 
 This once — once more ! 
 
 Phantom of Astarte. Manfred ! 
 
 Man. Say on, say on — 
 
 I live but in the sound — it is thy voice ! 
 
 Phan. Manfred ! To-morrow ends thine earthly ills. 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven ? 
 Phan. Farewell ! 
 
 Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 
 
 Phan Farewell ! 
 
 Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thou lovest me. 
 Phan. Manfred ! 
 
 [The Spirit of Astarte disappear* 
 
 Nem. She 's gone, and will not be recall' d ; 
 
 Her words will be fulfill'd. Keturn to the earth. 
 
 A Spirit. He is convulsed — This is to be a mortal, 
 And seek the things beyond mortality. 
 
 Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and maker 
 His torture tributary to his will. 
 Had he been one of us, he would have made 
 An awful spirit. 
 
 Nem. Hast thou further question 
 
 Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers ? 
 
 Man. None. 
 
 Nem. Then for a time farewell. 
 
 Man. We meet then ! Where ? On the earth ? — 
 Even as thou wilt : and for the grace accorded 
 1 now depart a debtor. Fare ye well ! 
 
 [Exit Manfred. 
 
 i j ( Scene closes. J 
 
ACT III. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 A If all in the Castle of Manfred. 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 A$\i/i. What is tho hour ? 
 
 Her. It wants but ono till sunset, 
 
 And promises a lovely twilight. 
 
 Man. Say, 
 Arc all things so disposed of in tho tower 
 As I directed 1 
 
 Her. All, my lord, aro ready : 
 
 Here is tho key and casket. 
 
 Man. It is well : 
 
 Thou mayst retire. [Exit Hermaii 
 
 Man (alone). There is a calm upon me — 
 
 Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
 Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
 If that I did not know philosophy 
 To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
 The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
 From out tho schoolman's jargon, I should deem 
 The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 
 And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
 But it is well to have known it, though but once : 
 It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense, 
 And I within my tablets would note down 
 That there is such a feeling. Who is there ? 
 
 Re-enter Herman. 
 
 Her. My lord, the Abbot of St. Maurice craves 
 To greet your presence. 
 
 Enter the Abbot of St. Matjrice. 
 
 Abbot. Peace be with Count Ma-nfred ! 
 
 Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these walls , 
 Thy presence honours them, and blesseth those 
 Who dwell within them. 
 
 Abbot. Would it were so, Count ! — 
 
 But I would fain confer with thee alone. 
 
 Man. Herman, retire. — What would my roverend guest V 
 
 Abbot. Thus, without prelude : — Age and zeal, my oinco. 
 And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
 Our near, though not acquainted neighbourhood, 
 May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
 And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
 And busy with thy name ; a noble name 
 For centuries : may he who bears it now 
 Transmit it unimpair'd ! 
 
 Man. Proceed, — I listen. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Abbot. 'Tis said thou holdest converse with the thin^i 
 Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
 That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
 The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
 Which walk the valley of the shade of death, 
 Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
 Thy fellows in creation, thou dost rarely 
 Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy solitude 
 Is as an anchorite's, were it but holy. 
 
 Man. And what are they who do avouch these thing* ? 
 
 Abbot. My pious brethren — the scared peasantry — 
 Even thy own vassals — who do look on thee 
 With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 
 
 Man. Take it. 
 
 Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy — 
 
 I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
 But if these things be sooth, there still is time 
 For penitence and pity : reconcile thee 
 With the true church, and through the church to Heav©a 
 
 Man. I hear thee. This is my reply : whate'er 
 I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
 Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a mortal 
 To my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
 Aghast your ordinances ? prove and punish ! 
 
 Abbot. My son ! I did not speak of punishment, 
 But penitence and pardon ; — with thyself 
 The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
 Our institutions and our strong belief 
 Have given me power to smooth the path from am 
 To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
 I leave to Heaven, — 14 Vengeance is Mine alono I w 
 »So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
 His servant echoes back the awful word. 
 
 Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy men, 
 Ncr charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
 Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast 
 Nor agony- — nor, greater than all these, 
 The innate tortures of that deep despair, 
 Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 
 But all in all sufficient to itself 
 Would make a hell of heaven — can exorcise 
 From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sensa 
 Of its own sins, wrongs, sufferance, and revenge 
 Upon itself ; there is no future pang 
 Can deal that justice on the self-condemn' d 
 He deals on his own soul. 
 
 Abbot. All this is well ; 
 
 For this will pass away and be succeeded 
 By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
 With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
 Which all who seek may win, whatever bo 
 Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
 And the commencement of atonement is 
 The sense of its necessity. — Say on — 
 
Manfred. 
 
 And all our church can teach thee shall be taught ; 
 And all we can absolve thee shall bo pardon'd. 
 
 Man. When Rome's sixth emperor was near his itw 
 The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
 To shun the torments of a public death 
 From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier, 
 With show of loyal pity, would have stanch'd 
 The gushing throat with his officious robe ; 
 The dying Koman thrust him back, and said — 
 Some empire still in his expiring glance — 
 " It is too late — is this fidelity i " 
 
 Abbot. And what of this ? 
 
 Man. I answer with the Roma~ 
 
 ' ' It is too late!" 
 
 Abbot. It never can be so, 
 
 To reconcile thyself with thy own soul. 
 And thy own soul with Heaven. Hast thou no hope ? 
 'Tis strange — even those who do despair above, 
 Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth, 
 To which frail twig they cling, like drowning men. 
 
 Man. Ay — father ! I have had those earthly visions 
 And noble aspirations in my youth, 
 To make my own the mind of other men, 
 The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
 I knew not whether — it might be to fall ; 
 But fall even as the mountain-cataract, 
 Which having leapt from its more dazzling height, 
 Even in the foaming strength of its abyss 
 (Which casts up misty columns that become 
 Clouds raining from the reascended skies), 
 Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 
 My thoughts mistook themselves. 
 
 Abbot. And wherefore eo * 
 
 Man. I could not tame my nature down ; for he 
 Must serve who fain would sway — and soothe — and tfut • 
 And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
 And be a living lie — who would become 
 A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 
 The mass are ; I disdain'd to mingle with 
 A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
 The lion is alone, and so am I. 
 
 Abbot. And why not live and act with other men * 
 Man. Because my nature was averse from life ; 
 And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
 But find a desolation : — like tho wind, 
 The red-hot breath of the most lone simoom, 
 Which dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'er, 
 The barren Bands which bear no shrubs to blast. 
 And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
 And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
 But being met is deadly ; such hath been 
 The course of my existence ; but there cam® 
 Things in my path which are no mora. 
 
100 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Abbot, Alas! 
 I 'gin t© fsar that thou art past all aid 
 From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
 I still would 
 
 Man. Look on me ! there is an order 
 Of mortals on the earth, who do become 
 Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
 Without the violence of warlike death ; 
 Some perishing of pleasure — some of study- 
 Some worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
 Some of disease — and some insanity — 
 And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts ; 
 For this last is a malady which slays 
 More than are number' d in the lists of Fate, 
 Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
 Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
 Have I partaken ; and of all these things, 
 Cne were enough ; then wonder not that I 
 Am what I am, but that I ever was, 
 Or having been, that I am still on earth. 
 
 A bbot. Yet, hear me still 
 
 Man. Old man ! I do rcap^C; 
 
 Thine order, and revere thy years ; I deem 
 The purpose pious, but it is in vain : 
 Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
 Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
 All further colloquy — and so — farewell. 
 
 [Exit MANFFTSaL 
 
 Abbot. This should have been a noble creature; ho 
 Hath all the energy which would have made 
 A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
 Had they been wisely mingled ; as it is, 
 It is an awful chaos — light and darkness — 
 And mind and dust — and passions and pure thoughts, 
 Mix'd, and contending without end or order, 
 All dormant or destructive ; he will perish, 
 And yet he must not ; I will try once more, 
 For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
 Is to dare all things for a righteous end. 
 I '11 follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 
 
 [Exit Abbot. 
 
 scene II. 
 Another Chamber, 
 
 Manfred and Herman. 
 
 H*zr. My lord, you bade me wait on you at sun39fc : 
 11 3 sinks behind the mountain. 
 
 Man. Doth he so ? 
 
 I look on him. 
 
 [Manfred advancet to the Window of the UaiL 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 401 
 
 Glorious Orb ! the idol 
 Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
 Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons * 
 Of the embrace of angels with a sex 
 More beautiful than they, which did draw down 
 The erring spirits, who can ne'er return. — 
 Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
 The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
 Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
 Which gladden'd, on their mountain tops, t-he hearts 
 Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
 Themselves in orisons ! Thou material God ! 
 And representative of the Unknown — 
 Who chose thee for His shadow ! Thou chief star ! 
 Centre of many stars ! which mak'st our earth 
 Endurable, and temperest the hues 
 And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
 Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
 And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
 Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
 Even as our outward aspects ; — thou dost rise, 
 And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well ! 
 I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glance 
 Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
 My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
 To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
 Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
 
 I follow. [Exit MaHTOZD 
 
 scene m. 
 
 The Mountains — the Castle of Manfred at some distance — A 
 Terrace before a Tower. — Time, Twilight. 
 
 Herman, Manuel, and other Dependants of Manfred. 
 
 Her. 'Tis strange enough ; night after night, for years, 
 He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
 Without a witness. I have been within it, — 
 So have we all been oft-times : but from it, 
 Or its contents, it were impossible 
 To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
 His studies tend to. To be sure, there is 
 One chamber where none enter : I would give 
 The fee of what I have to come these three years, 
 To pore upon its mysteries. 
 
 Manuel. 'Twere dangerous ; 
 
 Content thyself with what thou know'st already. 
 
 Her, Ah ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
 
 * " And it came to pass, that the Sons of God saw the daughters of men, that they 
 were fair," &c. — "There were giants in the earth in those days ; and also after that, when 
 the Sont of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, 
 tue same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown."— Oenesis, ch. vL 
 
 2D 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within the castle- 
 How many years is't ? 
 
 I served his father, whom he nought resembles. 
 
 Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
 But wherein do they differ? 
 
 Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
 Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and free,— 
 A warrior and a reveller ; he dwelt not 
 With books and solitude, nor made the night 
 A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
 Merrier than day ; he did not walk the rocks 
 And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
 From men and their delights. 
 
 Her. Beshrew the hour, 
 
 But those were jocund times ! I would that such 
 Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
 As if they had forgotten them. 
 
 Manuel. These walls 
 
 Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have seen 
 Some strange things in them, Herman. 
 
 Her. Come, be friendly 
 
 Relate me some to while away our watch : 
 I've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
 Which happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 
 
 Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do remember 
 'Twas twilight, as it may be now, and such 
 Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
 On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
 So like that it mignt be the same ; the wind 
 Was famt and gusty, and the mountain snows 
 Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
 Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
 How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
 The sole companion of his wanderings 
 And watchings — her, whom of all earthly things 
 *i 1 hat lived, the only thing he seem'd to love,— 
 A s he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 
 The Lady Astarte, his 
 
 Abbot. Where is your master ? 
 
 Her. Yonder, in the tower 
 
 A bbot. I must speak with him. 
 
 Manuel. 'Tis impossible \ 
 
 He is most private, and must not be thus 
 Intruded on. 
 
 Abbot. . Upon myself I take 
 
 The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
 But I must see him. 
 
 Her. Thou hast seen him cno® 
 
 TMs eve already. 
 
 Ere Count Manfred's birth, 
 
 Manuel. 
 
 I speak not 
 
 Hush ! who comes here ? 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 Abbot, Herman ! I command thee, 
 
 Knock, and apprise the Count of my approach. 
 Her. We dare not. 
 
 Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 
 
 Of my own purpose. 
 
 Manuel. Reverend father, stop — 
 
 I pray you pause. 
 
 Abbot. Why so? 
 
 Manuel. But step this way, 
 
 Amd I will tell you further. [Exeunt 
 
 SCENE IV. 
 
 interior of the Tower* 
 
 Manfred alone. 
 
 The stars are forth, the moon above the tops 
 Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful ! 
 I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
 Hath been to me a more familiar face 
 Than that of man ; and in her starry shade 
 Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
 I leam'd the language of another world. 
 I do remember mo, that in my youth, 
 When I was wandering, — upon such a night 
 I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 
 Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome ; 
 The trees which grew along the broken arches 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stara 
 Shcne through the rents of ruin ; from afar 
 The watchdog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 
 More near from out tho Caesars' palace came 
 The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly 
 Of distant sentinels the fitful song 
 Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
 Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breacli 
 Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
 Within a bowshot — where the Caesars dwelt, 
 And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
 A grove which springs through levell'd battlements, 
 And twines its roots with tho imperial hearths, 
 ] vy usurps tho laurel's place of growth ; — 
 But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 While Caesar's chambers, and the Augustan halls, 
 (Jrovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
 A nd thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 A 11 this, and cast a wide and tender light, 
 Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 
 Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 
 As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries ; 
 Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 
 And making that which was not, till the plaod 
 
 2 D 2 
 
W£ btRON'S poems. 
 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er < 
 
 With silent worship of the great of old ! — 
 
 The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
 
 Our spirits from their urns. — 
 
 'Twas such a night ! 
 'Tis strange that I recall it at this time ; 
 But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
 Even at the moment when they should array 
 Themselves in pensive order. 
 
 Enter the Abbot. 
 
 Abbot. My good lord, 
 
 I crave a second grace for this approach ; 
 But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
 By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
 Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
 May light upon your head — could I say heart — 
 Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I should 
 Recall a noble spirit which hath wander' d, 
 But is not yet all lost. 
 
 Man. Thou know'st me not ! 
 
 My days are number' d, and my deeds recorded : 
 Retire, or 'twill be dangerous — Away ! 
 
 A Ibot. Thou dost not mean to menace me ? 
 
 Man. Not I ; 
 
 I simply tell thee peril is at hand, 
 And would preserve thee. 
 
 Abbot. What dost mean ? 
 
 Man. Look there ! 
 
 What dost thou see ? 
 
 Abbot. Nothing. 
 
 Man. Look there, I say, 
 
 And steadfastly ; — now tell me what thou seest. 
 
 Abbot. That which should shake me, — but I fear it not—' 
 I see a dusk and awful figure rise, 
 Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
 His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
 Robed as with angry clouds ; he stands between 
 Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 
 
 Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not harm thee — but 
 His sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
 1 say to thee — Retire ! 
 
 Abbot. And I reply — 
 
 Never — till I have battled with this fiend : — 
 What doth he here ?— 
 
 Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ? — 
 I did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 
 
 Abbot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guest-s like thec^* 
 Hast thou to do ? I tremble, for thy sake : 
 Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on him ? 
 Ah ! he unveils his aspect : on his brow / 
 The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
 Glares forth the immortality of heU— 
 Avaunt ! — ■■ . 
 
MANFRED. 
 
 405 
 
 Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 
 
 Spirit, Come ! 
 
 Abbot. What art thou, unknown being ? answer ! — speak ! 
 
 Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 'tis time. 
 
 Man. I am prepared for all things, but deny 
 The power which summons me. Who sent thee here ? 
 
 Spirit. Thou'lt know anon — come ! come ! 
 
 Man. I have commanded 
 
 Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
 And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence ! 
 
 Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — Away ! I say. 
 
 Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, but not 
 To render up my soul to such as thee : 
 Away ! I'll die as I have lived — alone. 
 
 Spirit. Then I must summon up my brethren — Rise ! 
 
 [Other Spirits rise up. 
 
 Abbot. Avaunt ; ye evil ones ! — A vaunt ! I say, — 
 Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
 And I do charge thee in the name 
 
 Spirit. Old man 1 
 
 We know ourselves, our mission, and thine order ; 
 Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
 It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
 Once more I summon him — Away ! away ! 
 
 Man. I do defy ye, — though I feel my soul 
 Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
 Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
 To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
 To wrestle, though with spirits ; what ye tako 
 Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 
 
 Spirit. Reluctant mortal ! 
 
 Is this the magian who would so pervade 
 The world invisible, and make himself 
 Almost our equal ? — Can it bo that thou 
 Art thus in love with life ? the very life 
 Which made thee wretched ! 
 
 Man. Thou false fiond, thou lies! I 
 
 My life is in its last hour ; — that I know, 
 Nor would redeem a moment of that hour ; 
 I do not combat against death, but theo 
 And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
 Was purchased by no compact with thy crew, 
 But by superior science — penance — daring — 
 And length of watching — strength of mind — and skill 
 In knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
 Saw men and spirits walking side by side, 
 And gave ye no supremacy : I stand 
 Upon my strength — I do defy — deny — 
 Spurn back, and scorn ye ! — 
 
 Spirit. But thy many crimes 
 
 Have made thee 
 
 Man. What are they to such as the 3 '/ 
 
 Must crimes be punish' d but by other crimes, 
 And greater criminals ? — Back to tl 1 * he\\ 1 
 
400 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel ; 
 
 Thou never shalt possess me, thai I know : 
 
 What I have done is done ; I bear within 
 
 A torture which could nothing gain from thine : 
 
 The mind which is immortal makes itself 
 
 Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
 
 Is its, own origin of ill and end — 
 
 And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
 
 When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
 
 No colour from the fleeting things without ; 
 
 But is absorb'd in sufferance or in joy, 
 
 Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
 
 Thou didst not tempt me, and thou couldst not tempt me ; 
 
 I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 
 
 But was my own destroyer, and will be 
 
 My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiends ! 
 
 The hand of death is on me — but not yours ! 
 
 [The Demons disappear. 
 
 Abbot Alas ! how pale thou art — thy lips are white ; 
 And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping throat 
 The accents rattle — Give thy prayers to Heaven — 
 Pray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus. 
 
 Man. 'Tis over — my dull eyes can fix thee not ; 
 But all things swim around me, and the earth 
 Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thee well- 
 Give me thy hand. 
 
 Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart — • 
 But yet one prayer — Alas ! how fares it with thee ? 
 
 Man. Old man ! 'tis not so difficult to die. 
 
 [Manfred ex'ptrr*, 
 
 Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath ta'en his earthless flight - 
 Whither ? I dread to think — but he is gone, 
 
 BRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY SOUL. 
 
 Bright be the place of thy soul ! 
 
 No lovelier spirit than thine 
 E'er burst from its mortal control, 
 
 In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 
 
 On earth thou wert all but divine, 
 As thy soul shall immortally be ; 
 
 And our sorrow may cease to repine, 
 
 When we know that thy God is with thes. 
 
 Light be the turf of thy tomb ! 
 
 May its verdure like emeralds be : 
 There should not be the shadow of glooEJ 
 
 In aught that reminds us of tliee. 
 
STANZAS FOR MJS1C. 
 
 507 
 
 Young flowers and an evergreen tree 
 May spring from the spot of thy rest : 
 
 But nor cypress nor yew let us see ; 
 
 For why should we mourn for the blest ? 
 
 tstt 
 
 STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 
 
 They say that hope is happiness , 
 BuC genuine love must prize the past ; 
 An * Memory wakes the thoughts that bk.:a 
 Thoy roso t.ho first- — they set the last. 
 
 And all that Memory loves the most 
 Was once our only Hope to bo, 
 And all that hope adored and lost 
 Hath melted into Memory. 
 
 Alas ' it is delusion all ; 
 The futuro cheats us from afar, 
 Nor can we bo what wo recall, 
 Hw cioro we think «»:. mbMt w« wa 
 
THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the original MSS. of Tasso's 
 " Gicrusalemme," and of Guarini's " Pastor Fido," with letters of Tasso, 
 one from Titian to Ariosto, and the inkstand and chair, the tomb and 
 house, of the latter. But, as misfortune has a greater interest for poste- 
 rity, and little or none for the cotemporary, the cell where Tasso was 
 confined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a more fixed attention than 
 the residence or monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect on me. 
 There are two inscriptions, one on the outer gate, the second over the 
 cell itself, inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the indignation of the 
 spectator. Ferrara is much decayed and depopulated : the castle still 
 exists entire ; and I saw the court where Parisina and Hugo were 
 beheaded, according to the annal of Gibbon. 
 
 Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
 
 And eagle-spirit of a child of Song — 
 
 Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong ; 
 
 Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 
 
 And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
 
 When the impatient thirst of light and air 
 
 Parches the heart ; and the abhorred grate, 
 
 Marring the sunbeams with its hideous shade. 
 
 Works through the throbbing eyeball to the brain, 
 
 With a hot sense of heaviness and pain ; 
 
 And bare, at once, Captivity display' d 
 
 Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate. 
 
 Which nothing through its bars admits, save day, 
 
 And tasteless food, which 1 have eat alone 
 
 Till its unsocial bitterness is gone : 
 
 And I can banquet like a beast of prey, 
 
 Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
 
 Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
 
 All this hath somewhat worn me, and may wes?. 
 
 But must be borne. I stoop not to despair ; 
 
 For I have battled with mine agony, 
 
 And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
 
 The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
 
 And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall ; 
 
 And revell'd among men and things divine, 
 
 And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
 
 In honour of the sacred war for Him, 
 
 The Ooc| who was on earth and is in heaven* 
 
THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 t 
 
 For H.o has strengthen'*! me in heart and limb. 
 That through this sufferance I might be forgiven, 
 I have employ'd my penance to record 
 How Salem's shrine was won and how adored. 
 
 n. 
 
 Bui this is o'er — my pleasant task is done :— 
 
 My long-sustaining friend of many years ! 
 
 If I do blot thy final page with tears, 
 
 Know, that my sorrows have wrung from me none. 
 
 But thou, my young creation ! my soul's child ! 
 
 Which ever playing round me came and smiled, 
 
 And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight, 
 
 Thou too art gone — and so is my delight : 
 
 And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
 
 With this last bruise upon a broken rccd. 
 
 Thou too art ended — what is left me now ? 
 
 For I have anguish yet to bear — and how ? 
 
 I know not that — but in the innate force 
 
 Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
 
 I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 
 
 Nor cause for such : they call'd me mad — and why ? 
 
 Oh Leonora ! wilt not thou reply ? 
 
 I was indeed delirious in my heart 
 
 To lift my love so lofty as thou art ; 
 
 But still my frenzy was not of the mind ; 
 
 I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 
 
 Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
 
 That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind, 
 
 Hath been the sin which shuts me from mankind ; 
 
 But let them go, or torture as they will, 
 
 My heart can multiply thine image still ; 
 
 Successful love may sate itself away, 
 
 The wretched are the faithful ; 'tis their fata 
 
 To have all feeling save the one decay, 
 
 And every passion into one dilate, 
 
 As rapid rivers into ocean pour ; 
 
 But ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 
 
 m, 
 
 Above me, hark ! the long and maniac cry 
 
 Of minds and bodies in captivity ; 
 
 And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, . 
 
 And the half-inarticulate blasphemy ! 
 
 There be some here with worse than frenzy foul, 
 
 Some who do still goad on the o'er-labourd mind, 
 
 And dim the little light that's left behind 
 
 With needless torture, as their tyrant will 
 
 Is wound up to the lust of doing ill : 
 
 With these and with their victims am I class'd, 
 
 'Mid sounds and sights like these long years have 
 
 'Mid sounds and sights like these my life may close : 
 
 ck> let it be — for then I shall repose. 
 
no 
 
 BYRON 'H f*0£MS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 1 have been patient, let me be so yet ; 
 
 I had forgotten half I would forget ; 
 
 But it revives — Oh ! would it were my lot 
 
 To be forgetful as I am forgot ! — 
 
 Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 
 
 In this vast lazar-house of many woes ? 
 
 Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the mind; 
 
 Nor words a language, nor eVn men mankind ; 
 
 Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
 
 And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
 
 For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
 
 Many, but each divided by the wall, 
 
 Which echoes Madness in her babbling moods ; — 
 
 While all can hear, none heed his neighbour s call-— 
 
 None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 
 
 Who was not made to be the mate of these, 
 
 Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
 
 Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here ? 
 
 Who have debased me in the minds of men, 
 
 Debarring me the usage of my own, 
 
 Blighting my life in best of its career, 
 
 Branding my thoughts as things to shun and fear S 
 
 Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 
 
 And teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan ? 
 
 The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
 
 Which undermines our Stoical success ? 
 
 No ! — still too proud to be vindictive — I 
 
 Have pardon'd princes' insults, and would di©. 
 
 Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
 
 I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
 
 It hath no business where thou art a guest ; 
 
 Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ; 
 
 Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 
 
 Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
 But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
 Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, 
 As dwells the gather' d lightning in its cloud, 
 Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud. 
 Till struck, — forth flies the all ethereal dart ! 
 And thus at the collision of thy name 
 The vivid thought still flashes through my fracas*. 
 And for a moment all things as they were 
 Flit by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
 And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
 I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
 A Princess was no love-mate for a bard ; 
 I told it not, I breathed it not, it was 
 Sufficient to itself, its own reward ; 
 And if my eyes reveal'd it, they, alas ! 
 Were punish'd by the silentness of thine. 
 And yet I did not venture to repine. 
 
THE LAMENT OP TASSO. 
 
 Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine 
 Worshipp'd at holy distance and around 
 Hallow'd and meekly kiss'd the saintly ground ; 
 Not for thou wert a princess, but that Lovo 
 Had robed thee with a glory, and array'd 
 Thy lineaments in a beauty that dismay 'd — 
 Oh ! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above ! 
 And in that sweet severity there was 
 A something which all softness did surpass — 
 I know not how — thy genius master' d mine — 
 My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
 Presumptuous thus to love without design, 
 That sad fatality hath cost me dear ; 
 But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
 Fit for this cell, which wrongs me — but for thee. 
 The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
 Hath lighten'd half its weight ; and for the rest, 
 Though heav^ lent me vigour to sustain, 
 And look to thee with undivided breast, 
 And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 It is no marvel — from my very birth 
 
 My soul was drunk with love, — which did pervade 
 
 And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth ; 
 
 Of objects all inanimate I made 
 
 Idols, and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
 
 And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
 
 Where I did lay me down within the shade 
 
 Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 
 
 Though I was chid for wandering ; and the Wi»- 
 
 Shook their white aged heads o'er me, and said 
 
 Of such materials wretched men were made, 
 
 And such a truant boy would end in woe, 
 
 And that the only lesson was a blow ; 
 
 And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
 
 But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
 
 Return' d and wept alone, and dream'd again 
 
 The visions which arise without a sleep. 
 
 And with my years my soul began to pant 
 
 With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
 
 And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 
 
 But undefined and wandering, till the day 
 
 I found the thing I sought — and that was thee 
 
 And then I lost my being all to be 
 
 Absorb'd in thine — the world was past away — 
 
 Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 
 
 vn. 
 
 I loved all Solitude, but little thought 
 To spend I know not what of life, remote 
 From all communion with existence, save 
 The maniac and his tyrant ; — had I been 
 Their fellow, many years ere this had soon 
 
BYRON'S TOEMS. 
 
 My mind tike theirs corrupted to its grave, 
 But who hath seen me writhe, or heard mo rave J 
 Perchance in such a cell we suffer more 
 Than the wreck' d sailor on his desert shore : 
 The world is all before him — mine is here, 
 Scarce twice the space they must accord my biar, 
 What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
 And with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
 I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
 Although 'tis clouded by my dungeon roof. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 ¥et do I feel at times my mind decline, 
 But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
 Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
 And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
 With pilfering pranks and petty pains, bcloxr 
 The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
 But much to One, who long hath suffer' d so, 
 Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 
 And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
 I thought mine enemies had been bub Man, 
 But spirits may be leagued with them — all Earth 
 Abandons — Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 
 Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
 It may be, tempt me further, — and prevail 
 Against the outworn creature they assail. 
 Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
 Like steel in tempering fire '! — because I loved ? 
 Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
 Was more or leas than mortal, and than me. 
 
 IX. 
 
 I onoe was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 
 
 My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
 
 My brain against these bars, as the sun flash'd 
 
 In mockery through them ; — If I bear and bore 
 
 The much I have recounted, and the more 
 
 Which hath no words, — 'tis that I would not die 
 
 And sanction with self-slaughter the dull lie 
 
 Which snared me here, and with the brand of sham*, 
 
 Stamu Madness deep into my memory, 
 
 And woo Compassion to a blighted name, 
 
 Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim. 
 
 No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
 
 A future temple of my present cell, 
 
 Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
 
 While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dwell 
 
 The ducal chiefs within thee, shall fall down, 
 
 A nd crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthless halls, 
 
 A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown, 
 
 A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 
 
 While strangers wander o'er thy unpeopled walls I 
 
 And thou, Leonora ! — thou — who wert ashamed 
 
I 
 
 THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 
 
 That such as I could love — who blush'd to hear 
 
 To less than monarchs that thou couldst be dear, 
 
 Go ! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamed 
 
 By grief, years, weariness — and it ] a ay be 
 
 A taint of that he would impute to me — 
 
 5Yom long infection of a den like this, 
 
 Where the mind rots congenial wit^ the jibyss, 
 
 Adores thee still ; — and add — that when the towers 
 
 And battlements which guard his joyous hours 
 
 Of banquet, dance, and revel are forgot, 
 
 Or left untended in a dull repose, 
 
 This — this — shall be a consecrated spot \ 
 
 But thou — when all that Birth and Beauty throw r 
 
 Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
 
 One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
 
 No power in death can tear our names apart, 
 
 As none in life could rend thee from mv honjt 
 
 Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fafo 
 
 To be entwined for ever — but too lata ■ 
 
i 
 
 CAIN; 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 *• Wow the Serpent ttm more subtil than any beast of the field whlcfe thj tfont Go* 
 wi<i made"— Gen. ch. iii. ver. 1 
 
 TO 
 
 SIK WALTEE SCOTT, Babt., 
 
 THIS MYSTERY OF CAIN IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY HIS OBLIGED FRIEND AND FAITHFUL SERVANT, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following scenes are entitled "A Mystery," in conformity with the 
 ancient title annexed to dramas upon similar subjects, which were 
 styled " Mysteries, or Moralities." The author has by no means taken 
 the same liberties with his subject which were common formerly, as may 
 be seen by any reader curious enough to refer to those very profane pro- 
 ductions, whether in English, French, Italian, or Spanish. The author 
 has endeavoured to preserve the language adapted to his characters j and 
 where it is (and this is but rarely) taken from actual Scripture, he has 
 made as little alteration, even of words, as the rhythm would permit. 
 The reader will recollect that the door of Genesis does not state that Eve 
 was tempted by a demon, but by " the Serpent j" and that only because 
 he was "the most subtil of all the beasts of the field." Whatever 
 interpretation the Rabbins and the Fathers may have put upon this, I 
 take the words as 1 find them, and reply, with Bishop Watson upon 
 similar occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to him, as Moderator in 
 the schools of Cambridge, " Behold the Book !" — holding up the Scripture. 
 It is to be recollected that my present subject has nothing to do with the 
 New Testament, to which no reference can be here made without 
 anachronism. With the poems upon similar topics I have not been 
 recently familiar. Since I was twenty, I have never read Milton j but I 
 had read him so frequently before, that this may make lktle difference. 
 Gesner's w Death of Abel" I have never read since I was eight years of 
 age at Aberdeen. The general impression of my recollection is delight j 
 but of the contents I remember only that Cain's wife was called Mahala, 
 and Abel's Thirza : in the following pages I have called them " Adah " 
 and " Zillah," the earliest female names which occur in Genesis they 
 were those of Lamech's wives : those of Cain and Abel are not called by 
 their names. Whether, then, a coincidence of subject may have caused 
 the same in expression, I know nothing, and care as little. 
 
 The reader will please to bear in mind (what few choose to recollect^ 
 
CATS. 
 
 415 
 
 that there is no allusion to a future state in any of the books of Moses, 
 nor indeed in the Old Testament. For a reason for this extraordinary 
 omission, he may consult Warburton's "Divine Legation;" whether 
 satisfactory or not, no better has yet been assigned. 1 have, therefore, 
 supposed it new to Cain, without, I hope, any perversion of Holy Writ. 
 
 With regard to the language of Lucifer, it was difficult for me to make 
 him talk like a clergyman upon the same subjects ; but I have done what 
 I could to restrain him within the bounds of spiritual politeness. 
 
 If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the shape of the Serpent, it is 
 only because the book of Genesis has not the most distant allusion to 
 anything of the kind, but merely to the Serpent nis serpentine 
 capacity. 
 
 Note. — The reader will perceive that the author has partly adopted in 
 this poem the notion of Cuvier, that the world had been destroyed several 
 times before the creation of man. This speculation, derived from the 
 different strata and the bones of enormous and unknown animals found 
 in them, is not contrary to the Mosaic account, but rather confirms it ; 
 as no human bones have yet been discovered in those strata, although 
 those of many known animals are found near the remains of the 
 unknown. The assertion of Lucifer, that the pre- Adamite world was also 
 peopled by rational beings much more intelligent than man, and pro- 
 portionably powerful to the mammoth, &c. &c, is, of course, a poetical 
 fiction to help him to make out his case. 
 
 I ought to add, that there is a " tramelogedia" of Alfieri, called " Abele." 
 — I have never read that, nor any other of the posthumous works of the 
 writer except his Life. 
 
 CAIN: 
 
 A MYSTERY. 
 
 O 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Adam. 
 Cain. 
 Auk j,. 
 
 Dramatis persona?* 
 
 SPIRITS. 
 Avoel op the Lord. 
 Lucifer. 
 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Eve. 
 Adah. 
 
 ZlLLAfl, 
 
 ACT I.— SCENE I. 
 
 The Land without Paradise. — Time, Sunrise. 
 
 Adam, Eve, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, 
 offering a Sacrifice. 
 
 A dam. God, the Eternal ! Infinite ! Allwise !— 
 Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
 Light on the waters with a word — all hail I 
 Jehovah, with returning light, all hail ! 
 
 Eve. God ! who didst name the day, and S9parat# 
 Morning from night, till then divided never — 
 Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 
 Part of Thy work the firmament — all hail J 
 
 \ 
 
BYR0N T 3 POEMS. 
 
 Abel. God ! who didst call the elements into 
 Earth — ocean — air — and fire, and with the day 
 And night, and worlds, which these illuminate, 
 Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 
 And love both them and Thee ! — all hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Adah. God, the Eternal ! Parent of all things ! 
 Who didst create these best and beauteous beings, 
 To be beloved, more than all, save Thee — 
 JLet me love Thee and them : — All hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Zillah. Oh, God ! who loving, making, blessing all, 
 Yet didst permit the Serpent to creep in, 
 And drive my father forth from Paradise, 
 Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ! 
 
 Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore art thou siloni 
 
 Cain. Why should I speak ? 
 
 Adam, To pray. 
 
 Cain, Have ye not pray'd ? 
 
 Adam, We have, most fervently. 
 
 Cain. And loudly : I 
 
 Have heard you. 
 
 Adam, So will God, I trust. 
 
 Abel. Amen ! 
 
 Adam. But thou, my eldest born, art silent still. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis better I should be so. 
 
 A.dam, Wherefore so? 
 
 Cain. I have nought to ask. 
 
 A dam. Nor aught to thank for ? 
 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Adam, Dost thou not live ? 
 
 Cain, Must I not die ? 
 
 Eve. Alas ! 
 
 The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
 To fall. 
 
 Adam, And we must gather it again. 
 Oh, God ! why didst Thou plant the tree of knowledge ? 
 
 Cain. And wherefore pluck'd ye not the tree of life / 
 Ye might have then defied Him. 
 
 Adam, Oh ! my son, 
 
 Blaspheme not : these are serpents' words. 
 
 Cain, Why not ? 
 
 The snake spoke truth ; it was the tree of knowledge ; 
 It was the tree of life : knowledge is good, 
 And life is good ; and how can both be evil ? 
 
 Eve. My boy ! thou speakest as I spoke, in sin, 
 Before thy birth : let me not see renew'd 
 My misery in thine. I have repented. 
 Let me not see my offspring fall into 
 The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
 Which e'en in Paradise destroy'd his parents. 
 Content thee with what is. Had we been so, 
 Thou now hadst been contented. — Oh, my son ! 
 
 Adam. Our orisons completed, let us hence, 
 Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
 Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
 Her fruits with little labour. 
 
CAIff. 
 
 Eve. Cain, my son, 
 
 Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd, 
 And do as he doth. 
 
 [Exeunt Adam and Eve. 
 
 Zillak. Wilt thou not, my brother ? 
 
 Abel. "Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon thy brow, 
 Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouso 
 The Eternal anger ? 
 
 Adah. My beloved Cain, 
 
 Wilt thou frown even on me ? 
 
 Cain. No, Adah I no ; 
 
 I fain would be alone a little while. 
 Abel, I'm sick at heart ; but it will pass. 
 Precede me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
 And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind ; 
 Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
 I'll follow you anon. 
 
 Adah. If not, I will 
 
 Return to seek you here. 
 
 Abel. The peace of God 
 
 Be on your spirit, brother ! 
 
 [Exeunt Abel, Zillait, and Adah. 
 
 Cain (solus). And this is 
 
 Life ! — Toil ! and wherefore should I toil ? — becaiuo 
 My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
 What had / done in this ? — I was unborn : 
 I sought not to be born ; nor love the state 
 To which that birth has brought me. Why did he 
 Yield to the serpent and the woman ? or, 
 Yielding, why suffer ? What was there in this ? 
 The tree was planted, and why not for him ? 
 If not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
 The fairest in the centre ? They have but 
 One answer to all questions, " 'Twas His will, 
 And He is good." How know I that ? Becauso 
 He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow ? 
 I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
 Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
 Whom have we here? — A shape like to the angels, 
 Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
 Of spiritual essence : why do I quake? 
 Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
 Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords 
 Before the gates round which I linger oft, 
 In twilight's hour, to catch a glimpse of thoso 
 Gardens which are my just inheritance, * 
 Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walla 
 And the immortal trees which overtop 
 The cherubim-defended battlements '{ 
 If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels, 
 Why should I quail from him who now approaches ? 
 Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
 Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
 As he hath been, and might be : sorrow se«o:s 
 
 a je 
 
BFHON'fc POEMS. 
 
 Half of his immortality. And is it 
 
 ISo ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 
 
 He cometh. 
 
 Enter Lucifeb. 
 Lucifer, Mortal ! 
 
 Cain. Spirit, who art thou ? 
 
 Lucifer, Master of spirits. 
 
 Cain. And being so, canst tlu>£ 
 
 Leave them, and walk with dust ? 
 
 Lucifer. I know the thoughts 
 
 Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 
 
 Cain. How I 
 
 You know my thoughts ? 
 
 Lucifer. They are thoughts of all 
 
 Worthy of thought ; — 'tis your immortal part 
 Which speaks within you. 
 
 Cain. What immortal part f 
 
 This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life > 
 Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
 While that of knowledge, by my mother's haste, 
 Was pluck'd too soon ; and all the fruit is death ! 
 
 Lucifer, They have deceived thee ; thou shalt liv®. 
 
 Cain. I live 
 
 But live to die : and, living, see nothing 
 To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
 A loathsome, and yet all invincible 
 Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I 
 Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
 And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 
 
 Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever ; think m& 
 The earth, which is thine outward covering, is 
 Existence — it will cease, and thou wilt be 
 No less than thou art now. 
 
 Cain, No less I and why 
 
 No more ? 
 
 Lucifer, It may be thou shalt be as we. 
 Cain. And ye t 
 
 Lucifer. Are everlasting. 
 
 Cain. Are ye happy ? 
 
 Lucifer, We are mighty. 
 
 Cain. Are ye happy ? 
 
 Lucifer, No : art thou ? 
 
 Cain. How should I be tsu ? Look on me ! 
 
 Lucifer. Poor clay 
 
 And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! 
 
 Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy might, what art fcbou I 
 
 Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made thee, and 
 Would not have made thee what thou art. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! 
 
 Thou look'st almost a god ; and 
 
 Lucifer. I am none ? 
 
 And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
 fi&va what I am. He con<*uer'd ; let Him reign ! 
 
CAIN. 
 
 Cain. Who? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 
 
 Cain. And heaven's, 
 
 And all that in them is. So I have heard 
 His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 
 
 Lucifer. They say — what they must sing and say, on paip 
 Of being that which I am — and thou art — 
 Of spirits and of men. 
 
 Cain. And what is that ? 
 
 Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immortality — 
 Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
 His everlasting face, and tell Him, that 
 His evil is not good ! If He has made, 
 As He saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
 But, if He made us — He cannot unmake : 
 We are immortal ! — nay, He'd have us so, 
 That He may torture : — let Him ! He is great — 
 But, in His greatness, is no happier than 
 We in our conflict ! Goodness would not make 
 Evil ; and what else hath He made ? But let Him 
 Sit on His vast and solitary throne, 
 Creating worlds, to make eternity 
 Less burthensome to His immense existence 
 And un participated solitude ! 
 Let Him crowd orb on orb : He is alone 
 Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant ! 
 Could He but crush Himself, 'twere the best boon 
 He ever granted : but, let Him reign on, 
 And multiply Himself in misery ! 
 Spirits and men, at least we sympathize — 
 And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 
 Innumerable, more endurable, 
 By the unbounded sympathy of all — 
 With all ! But lie I so wretched in His height, 
 So restless in His wretchedness, must still 
 Create, and re-create 
 
 Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things which lon£ Lv. 9 swum 
 In visions through my thought : I never could 
 Reconcile what I saw with what I heard. 
 My father and my mother talk to me 
 Of serpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 
 The gates of what they call their Paradise 
 Cuarded by fiery-sworded cherubim, 
 Which shut them out, and me : I feel the weight 
 Of daily toil and constant thought : I look 
 Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
 Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
 Could master all things : — but I thought alona 
 This misery was mine. — My father is 
 Tamed down : my mother has forgot the mind 
 Which made her thirst for knowledge at the risk 
 Of an eternal curse : my brother is 
 A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
 The firstlings of the flock to Him who bids 
 
 2 £ 2 
 
BYROK'S POEMS. 
 
 The earth yield nothing to us without sweat ; 
 My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
 Than the birds' matins ; and my Adah, my 
 Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
 The mind which overwhelms me : never till 
 Now met I aught to sympathize with me. 
 'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. 
 
 Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by thino oi^p. soul 
 For such companionship, I would not now 
 Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
 Had been enough to charm ye, as before. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! didst thou tempt my mother ? 
 
 Lucifer. I tempt none, 
 Save with the truth ; was not the tree, the tree 
 Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life 
 Still fruitfuf ? Did / bid her pluck them not ? 
 Did / plant things prohibited within 
 The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
 By their own innocence ? I would have made ye 
 Gods ; and even He who thrust ye forth, so thrust ye| 
 Because "ye should not eat the fruits of life, 
 And become gods as we." Were those His words? 
 
 Cain. They were, as I have heard from those who hearo 
 them, • 
 In thunder. 
 
 Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? Ho 
 Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
 Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
 And power of knowledge ? 
 
 Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 
 
 The fruits, or neither ! 
 
 Lucifer. One is yours already ; 
 
 The other may be still. 
 
 Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
 Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
 And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
 To sway. 
 
 Cain. But didst thou tempt my parents ? 
 
 Lucifer. I ? 
 
 Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or how ? 
 
 Cain. They say the serpent was a spirit. 
 
 Lucifer. Who 
 Saith that ? It is not written so on high : 
 The proud One will not so far falsify, 
 Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
 Would make him cast upon the spiritual nature 
 Bis own low failing. The snake was the snake — 
 No more : and yet not less than those he tempted; 
 In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, 
 Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
 The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
 Thrak'st thou I'd take the shape of things that die I 
 
 Cain. 
 Lucifer. 
 
 How so ? 
 
 By being 
 
CAIN. 
 
 Cain. But the thing had a demon ? 
 
 Lucifer. He but woke one 
 In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
 I tell thee that the serpent was no rooro 
 Than a mere serpent : ask the cherubim 
 Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand ages 
 Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes, and your seed's, 
 The seed of the then world may thus array 
 Their earliest fault in fable, and attribute 
 To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
 That bows to Him, who made things but to bend 
 Before His sullen, solo eternity ; 
 But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
 Fond parents liston'd to a creeping thing, 
 And fell. For what should spirits tempt them ? What 
 Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
 Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 
 
 Space but I speak to thee of what thou know'st not, 
 
 -Vith all thy tree of Uiowledge. 
 
 Cain. But thou canst not 
 
 Speak aught of knowledge which I would not know, 
 And do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
 To know. 
 
 Lucifer. And heart to look on ? 
 
 Cain. Bo it proved. 
 
 Lucifer. Darest thou to look on Death '! 
 
 Cain. He has nut yet 
 
 Been seen. 
 
 Lucifer. But must be undergone. 
 
 Cain. My father 
 
 Says ho is something dreadful, and my mother 
 Weeps when he is named ; and Abel lifts his eyes 
 To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 
 And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looks on me, 
 And speaks not. 
 
 Lucifer. And thou ? 
 
 Cain. Thoughts unspoak ablo 
 
 Crowd in my breast to burning, when I hear 
 Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems, 
 Inevitable. Could I wrestle with him ? 
 I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
 In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 
 
 Lucifer. It has no shape ; but will absorb all things 
 That bear the form of earth-born being. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! 
 
 I thought it was a being : who could do 
 Such evil things to beings save a being ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 
 
 Cain. Who? 
 
 Lucifer. The Maker— call I i 
 
 Which name thou wilt : Ho makes but to destroy. 
 
 Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since I hear J 
 Of death : although I know not what it is, 
 Yet it seems horrible. I have look'd out 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
 And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
 The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer' d 
 By the far-flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
 I watch' d for what I thought his coming ; for 
 With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
 What 'twas which shook us all — but nothing came. 
 And then I turn'd my weary eyes from off 
 Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
 Up to the lights above us, in the azure, 
 Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die ? 
 Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive both thine and the* , 
 Cain. I'm glad of that : I would not have them die — 
 They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear, 
 I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
 I cannot compass : 'tis denounced against us, 
 Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not, as an ill — 
 What ill ? 
 
 Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 
 Cain. But shall I know it ? 
 
 Lucifer. As I know not death, 
 
 I cannot answer. 
 
 Cain. Were I quiet earth, 
 
 That were no evil : would I ne'er had been 
 Aught else but dust ! 
 
 Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish, 
 
 Less than thy father's ; for he wish'd to know. 
 
 Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck' d he not 
 The life tree? 
 
 Lucifer, He was hinder'd. 
 
 Cain. Deadly error I 
 
 Not to snatch first that fruit : — but ere he pluck'd 
 The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
 Alas ! I scarcely now know what it is, 
 And yet I fear it — fear I know not what ! 
 
 Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear nothing : see 
 What is true knowledge. 
 
 Cain. Wilt thou teach me all ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 
 
 Cain. Name it. 
 
 Lucifer. That 
 Thou dost fall down and worship me — thy Lord. 
 
 Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father worships. 
 
 Lucifer. No 
 
 Cain. His equal ? 
 
 Lucifer. No : — I have nought in common with Him ! 
 Nor would : I would be aught above — beneath — 
 Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
 His power. I dwell apart ; but I am great : — 
 Many there are who worship me, and more 
 Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 
 
 Cain. I never 
 
 As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
 Although my brother Abel oft implores 
 
CAIN. 
 
 That I would join with him in sacrifice : — 
 Why should I bow to thee ? 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 
 
 To Him ? 
 
 Cain. Have I not said it ? — need I say it ? 
 Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that ? 
 
 Lucifer. He who bows not to Him has bow'd to mo ! 
 
 Cain. But I will bend to neither. 
 
 Lucifer. Ne'er the less, 
 
 Thou art my worshipper : not worshipping 
 Him makes thee mine the same. 
 
 Cain. And what is that ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thou'lt know here — and hereafter. 
 
 Cain. Let mo 
 
 Be taught the mystery of my being. 
 
 Lucifer. Follow 
 Where I will lead thee. 
 
 Cain. But I must retire 
 To till the earth — for I had promised 
 
 Lucifer. What ? 
 
 Cain. To cull some first-fruits. 
 
 Lucifer. Why ? 
 
 Cain. To offer up 
 
 With Abel on an altar. 
 
 Lucifer. Saidst thou not 
 
 Thou ne'er hadst.bent to Him who made thee? 
 
 Cain. Yc3 — 
 
 But Abel's earnest prayer has wrought upon me ; 
 The offering is more his than mine — and Adah — 
 
 Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 
 
 Cain. Sho is my sister, 
 
 Born on the same day, of the same womb : and 
 She wrung from me, with tears, this promise ; 
 Rather than see her weep, I would, mothinks, 
 Bear all — and worship aught. 
 
 Lucifer. Then follow me ! 
 
 Cain. I wilL 
 
 Enter Adah. 
 
 Adah. My brother, I have come for thee ; 
 It is our hour of rest and joy — and we 
 Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd not 
 This morn ; but I have done thy task : the fruits 
 Are ripe, and glowing as the light which ripens : 
 Come away. 
 
 Cain. Seest thou not 1 
 
 Adah. I see an angei ; 
 
 We have seen many : will he share our hour 
 Of rest ? — he is welcome. 
 
 Cain. But he is not like 
 
 The angels we have seen, 
 
 Adah. Are there, then, othe: 
 
 But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
 To be our guests — will he ? 
 
byron's foem3. 
 
 Gain (to Luctfer). Wilt thou ? 
 
 Lucifer, I as& 
 
 Thee to be mine. 
 
 Cain. I must away with him. 
 
 Adah. And leave us % 
 
 Cain. Ay. 
 
 Adah. And me? 
 
 Cain. Beloved A 1 a 
 
 Adah. Let me go with thee. 
 
 Lucifer. No, she must not. 
 
 Adah. Who 
 Art thou that steppest between heart and heart ? 
 
 Cam. He is a god. 
 
 Adah. How know'st thou? 
 
 Cain. He speaks like 
 
 A god. 
 
 Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the tree that 
 Of knowledge ? 
 
 Adah. Ay — to our eternal sorrow. 
 
 Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge — so he lied 
 And if he did betray you, 'twas with truth ; 
 And truth in its own essence cannot be 
 But good. 
 
 Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
 Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
 And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness ; 
 Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
 Which cometh not. Cain ! walk not with this spirit. 
 Bear with what we have borne, and love me — I 
 Love thee. 
 
 Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy sire ? 
 
 Adah. I do. Is that a sin, too ? 
 
 Lucifer. No, not yet : 
 
 It one day will be in your children. 
 
 Adah. What! 
 Must not my daughter love her brother Enoch ? 
 
 Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God ! 
 
 Shall they not love and bring forth things that lov(9 
 Out of their love ? have they not drawn their milk 
 Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
 Born of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
 With me ? did we not love each other '? and 
 In multiplying our being multiply 
 Things which will love each other as we love 
 Them ? — And as I love thee, my Cain ! go not 
 Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 
 
 Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of m^ makicg, 
 And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
 It seem in those who will replace ye in 
 Mortality. 
 
 Adah. What is the sin which is not 
 Sin in itself? Can circumstance make siu 
 
CAIN. 
 
 Or virtue ?— if it doth, we aro the slaves 
 Of 
 
 Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves : and higher 
 Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
 Prefer an independency of torture 
 To the smooth agonies of adulation, 
 In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking pra3'crs, 
 To that which is omnipotent, because 
 It is omnipotent, and not from love, 
 But terror and self-hope. 
 
 Adah. Omnipotence 
 Must be all goodness. 
 
 Lucifer. Was it so in Eden ? 
 
 Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; thou art fairci 
 Than was the serpent, and as false. 
 
 Lucifer. As true. 
 
 Ask Eve, your mother : bears she not the knowledge 
 Of good and evil ? 
 
 Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou 
 
 Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine offspring 
 Than to thyself ; thou at the least hast pass' I 
 Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
 And happy intercourse with happy spirits : 
 But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
 Are girt about by demons, who assume 
 The words of God, and tempt us with our own 
 Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
 Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most flush'd 
 And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
 I cannot answer this immortal tiling 
 Which stands before me ; I cannot abhor him ; 
 I look upon him with a pleasing fear, 
 And yet I fly not from him : in his eye 
 There is a fastening attraction which 
 Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
 Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws mo nc;u\ 
 Nearer, and nearer : — Cain — Cain — save me from him ! 
 
 Cain. What dreads my Adah? This is no ill spii it. 
 
 Adah. He is not God — nor God's : I have beheld 
 The cherubs and the seraphs ; he looks not 
 Like them. 
 
 Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 
 
 The archangels. 
 
 Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 
 
 Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 
 
 Lucifer. If the blessedness 
 
 Consists in slavery — no. 
 
 Adah. I have heard it said, 
 
 The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
 And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 
 
 Lucifer. And if the higher knowledge quenches lovO) 
 What must he be you cannot love when known ? 
 Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
 The seraphs' love can be but ignorance : 
 
BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 That they are not compatible, the doom 
 Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
 Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since there is 
 No other choice : your sire hath chosen already ; 
 His worship is but fear. 
 
 Adah. Oh, Cain ! choose love. 
 
 Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — it was 
 Born with me — but I love nought else. 
 
 Adah. > Our parents ? 
 
 Cain. Did they love us when they snatch' d from the trrr 
 That which hath driven us all from Paradise ? 
 
 Adah. We were not born then — and if we had been, 
 Should we not love them and our children, Cain ? 
 
 Cain. My little Enoch ! and his lisping sister ! 
 Could I but deem them happy, I would half 
 
 Forget but it can never be forgotten 
 
 Through thrice a thousand generations ! never 
 
 Shall men love the remembrance of the man 
 
 Who sow'd the seed of evil and mankind 
 
 In the same hour ! They pluck'd the tree ot scienco 
 
 And sin — and, not content with their own sorrow, 
 
 Begot me — thee — and all the few that are, 
 
 And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 
 
 Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 
 
 To inherit agonies accumulated 
 
 By ages ! — and / must be sire of such things ! 
 
 Thy beauty and thy love — my love and joy, 
 
 The rapturous moment and tho placid hour, 
 
 All we love in our children and each other, 
 
 But lead them and ourselves through many years 
 
 Of sin and pain— or few, but still of sorrow, 
 
 Intercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure, 
 
 To Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree of knowledge 
 
 Hath not fulfill'd its promise : — if they sinn'd, 
 
 At least they ought to have known all things that aro 
 
 Of knowledge — and the mystery of death. 
 
 What do they know ? — that they are miserable. 
 
 What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that ? 
 
 Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
 Wert happy 
 
 Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 
 
 I will have nought to do with happiness, 
 Which humbles me and mine. 
 
 Adah. Alone I could not, 
 
 Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 
 I think I could be so, despite of death, 
 Which, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
 It seems an awful shadow — if I may 
 Judge from what 1 have heard. 
 
 Lucifer. And thou couldst not 
 
 Alone, thou say'st, be happy? 
 
 Adah. Alone ! Oh, my God \ 
 
 Who could be happy and alone, or good ? 
 To me my solitude seems sin ; unless 
 
CAIN. 
 
 When I think *»ow soon I shall see my brother, 
 His brother, and our children, and our parents. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone \ and is He happy ? 
 Lonely, and good '\ 
 
 Adah. He is not so ; He hath 
 
 The angels and the mortals to make happy, 
 And thus becomes so in diffusing joy ! 
 What else can joy be, but the spreading joy ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile fresh from 
 Eden; 
 
 Or of his first-born son : ask your own heart ; 
 It is not tranquil. 
 
 Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 
 
 Are you of heaven ? 
 
 Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 
 
 The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
 (Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
 Maker of life and living things ; it is 
 His secret, and He keeps it. We must bear, 
 And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
 His seraphs say ; but it is worth the trial, 
 Since better may not be without : there is 
 A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
 To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
 Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
 The star which watches, welcoming the mom. 
 
 Adah. It is a beautiful star ; I love it for 
 Its beauty. 
 
 Lucifer. And why not adoro ? 
 
 A dah. Our father 
 
 Adores the Invisible only. 
 
 Lucifer. But the symbols 
 
 Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
 Of what is visible ; and yon bright star 
 Is leader of the host of heaven. 
 
 Adah. Our father 
 
 Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
 Who made him and our mother. 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou seen flira 1 
 
 Adah. Yes — in His works. 
 
 Lucifer. But in His being ? 
 
 Adah. No- 
 Save in my father, who is God's own image ; 
 Or in His angels, who are like to thee — 
 And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
 In seeming : as the silent sunny noon, 
 All light they look upon us ; but thou seem'st 
 Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
 Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
 Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
 With things that look as if they would be suns j 
 So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
 Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 
 They fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Thou seern'st unhappy . do not make us eo, 
 And I will weep for thee. 
 
 Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 
 
 Couldst thou but know what oceans will be shed - *— 
 
 A dak. By me ? 
 
 Lucifer. By all. 
 
 Adah. What all? 
 
 Lucifer. The million millions 
 
 The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth — 
 The unpeopled earth — and the o'er-peopled hell, 
 Of which thy bosom is the germ. 
 
 Adah. OCain! 
 This spirit curseth us. 
 
 Cain. Let him say on ; 
 
 Him will I follow, 
 
 Adah. Whither? 
 
 Lucifer. To a place 
 
 Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
 But in that hour see things of many days. 
 
 Adah. How can that be? 
 
 Lucifer. Did not your Maker maks 
 
 Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
 And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
 Show in an hour what He hath made in many, 
 Or hath destroy'd in few ? 
 
 Cain. Lead on. 
 
 Adah. Will ho, 
 
 In sooth, return within an hour ? 
 
 Lucifer. He shall. 
 
 With us acts are exempt from time, and wo 
 Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
 Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
 We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
 But that's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 
 
 Adah. Will he return? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 
 
 Of mortals from that place (the first and last 
 Who shall return, save One), — shall come back to thee, 
 To make that silent and expectant world 
 As populous as this : at present there 
 Are few inhabitants. 
 
 A dah. Where dwellest thou ? 
 
 Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where should I d'.vo 
 Where are 
 
 Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
 Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
 Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
 Which is not heaven nor earth, but peopled with 
 Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
 These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
 His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
 His. If I were not that which I have said, 
 Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
 Your vision. 
 
<25 
 
 Adah. So they were when the fair serpent 
 Spoke with our mother first. 
 
 Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 
 
 If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
 That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
 Which shall deprive thee of a single good 
 The Conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 
 
 Cain. Sp^it, I have said it. 
 
 [Exeunt Lucifer and Cain 
 
 Adah (follows, exclaiming). Cain ! my brother ! Cuiu ! 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 SCENE I. 
 
 The A byss of Space. 
 
 Cain. I tread on air, and sink not ; yet I fear 
 To sink. 
 
 Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shalt be 
 Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 
 Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 
 
 Lucifer. Believe — and sink not ! doubt — and perish ! thus 
 Would run the edict of the other God, 
 Who names me demon to His angels ; they 
 Echo the sound to miserable things, 
 Which, knowing nought beyond their shallow senses, 
 Worship the word which strikes their ear, and deem 
 Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
 In their abasement. I will have none such : 
 Worship, or worship not, thou shalt behold 
 The worlds beyond thy little world, nor bo 
 Amerced for doubts beyond thy little life, 
 With torture of my dooming. There will come 
 An hour, when, toss'd upon some water- dro;ws, 
 A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
 And walk the waters ; " and the man shall walk 
 The billows and be safe, I will not say, 
 Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
 To save thee ; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
 Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
 What thou dar'st not deny, — the history 
 Of past, and present, and of future worlds. 
 
 Cain. Oh, god, or demon, or whate'er thou art, 
 Is yon our earth ? 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou not recognize 
 
 The dust which form'd your father ? 
 
 Cain. Can it be ? 
 
 Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether, 
 With an inferior circlet near it still, 
 Which looks like that which lit our earthly nigl.t ? 
 Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walla, 
 And they who guard them ? 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Lucifer. Point me out the sits 
 
 Of Paradise. 
 
 Cain. How should I ? As we move 
 
 Like sunbeams onward, it grows small and smaller, 
 And as it waxes little, and then less, 
 Gathers a halo round it, like the light 
 Which shone the roundest of the stars, when I 
 Beheld them from the skirts of Paradise : 
 Methinks they both, as we recede from them, 
 Appear to join the innumerable stars 
 Which are around us ; and, as we move on, 
 Increase their myriads. 
 
 Lucifer. And if there should be 
 
 Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
 By greater things, and they themselves far more 
 In number than the dust «f thy dull earth, 
 Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
 All living, and all doom'd to death, and wretched, 
 What wouldst thou think ? 
 
 Cain. I should be proud of though 
 
 Which knew such things. 
 
 Lucifer i But if that high thought wcrs 
 Link'd to a servile mass of matter, and, 
 Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
 And science still beyond them, were chain' d down 
 To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
 All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
 Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
 A most enervating and filthy cheat 
 To lure thee on to the renewal of 
 Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
 As frail, and few so happy 
 
 Cain. Spirit ! I 
 
 Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thin;; 
 Of which I have heard my parents speak, as pi 
 A hideous heritage I owe to them 
 No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
 If I may judge, till now. But, spirit ! it 
 It be as thou hast said (and I within 
 Feel the prophetic torture of its truth), 
 Here let me die : for to give birth to those 
 Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
 Methinks is merely propagating death, 
 And multiplying murder. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou canst not 
 
 All die — there is what must survive. 
 
 Cain. The Otli: r 
 
 Spake not of this unto my father, when 
 He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
 Written upon his forehead. But at least 
 Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
 I may be in the rest as angels are. 
 
 Lucifer. I am angelic : wouldst thou be as I am ? 
 
 Cain. I know not what thou art : I see thy power. 
 
And see thou show'st me things beyond my power, 
 Beyond all power of my born faculties, 
 Although inferior still to my desires 
 And my conceptions. 
 
 Lucifer. What are they which dwell 
 
 So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
 With worms in clay % 
 
 Cain. And what art thou who dwellest 
 
 £o haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
 Nature and immortality — and yet 
 Seem'st sorrowful ? 
 
 Lucifer. I seem that which I am ; 
 
 And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
 Wouldst be immortal ? 
 
 Cain. Thou hast said, I must be 
 
 Immortal in despite of me. I knew not 
 This until lately — but since it must be, 
 Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
 To anticipate my immortality. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 
 
 Cain. How ? 
 
 Lucifer. By suffering. 
 
 Cain. And must torture be immortal J 
 
 Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But now, behold ! 
 Is it not glorious ? 
 
 Cain. Oh, thou beautiful 
 
 And unimaginable ether ! and 
 Ye multiplying masses of increased 
 And still increasing lights ! what are ye ? what 
 Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
 Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
 The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden ? 
 Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
 Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
 Through an aerial universe of endless 
 Expansion — at which my soul aches to think — 
 Intoxicated with eternity ? 
 Oh God ! Oh Gods ! or whatsoe'er ye are ! 
 How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
 Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
 They may be ! Let me die, as atoms d»*» 
 (If that they die), or know ye in your might 
 And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in tbis hour 
 Unworthy what I see, though my dust is : 
 Spirit ! let me expire, or see them nearer. 
 
 Lucifer, Art thou not nearer? look back to thiiio 
 earth ! 
 
 Cain. Where is it ? I see nothing save a mass 
 Of most innumerable lights. 
 Lucifer. Look there ! 
 
 Cain. I cannot see it. 
 
 Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 
 
 Cain. That ! — yonder ! 
 Lucifer. Yea. 
 
BYRO>*S POEMS. 
 
 Cain, And wilt thou tell me &o ? 
 
 Why, I have seen the fire- flies and fire-worms 
 Sprinkle the dusky groves and the green banks 
 In the dim twilight, brighter than yon world 
 Which bears them. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and worlds, 
 Each bright and sparkling — what dost think of them ? 
 
 Cain. That they are beautiful in their own sphere, 
 And that the night, which makes both beautiful, 
 The little shining fire-fly in its flight, 
 And the immortal star in its great course, 
 Must both be guided. 
 
 Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 
 
 Cain. Show me. 
 
 Lucifer. Dar'st thou behold ? 
 
 Cain. How know I what 
 
 I dare behold ? As yet, thou hast shown nought 
 I dare not gaze on further. 
 
 Lucifer. On, then, with me. 
 
 Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 
 
 Cain. Why, what are things ? 
 
 Lucifer. Both partly : but what doth 
 
 Sit next thy heart ? 
 
 Cain. The things I see. 
 
 Lucifer. But what 
 
 Sate nearest it ? 
 
 Cain. The things I have not seen. 
 
 Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 
 
 Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things which have died, 
 As I have shown thee much which cannot die ? 
 
 Cain. Do so. 
 
 Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 
 Cain. Oh ! how we cleave the blue ! The stars fade 
 from us ! 
 
 The earth ! — where is my earth? Let me look on it> 
 For I was made of it. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis now beyond thee, 
 
 Less, in the universe, than thou in it ; 
 Yet deem not that thou canst escape it : thou 
 Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust : 
 'Tis part of thy eternity, and mine. 
 
 Cain. Where dost thou lead me ? 
 
 Lucifer. To what was before fchee 1 
 
 The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
 Is but the wreck. 
 
 Cain. What ! is it not then new ? 
 
 Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that was ere thott 
 Or / were, or the things which seem to us 
 Greater than either : many things will have 
 No end : and some, which would pretend to have' 
 Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
 As thou ; and mightier things have been extinct 
 To make way for much meaner than we can 
 Surmise ; for mome?its only and the sgace, , - 
 
CAIN, 
 
 Have been and must bo all unchangeable, 
 tint changes make not death, except to clay ; 
 But thou art clay, — and canst but comprehend 
 That which was clay, and such thou shalt behold. 
 
 Cain. Clay, spirit ! what thou wilt, I can survey. 
 
 Lucifer. Away, then ! 
 
 Cain. But the lighW fade from roe 
 
 fast, 
 
 And some till now grew larger as we approach'd, 
 And wore the look of worlds. 
 
 Lucifer. And such they are. 
 
 Cain. And Edens in them ? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be. 
 
 Cain. And men ) 
 
 Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 
 
 Cain. Ay ? and serpents too ? 
 
 Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without them ? must ixc 
 
 reptiles 
 Breathe save the erect ones ? 
 
 Cain. How the lights recede ; 
 
 Where fly we ? 
 
 Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 
 Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 
 
 Cain. But it grows dark and dark — the stars are gone ) 
 
 Lucifer. And yet thou seest. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis a fearful light 1 
 
 No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
 The very blue of the empurpled night 
 Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see. 
 Huge dusky masses : but unlike the worlds 
 W o were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
 Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
 Of light gave way, and show'd them taking shapes 
 Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains ; 
 And some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
 Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
 With luminous belts, and floating moons, which took. 
 Like them, the features of fair earth : — instead, 
 All here seems dark and dreadful. 
 
 Lucifer. But distinct. 
 
 Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things ? 
 
 Cain. I seek it not : but as I know there are 
 Such, and that my sire's sin makes him and me, 
 And all that we inherit, liable 
 To such, I would behold at once, what I 
 Must one day see perforce. 
 
 Lucifer. Behold ! 
 
 Cain. 'Tis darknesr 
 
 Lucifer. And so it shall be ever ; but we will 
 Unfold its gates ! 
 
 Cain. Enormous vapours roll 
 
 Apart — what's this ? 
 
 Lucifer. Enter ! 
 
 Cain. Can I retr.rr, 1 
 
 2 F 
 
BYKON'S POEMS. 
 
 Lucifer. Return ! be sure : how else should death b* 1 
 peopled ? 
 
 Its present realm is thin to what it will bo, 
 Through thee and thine. 
 
 Cain. The clouds still open wide 
 
 And wider, and make widening circles round us. 
 
 Lucifer. Advance ! 
 
 Cain. And thou ! 
 
 Lucifer. Fear not — without me thcrj 
 
 Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. On ! on ! 
 
 [They disappear through the cl<mdt, 
 
 SCENE II. 
 
 Hades. 
 Enter Lucifer and Cain. 
 
 Cain. How silent and how vast are these dim worlds ! 
 For they seem more than one, and yet more peopled 
 Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which swung 
 So thickly in the upper air, that I 
 Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 
 Of some all unimaginable heaven 
 Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
 But that on drawing near them I beheld 
 Their swelling into palpable immensity 
 Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell on, 
 Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
 So shadowy and so full of twilight, that 
 It speaks of a day past. 
 
 Lucifer. It is the realm 
 
 Of death. — Wouldst have it present ? 
 
 Cain. 'Till I know 
 
 That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
 But if it be as I have heard my father 
 Deal out in his long homilies, 'tis a thing — 
 Oh God ! I dare not think on'fc ! Cursed be 
 He who invented life that leads to death ! 
 Or the dull mass of life, that, being life, 
 Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
 Even for the innocent ! 
 
 Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father 1 
 
 Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my birth ? 
 Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
 To pluck the fruit forbidden ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thou say'st well : 
 
 The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
 But for thy sons and brother ! 
 
 Cain. Let them sharo it 
 
 With me, their sire and brother ! What else is 
 Bequeath'd to me ? I leave them my inheritance. 
 Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
 Of swimming shadows ai>d enormous shapes, 
 
CAIN. 
 
 Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
 Mighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
 Live ye, or have ye lived ? 
 
 Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 
 
 Cain. Then what is death ? 
 
 Lucifer. What ? Hath not He who made ye 
 Said 'tis another life ? 
 
 Cain. Till now He hath 
 
 Said nothing, save that all shall die. 
 
 Lucifer. Perhaps 
 He one day will unfold that further secret. 
 
 Cain. Happy the day ! 
 
 Lucifer. Yes; happy! when unfolded 
 
 Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
 With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
 Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms, 
 All to be animated for this only ! 
 
 Cain. What are these mighty phantoms which I so© 
 Floating around me ? — They wear not the form 
 Of the intelligences I have seen 
 Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
 Nor wear the form of man as I have view'd it 
 In Adam's, and in Abel's, and in mine, 
 Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's : 
 And yet they have an aspect, which, though not 
 Of men nor angels, looks like something, which 
 If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
 Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and mil 
 Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
 Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
 The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
 Nor form of mightiest brute, nor aught that is 
 Now breathing ; mighty yet and beautiful 
 As the most beautiful and mighty which 
 Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
 Can call them living. 
 
 Lucifer, Yet they lived. 
 
 Cain. Where ? 
 
 Lucifer. Wher* 
 Thou livest. 
 
 Cain. When ? 
 
 Lucifer. On what thou callcst earth 
 
 They did inhabit. 
 
 Cain. Adam is the first. 
 
 Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but too mean to bo 
 The last of these. 
 
 Cain. And what are they ? 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 
 Thou shalt be. 
 
 Cain. B<it were they T 
 
 Lucifer. Living, hi^h, 
 
 Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
 As much superior unto all thy sire, 
 Adam, could e'er have been in Eden., as 
 
 9 v ° 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The sktty-thousandth generation shall be, 
 
 In its dull damp degeneracy, to 
 
 Thee and thy son ; and how weak they are, judge 
 
 By thy own flesh. 
 
 Cain. Ah me ! and did they perish ? 
 
 Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt fade from thine. 
 
 Cain. But was mine theirs ? 
 
 Lucifer. It was. 
 
 Cain. But not as now. 
 
 It is too little and too lowly to 
 Sustain such creatures. 
 
 Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 
 
 Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ask Him who fella. 
 
 Cain. But how ? 
 
 Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 
 Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
 Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
 Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
 Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity. — 
 Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis awful ! 
 
 Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms ! they were once 
 Material as thou art. 
 
 Cain. And must I be 
 
 Like them ? 
 
 Lucifer. Let He who made thee answer that. 
 I show the what thy predecessors are, 
 And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
 Inferior as thy petty feelings and 
 Thy pettier portion of the immortal part 
 Of high intelligence and earthly strength. 
 What ye in common have with what they had 
 Is life, and what ye shall have— death : the rest 
 Of your poor attributes is such as suits 
 Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
 Slime of a mighty universe, crush' d into 
 A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
 Things whose enjoyment was to be in blindness— 
 A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
 Knowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
 What these superior beings are or were ; 
 Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
 The earth, thy task — I'll waft thee there in safety. 
 
 Cain. No : I'll stay here. 
 
 Lucifer. How long ? 
 
 Cain. For ever J Since 
 
 I must one day return here from the earth, 
 I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
 That dust has shown me — let me dwell in shadows. 
 
 Lucifer. It cannot be : thou now beholdest as 
 A vision that which is reality. 
 To make thyself fit for this dwelling, thou 
 Must pass through what the things thou see'st have parj-'d-* 
 The gates of daath. 
 
CATS. 
 
 Cain, By what gate have we enterM 
 
 Even now ? 
 
 Lucifer. By mine ! But, plighted to return, 
 My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
 Where all is breathless save thyself. Gaze on ; 
 But do not think to dwell here till thine hour 
 Is come. 
 
 Cain. And these, too ; can they ne'er repass 
 To earth again ? 
 
 Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever — 
 
 So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
 Be conscious to a single present spot 
 Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 'twas — 
 Oh, what a beautiful world it was I 
 
 Cain. Ar>d La, 
 
 It is not with the earth, though I must till it, 
 I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
 By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
 Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughta 
 With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
 Of death and life. 
 
 Lucifer. What thy world is, thou seo'st, 
 
 But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
 That which it was. 
 
 Cain. And those enormous creature*?. 
 
 Phantoms inforior in intelligence 
 (At least so seeming) to the things we have pass'd, 
 Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
 Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
 Roar nightly in the forest, but tenfold 
 In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
 The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
 Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which fence them, 
 And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd of 
 Their bark and branches — what were they ? 
 
 Lucifer. That which 
 
 The Mammoth is in thy world ; — but these lie 
 By myriads underneath its surface. 
 
 Cain. But 
 None on it ? 
 
 Lucifer. No : for thy frail race to war 
 With them would render the curse on it uselcs— 
 'T would be destroyed so early. 
 
 Cain. But why war 1 
 
 Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciation 
 Which drove your race from Eden — war with all things, 
 And death to all things, and disease to most things, 
 And pangs, and bitterness ; these were the fruits 
 Of the forbidden tree. 
 
 Cain. But animals — 
 
 Did they, too, eat of it, that they must die ? 
 
 Lucifer. Your Maker told ye, they were made for you. 
 As you for Him. — You would not have their doom 
 Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
 Fallen, all had stood. 
 
i3b 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Cain. Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 
 
 They too must share my sire's fate, like his sons ; 
 Like them, too, without having shared the apple ; 
 Like them too, without the so dear-bought knowledge I 
 It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
 At least it promised knowledge at the price 
 Of death—but knowledge still : but what knows man ? 
 
 Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest knowledge ; 
 And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
 At least leads to the surest science : therefore 
 The tree was true, though deadly. 
 
 Cain. These dim realms ! 
 
 I see them, but I know them not. 
 
 Lucifer. Because 
 Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
 Comprehend spirit wholly— but 'tis something 
 To know there are such realms. 
 
 Cain. We knew already 
 
 rhat there was death. 
 
 Lucifer. But not what was beyond it. 
 
 Cain. Nor know I now. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou knowest that there is 
 
 A state, and many states beyond thine own — 
 And this thou knewest not this morn. 
 
 Cain. But all 
 
 Seems dim and shadowy. 
 
 Lucifer. Be content ; it will 
 Seem clearer to thine immortality. 
 
 Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 
 Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 
 Which looks like water, and which I should deem 
 llie river which flows out of Paradise 
 Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
 And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
 What is it ? 
 
 Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
 Although inferior, and thy children shall 
 Dwell near it — 'tis the phantasm of an ocean. 
 
 Cain. 'Tis like another world ; a liquid sun — 
 And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
 Its shining surface ? 
 
 Lucifer. Are its inhabitants ; 
 
 The past leviathans. 
 
 Cain. And yon immense 
 
 Serpent, which rears its dripping mane and vasty 
 Head ten times higher than the haughtiest cedar 
 Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
 Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
 Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
 The tree in Eden ? 
 
 Lucifer. Eve. thy mother, best 
 
 Can tell what shape of serpent tempted her. 
 
 Cain. This seems too terrible. No doubt the 
 Had more of beauty. 
 
CAIN. 
 
 Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er behold him ? 
 
 Cain. Many of the same kind (at least so call'd), 
 But never that precisely which persuaded 
 The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspect. 
 
 Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 
 
 Cain. No : 'twas my mother 
 
 Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpent. 
 
 Lucifer. Good man ! whene'er thy wife, or thy sous' wivcMj 
 Tempt thee or them to aught that's now or strange, 
 Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them. 
 
 Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is no moro 
 For serpents to tempt woman to. 
 
 Lucifer. But there 
 
 Are some things still which woman may tempt man to, 
 And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to it ! 
 My counsel is a kind one : for 'tis even 
 Given chiefly at my own expense : 'tis true, 
 'Twill not be follow' d, so there's little lost. 
 
 Cain. I understand not this. 
 
 Lucifer. The happier thou ! — 
 
 Thy world and thou are still too young ! Thou thinkost 
 Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
 Not so ? 
 
 Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
 I have felt much. 
 
 Lucifer. First-born of the first man \ 
 
 Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
 Of sorrow — and thou sufferest, are both Eden 
 In all its innocence compared to what 
 Thou shortly mayst be ; and that state again 
 In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
 To what thy sons' sons' sons, accumulating 
 In generations like to dust (which they 
 In fact but add to), shall endure and do. — 
 Now let us back to earth ! 
 
 Cain. And wherefore didst thou 
 
 Lead me here only to inform me this ? 
 
 Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 
 
 Cain. Yes : a3 being 
 
 The road to happiness. 
 
 Lucifer. If truth be so, 
 
 Thou hast it. 
 
 Cain. Then my father's God did well 
 
 When He prohibited the fatal tree. 
 
 Lucifer. But had done better in not planting it. 
 But ignorance of evil doth not save 
 From evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
 A part of all thing3. 
 
 Cain. Not of all things. No : 
 
 111 not believe it — for I thirst for good. 
 
 Lucifer. And who and what doth not ? Who covets e7li 
 For its own bitter sake 1 — None — nothing ! 'tis 
 The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 
 
 Cain. Within those glorious orbs which we behold. 
 
449 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable, 
 Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
 111 cannot come : they are too beautiful. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from atar — 
 
 Cain. And what of that \ 
 
 Distance can but diminish glory — they, 
 When nearer, must be more ineffable. 
 
 Lucifer. Approach the things of earth most beautiful. 
 And judge their beauty near. 
 
 Cain. I have done this — 
 
 The loveliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 
 
 Lucifer. Then there must be delusion. — What is that, 
 Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
 More beautiful than beauteous things remote ? 
 
 Cain. My sister Adah. — All the stars of heaven, 
 The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
 Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
 The hues of twilights — the sun's gorgeous coming — 
 His setting indescribable, which fills 
 My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold 
 Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him 
 Along that western paradise of clouds — 
 The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's voice— 
 The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
 And mingles with the song of cherubim, 
 As the day closes over Eden's walls ; 
 All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 
 Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven 
 To gaze on it. 
 
 Lucifer. 'Tis fair as frail mortality, 
 
 In the first dawn and bloom of young creation, 
 And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
 Can make its ofispring ; still it is delusion. 
 
 Cain. You think so, being not her brother. 
 
 Lucifer. Mortal \ 
 
 My brotherhood 's with those who have no children. 
 
 Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship with us. 
 
 Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be for ma*. 
 But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
 Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
 Why art thou wretched ? 
 
 Cain. Why do I exist ? 
 
 Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so ? 
 Ev'n He who made us must be, as the maker 
 Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
 Can surely never be the task of joy, 
 And yet my sire says He's omnipotent : 
 Then why is evil — He being good ? I ask'd 
 This question of my father ; and he said, 
 Because this evil only was the path 
 To good. Strange good, that must arise from cvfc 
 Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
 A lamb stung by a reptile : the pjor suckling 
 Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vaiii 
 
CAIN. 
 
 And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
 My father pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
 The wound ; and by degrees the helpless wretch 
 Resumed its careless life, and rose to drain 
 The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
 Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
 Behold, my son ! said Adam, how from evil 
 Springs good ! 
 
 Lucifer, "What didst thou answer ? 
 
 Cain. Nothing ; for 
 
 Ho is my father : but I thought, that 'twere 
 A better portion for the animal 
 Never to have been stung at all, than to 
 Purchase renewal of its little life 
 With agonies unutterable, though 
 Dispell'd by antidotes. 
 
 Lucifer. But as thou saidst 
 
 Of all beloved things thou lovest her 
 Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hors 
 Unto thy children 
 
 Cain. Most assuredly : 
 
 What should I be without her? 
 
 Lucifer. What am I ? 
 
 Cain. Dost thou love nothing ? 
 
 Lucifer. What does thy God love? 
 
 Cain. All things, my father says ; but I confess 
 I see it not in their allotment here. 
 
 Lucifer. And, therefore, thou canst not see if / lova 
 Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
 To which particular things must melt like snows. 
 
 Cain. Snows ! what are they '\ 
 
 Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 
 
 What thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 
 But bask beneath the climo which knows no winter ! 
 
 Cain. But dost thou not love something like thyself? 
 
 Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself "1 
 
 Cain. Yes, but love moro 
 
 What makes my feelings more endurable, 
 And is more than myself, because I love it. 
 
 Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 'tis beautiful, 
 As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
 And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
 Will cease, like any other appetite. 
 
 Cain. Cease to be beautiful ! how can that bo ? 
 
 Lucifer. With time. 
 
 Cain. But time has pass'd, and hitherU 
 
 Even Adam and my mother both are fair ; 
 Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
 But very fair. 
 
 Lucifer. All that must pass away 
 In them and her. 
 
 Cain. I'm sony for it ; but 
 
 Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
 And when her beauty disappears, methinki: 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 He who creates all beauty will lose more 
 
 Than me in seeing perish such a work. - 
 
 Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must pertah. 
 
 Cain. And I thee, who lov'st nothing 
 
 Lucifer. And thy brother — 
 
 Sits he not near thy heart ? 
 
 Cain. Why should he not ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so does thy God 
 
 Cain. And so do I. 
 
 iAtcifer. 'Tis well and meekly done. 
 
 Cain. Meekly ! 
 
 Lucifer. He is the second born of flesh, 
 
 And is his mother's favourite. 
 
 Cain. Let him keep 
 
 Her favour, since the serpent was the first 
 To win it. 
 
 Ijucifer. And his father's ? 
 
 Cain. What is that 
 
 To me ? should I not love that which all love ? 
 
 Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent Lord, 
 And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
 He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 
 
 Cain. I 
 Ne'er saw Him, and I know not if He smiles. 
 
 Lucifer. But you have seen His angels. 
 
 Cain. Barely. 
 
 Lucifer. But 
 Sufficiently to see they love your brother : 
 His sacrifices are acceptable. 
 
 Cain. So be they ! wherefore speak to me of this ? 
 
 Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of this ere now. 
 
 Cain. And if 
 
 I have thought, why recall a thought that (he pauses, 
 
 as agitated) — Spirit ! 
 Here, wo are in thy world : speak not of mine. 
 Thou hast shown me wonders ; thou hast shown me thos 
 Mighty pre- Adamites who walk'd the earth 
 Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast pointed out 
 Myriads of starry worlds, of which our own 
 Is the dim and remote companion, in 
 Infinity of life ; thou hast shown me shadows 
 Of that existence with the dreaded name 
 Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou hast shown nib 
 much — 
 
 But not all : show me whore Jehovah dwells, 
 In his especial Paradise, — or thine : 
 Where is it t 
 
 Lucifer. Here, and o'er all space. 
 
 Cain. But yo 
 
 Have some allotted dwelling — as all things ; 
 Clay has its earth, and other worlds their tenants ; 
 All temporary breathing creatures their 
 Peculiar element ; and things which have 
 Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs, thou say'^t ; 
 
CAIN. 
 
 And the Jehovah and thyself have thine— 
 Ye do not dwell together ? 
 
 Lucifer. No, we reign 
 
 Together ; but our dwellings are asunder. 
 
 Cain. Would there were only one of ye ! Perchance 
 An unity of purpose might make union 
 In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms. 
 How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
 To separate ? Are ye not as brethren in 
 Your essence, and your nature, and your glory ? 
 
 Lucifer. Art thou not Abel's brother ? 
 
 Cain. We arc brethren. 
 
 And so wo shall remain ; but were it not so, 
 Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out ? 
 Infinity with Immortality ? 
 Jarring and turning space to misery — 
 For what ? 
 
 Lucifer. To reign. 
 
 Cain. Did ye not tell me that 
 
 Ye are both eternal ? 
 Lucifer. Yea ! 
 
 Cain. And what I have seen, 
 
 Yon blue immensity, is boundless ? 
 
 Lucifer. Ay. 
 
 Cain. And cannot ye both reign then ? — is thero uot 
 Enough? — why should ye differ? 
 
 Lucifer. Wo both reign. 
 
 Cain. But one of you makes evil. 
 
 Lucifer. Which ? 
 
 Cain. Thou ! to 
 
 If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 
 
 Lucifer. And why not He who made ? / made ye not 
 Ye are His creatures, and not mine. 
 
 Cain. Then leavo us 
 
 His creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
 Thy dwelling, or His dwelling. 
 
 Lucifer. I could show the© 
 
 Both ; but the time will come thou shalt see one 
 Of them for evermore. 
 
 Cain. And wiry not now ? 
 
 Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely grasp to gath 
 The little I have shown thee into calm 
 And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on aspiring 
 To the great double Mysteries ! the two Principles I 
 And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
 Dust ! limit thy ambition ; for to see 
 Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 
 
 Cain. And let mo perish, so I see them ! 
 
 Lucifer. Thr-rj 
 The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
 But thou wouldst only perish and not see them ; 
 That sight is for the other state. 
 
 Cain. Of death I 
 
 Lucifer. That is the prelude 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Cain, 
 
 Then I dread it leas. 
 
 Now that I know it leads to something definite. 1 
 
 Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy world, 
 Where thou shalt multiply the race of Adam, 
 Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, and die. 
 
 Cain. And to what end have I beheld these thing3 
 Which thou hast shown me ? 
 
 Lucifer. Didst thou not require 
 
 Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd, 
 Taught thee to know thyself ? 
 
 Cain. Alas ! I seem 
 
 Nothing. 
 
 Lucifer. And this should be the human sum 
 Of knowledge, to know mortal nature's nothingness : 
 Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
 'Twill spare them many tortures. 
 
 Cain. Haughty spirit ! 
 
 Thou speak'st it proudly ; but thyself, though proud, 
 Hast a superior. 
 
 Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity 
 Of worlds and life, which I hold with Him — No ! 
 I have a victor — true ; but no superior. 
 Homage He has from all — but none from me : 
 I battle it against Him, as I battled 
 In highest heaven. Through all eternity, 
 And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
 And the interminable realms of space, 
 And the infinity of the endless ages, 
 All, all, will I dispute ! And world by world, 
 And star by star, and universe by universe, 
 Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
 Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
 Which it ne'er shall, till He or I bo quenchM ! 
 And what can quench our immortality, 
 Or mutual and irrevocable hate ? 
 He as a conqueror will call the conquer'd 
 Evil ; but what will be the good He gives ? 
 Were I the victor, His works would be deem'd 
 The only evil ones. And you, ye new 
 And scarce-born mortals, what have been His gifts 
 To you already, in your little world ? 
 
 Cain. But few ! and some of those but bitter. 
 Lucifer. Bs^& 
 With me, then, to thine earth, and try the rest 
 Of His celestial boons to you and yours. 
 Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
 And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
 But if He gives you good — so call Him ; if 
 Evil springs from Him, do not name it mine, 
 Till ye know better its true fount ; and judge 
 Not by words, though of spirits, but the fruits 
 Of your existence, such as it must be. 
 One good gift has the fatal apple given — 
 
 Lucifer. 
 
 No ! by heaven, which He 
 
4 
 
 Your reason : — let it not be over-sway' d 
 By tyrannous threats to force you into faith 
 'Gainst all external sense and inward feeling. 
 Think and endure, — and form an inner world 
 In your own bosom — where the outward fails ; 
 So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
 Nature, and war triumphant with your own. 
 
 f They disappear 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 SCENE L 
 
 The Earth near Eden, as in Act I, 
 
 Enter Cain and Adah. 
 A dak. Hush ! tread softly, Cain. 
 
 Cain. I will ; but wherefore " 
 
 Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
 Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 
 
 Cain. Cypress ! 'tis 
 
 A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn 'd 
 O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou choose it 
 For our child's canopy ? 
 
 Adah. Because its branches 
 
 Shut out the sun like night, and therefore seem'd 
 Fitting to shadow slumber. 
 
 Cain. Ay, the last — ■ 
 
 And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him. 
 
 [They go up to the child. 
 How lovely he appears ! his little cheeks, 
 In their pure incarnation, vying with 
 The rose-leaves strewn beneath them. 
 
 Adah. And his lips, too, 
 
 How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
 Kiss him, at least not now : he will awake soon — 
 His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
 But it wero pity to disturb him till 
 'Tis closed. 
 
 Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
 My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps ! — Sleep on 
 And smile, thou little, young inheritor 
 Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile ! 
 Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering 
 And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit — 
 Thou know'st not thou art naked ! Must the time 
 Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 
 Which were not mine nor thine ? But now sleep on. 
 His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
 And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
 Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; 
 Half open, from beneath them the clear blue 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dream—* 
 Of what ? Of Paradise ! — Ay ! dream of it, 
 My disinherited boy I 'Tis but a dream ; 
 For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, 
 Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy ! 
 
 Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whisper o'er our son 
 Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past : 
 Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise? 
 Can we not make another ? 
 
 Cain. Where ? 
 
 Adah. Here, or 
 
 Where'er thou wilt : where'er thou art, I feel not 
 The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
 Have I not thee, our boy, our sire, and brother, 
 And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
 To whom we owe so much besides oar birth ? 
 
 Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the debts we owe her, 
 
 Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit, who withdrew thee hence, 
 Hath sadden' d thine still deeper. I had hoped 
 The promised wonders which thou hast beheld, 
 Visions, thou say'st, of past and present worlds, 
 Would have composed thy mind into the calm 
 Of a contented knowledge ; but I see 
 Thy guide hath done thee evil : still I thank him, 
 And can forgive him all, that he so soon 
 Hath given thee back to us. 
 
 Cain. So soon ? 
 
 Adah. 'T is scarcely 
 
 Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
 To me, but only hours upon the sun. 
 
 Cain. And yet I have approach' d that sun, and seen 
 Worlds which he once shone on, and never more 
 Shall light ; and worlds he never lit : methought 
 Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 
 
 Adah. Hardly houra 
 
 Cain. The mind then hath capacity of time, 
 And measures it by that which it beholds, 
 Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty. 
 I had beheld the immemorial works 
 Of endless beings ; skirr'd extinguished worlds 
 And, gazing on eternity, methought 
 I had borrow'd more by a few drops of ages 
 From its immensity ; but now I feel 
 My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
 That I was nothing ! 
 
 Adah. Wherefore said he sc i 
 
 Jehovah said not that. 
 
 Cain. No : He contents Hid 
 
 With making us the nothing which ws are ; 
 And after flattering dust with glimpses of 
 Eden and Immortality, resolves 
 It back to dust again— for what ? 
 
 Adah. Thou kc^'as, 
 
 Even for our parents* error. 
 
CAIN, 
 
 Cain. What is that 
 
 To us ? they sinn'd, then let them die ! 
 
 Adah. Thou hast not spoken well, nor is that thought 
 Thy own, but of the spirit who was with thee. 
 Would / could die for them, so they might live ! 
 
 Cain. Why, so say I — provided that one victim 
 VTight satiate the insatiable of life, 
 And that our little rosy sleeper there 
 Might never taste of death nor human sorrow, 
 Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 
 
 Adah. How know we that some such atonement ono day 
 May not redeem our raco ? 
 
 Cain. By sacrificing 
 
 The harmless for the guilty ? what atonement 
 Were there ? why, we are innocent : what have wo 
 Done, that we must bo victims for a deed 
 Before our birth, or need have victims to 
 Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
 If it bo such a sin to seek for knowledge ? 
 
 Adah. Alas ! thou sinnest now, my Cain : thy words 
 Sound impious in mino ears. 
 
 Cain. Then leave me ! 
 
 Adah. Never, 
 Though thy God left thee. 
 
 Cain. Say, what have we here t 
 
 A dah. Two altars, which our brother Abel made 
 During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
 A sacrifice to God on thy return. 
 
 Cain. And how knew he, that 1 would be so ready 
 With the burnt offerings, which ho daily brings 
 With a meek brow, whose base humility 
 Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
 To the Creator ? 
 
 A dah. Surely, 'tis well doxie. 
 
 Cain. One altar may suffice ; / have no offering. 
 
 Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, beautiful 
 Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and fruits, 
 These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
 Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 
 
 Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, ana sweaten in the star 
 According to the curse : — must I do more ? 
 For what should I be gentle ? for a war 
 With all the elements ere they will yield 
 The bread we eat ? For what must I bo grateful? 
 For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
 Till I return to dust ? If I am nothing — 
 For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 
 And seem well-pleased with pain ? For what should I 
 Be contrite ? for my father's sin, already 
 Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
 And to be more than expiated by 
 The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
 Little deems our young blooming sleeper, there. 
 The germs of an eternal misery 
 
m 
 
 BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 To myriads is within him ! better 'twere 
 
 I snatch' d him in his sleep, and dash'd him 'gainst. 
 
 The rocks, than let him live to 
 
 Adah. Oh, my God ! 
 
 Touch not the child — my cnild ! thy child ! Oh Cain ! 
 
 Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the power 
 Which sways them, I would not aocost yon infant 
 "With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
 
 Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 
 
 Cain. I said 
 
 'Twere better that he ceased to live, than give 
 Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
 Endure, and, harder still, bequeath ; but since 
 That saying jars you, let us only say — 
 'Twere better that he never had been born. 
 
 Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where were then the joys, 
 The mother's joys, of watching, nourishing, 
 And loving him ? Soft 1 he awakes. Sweet Enoch ! 
 
 [She goes to the child 
 Oh Cain ! look on him ; see how full of life, 
 Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy, 
 How like to me — how like to thee, when gentle, 
 For then we are all alike ; is't not so, Cain ? 
 Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
 Reflected in each other ; as they are 
 In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
 When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
 And love thyself for our sakes, for we love thee. 
 Look ! how he laughs and stretches out his arms, 
 And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
 To hail his father ; while his little form 
 Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain ! 
 The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
 The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ! 
 As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
 His heart will, and thine own too. 
 
 Cain. Bless thee, boy! 
 
 If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
 To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 
 
 Adah. It shall. 
 
 Surely a father's blessing may avert 
 A reptile's subtlety. 
 
 Cain. Of that I doubt ; 
 
 But bless him ne'er the less. 
 
 Adah. Our brother cornea, 
 
 Cain. Thy brother Abel. 
 
 Enter Abel. 
 
 Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 
 
 The peace of God be on thee ! 
 
 Cain. Abel, hail! 
 
 Abel. Our sister tells me thou hast been wandering, 
 In high communion with a spirit, far 
 Beyond our wonted range. Was he of thos* 
 We have seen and spoken with, like to our father 
 
CAIN. 
 
 449 
 
 Cain. No. 
 
 Abel. Why then commune with him ? he may be 
 A foe to the Most High. 
 
 Cain. And friend to man. 
 
 Has the Most High been so — if so you term Him ? 
 
 Abel. Term Him/ your words are strange to-day, my brother* 
 My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
 We mean to sacrifice. 
 
 Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 
 
 But first embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
 And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
 
 To peace and holiness. [Exit Adah, with her child 
 
 Abel. Whero hast thou been ? 
 
 Cain. I know not. 
 
 Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 
 
 Cain. The dead, 
 
 The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
 The overpowering mysteries of space — ■ 
 The innumerable worlds th;it were and are — 
 A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 
 Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud-voiced spheres 
 Singing in thunder round me, as have made mo 
 Unfit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 
 
 Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural light, 
 Thy cheek is flush' d with an unnatural hue, 
 Thy words are fraught with an unnatural sound — 
 What may this mean ? 
 
 Cain. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 
 
 Abel. Not till we have pray'd and sacrificed together. 
 
 Cain. Abel, I pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
 Jehovah loves thee well. 
 
 Abel. Both well, I hope. 
 
 Cain. But thee the better : I care not for that ; 
 Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
 Revere Him, then — but let it be alono — 
 At least, without me. 
 
 Abel. Brother, I should ill 
 
 Deserve the name of our great lather s son, 
 If, as my elder, I revered thee not, 
 And in the worship of our God call'd not 
 On thee to join mc, and precede mo in 
 Our priesthood — 'tis thy place. 
 
 Cain. But I have ne'er 
 
 Asserted it. 
 
 A bel. The more my grief ; I pray thee 
 
 To do so now ; thy soul seems labouring in 
 Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 
 
 Cain. No ; 
 
 Nothing can calm me more. Calm / say I ? Never 
 Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
 I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave mo ! 
 Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 
 
 Abel. Neither: we must perform our task together 
 Spurn me not. 
 
 A Q 
 
450 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Cain, If it must be so well, then. 
 
 What shall I do ? 
 
 Abel. Choose one of those two altars. 
 
 Cain. Choose for me : they to me are so much turf 
 And stone. 
 
 Abel, Choose thou ! 
 
 Cain. I have cnosen. 
 
 Abel, Tis the highest, 
 
 And suits thee, as the elder. Now prepare 
 Thine offerings. 
 
 Cain, "Where are thine ? 
 
 Abel, Behold them here — 
 
 The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
 A shepherd's humble offering. 
 
 Cain, I have no flocks ; 
 
 I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
 Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit : 
 
 [He gathers fruits* 
 Behold them in their various bloom and ripeness. 
 
 [They dress their altars, and kindle aflame upon them, 
 
 Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
 Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 
 
 Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou the way, 
 And I will follow — as I may. 
 
 Abel (kneeling). Oh God ! 
 
 Who made us, and who breathed the breath of life 
 Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us, 
 And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
 His children all lost, as they might have been, 
 Had not Thy justice been so temper'd with 
 The mercy which is Thy delight, as to 
 Accord a pardon like a Paradise, 
 Compared with our great crimes ; — Sole Lord of light ! 
 Of good, and glory, and eternity ; 
 Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
 Nothing can err, except to some good end 
 Of Thine omnipotent benevolence — 
 Inscrutable, but still to be fulfill' d — 
 Accept from out thy humble first of shepherd's 
 First of the first-born flocks — an offering, 
 In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
 Aught unto Thee ? — but yet accept it for 
 The thanksgiving of him who spreads it in 
 The face of Thy high heaven, bowing his own 
 Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
 Of Thee, aiid of Thy name for evermore ! 
 
 Cain (standing erect during this speech). Spirit! whatoer 
 or whosoe'er Thou art, 
 Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
 Shown in the exemption of Thy deeds from evil ; 
 Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven ! 
 And it may be with other names, because 
 Thine attributes seem many, as Thy works : 
 If Thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
 Take them ! If Thou must be induced with altars, 
 
cain. 451 
 
 And soften 'd wiui a sacrifice, receive them ! 
 
 Two beings here erect them unto Thee. 
 
 If Thou lov'st blood, the shepherd's shrine, which smokes 
 
 On my right hand, hath shed it lor Thy service 
 
 In the first of his flock, whose limbs now recli 
 
 In sanguinary incense to Thy skies ; 
 
 Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth , 
 
 And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 
 
 I spread them on now offers in the face 
 
 Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
 
 Good to Thee, inasmuch as they have not 
 
 Suffer' d in limb or life, and rather form 
 
 A sample of Thy works, than supplication 
 
 To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 
 
 And altar without gore, may win Thy favour, 
 
 Look on it ! And for him who dresseth it, 
 
 He is — such as Thou mad'st him ; and seeks nothing 
 
 Which must be won by kneeling ; if he's evil, 
 
 Strike him ! Thou art omnipotent, and mayst — 
 
 For what can he oppose ? If he be good, 
 
 Strike him, or spare him, as Thou wilt ! since all 
 
 Rests upon Thee ; and good and evil seem 
 
 To have no power themselves, save in Thy will : 
 
 And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
 
 Not being omnipotent, nor fit to judge 
 
 Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
 
 Its mandate ; which thus far I have endured. 
 
 [The fire upon the altar of Abel kindles into a column 
 of the brightest flame, and ascends to heaven, while 
 a whirlwind throws down the altar of Cain, and 
 scatters the fruits abroad upon the earth. 
 Abel (kneeling). Oh, brother, pray ! Jehovah's wroth with thee. 
 Cain. Why so ? 
 
 Abel. Thy fruits are scatter' d on the earth. 
 
 Cain. From earth they came, to earth let them return ; 
 Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere the summer : 
 Thy burnt flesh-off 'ring prospers better ; see 
 How heaven licks up the flames, when thick with blood ! 
 
 Abel. Think not upon my offering's acceptance, 
 But make another of thine own before 
 It is too late. 
 
 Cain. I will build no more altars, 
 
 Nor suffer any. — 
 
 Abel (rising). Cain! what meanest thou ? 
 
 Cain. To cast down yon vile flatterer of the clouds, 
 The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs — 
 Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids, 
 Which fed on milk, to be destroy' d in blood. 
 
 Abel (opposing him). Thou shalt not : — add not inipiouf 
 works to impious 
 Words ! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow' d now 
 By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah, 
 In His acceptance of the victims. 
 
 Cain. His ! 
 
 2 g 2 
 
BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 Mis pleasure J what was His high pleasure in 
 The fumes of scorching flesh and smoking blood, 
 To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
 Still yearn for their dead offspring ? or the pangs 
 Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
 Thy pious knife ? Give way ! this bloody record 
 Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ! 
 
 Abel. Brother, give back ! thou shalt not touch my altar 
 With violence : if that thou wilt adopt it, 
 To try another sacrifice, 'tis thine. 
 
 Cain. Another sacrifice ! Give way, or else 
 That sacrifice may be 
 
 Abel, What mean'st thou ? 
 
 Cain. Give — 
 Give way ! — thy God loves blood ! — then look to it . — 
 Give way, ere He hath more I 
 
 Abel. In His great name, 
 
 I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
 Had His acceptance. 
 
 Cain. If thou lov'st thyself, 
 Stand back till I have strew'd this turf along 
 Its native soil : — else 
 
 Abel (opposing him). I love God far more 
 Than life. 
 
 Cain (striking Mm with a brand, on the temples, which he 
 snatches from the altar). 
 Then take thy life unto thy God, 
 Since he loves lives. 
 Abel (falls). What hast thou done, my brother ? 
 Cain. Brother ! 
 
 Abel. Oh, God ! receive thy servant, and 
 
 Forgive his slayer, for he knew not what 
 He did — Cain, give me — give me thy hand ; and tell 
 Poor Zillah 
 
 Cain (after a moment's stupefaction). My hand! 'tis all 
 red, and with — 
 What? [A long pause. — Looking slowly round. 
 
 Where am I ? alone ! Where's Abel ? where 
 Gain ? Can it be that I am he ? My brother, 
 Awake ! — why liest thou so on the green earth ? 
 'Tis not the hour of slumber ; — why so pale ? 
 
 What, hast thou ! thou wert full of life this morn ! 
 
 Abel ! I pray thee, mock me not ! I smote 
 
 Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
 
 Wouldst thou oppose me ? This is mockery ; 
 
 And only done to daunt me : — 'twas a blow — 
 
 And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! 
 
 Why, so — that's well ! — thou breath' st ! breathe upon me ! 
 
 Oh, God ! oh, God ! 
 
 Abel (verg faintly). What's he who speaks of God? 
 
 Cain. Thy murderer. 
 
 Abel. Then may God forgive him ! Cain, 
 Comfort poor Zillah : — she has but one brother 
 Now. [Abel dit*. 
 
CAIN. 
 
 453 
 
 Cain. And I none ! — Who makes me brctherless ? 
 His eyes are open ! then he is not dead' ! 
 Death is like sleep ; and sleep shuts down our lids. 
 His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ! 
 And yet I feel it not. — His heart ! — his heart ! — 
 
 Let me see, doth it beat ? methinks No 1 — no ! 
 
 This is a vision, else I am become 
 
 The native of another and worse world. 
 
 The earth swims round me : — what is this ? — 'tis wet ; 
 
 [Puts his hand to his broio, and then hois ai it. 
 And yet there are no dews ! 'Tis blood — my blood — 
 My brother's and my own ! and shed by me ! 
 Then what have I further to do with life, 
 Since I have taken life from my own flesh ? 
 But he canmot be dead ! — Is silence death? 
 No ; ho will wake : then let me watch by him. 
 Life cannot be so slight as to be quench 'd 
 Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
 What shall I say to him ? — My brother ! — No : 
 He will not answer to that name ; for brethren 
 Smite not each other. Yet — yet — speak to me. 
 Oh ! for a word more of that gentle voice, 
 That I may bear to hear my own again ! 
 
 Enter Zillah. 
 
 Zillah. I heard a heavy sound : what can it be ? 
 'Tis Cain ; and watching by my husband. What 
 Dost thou there, brother ? Doth he sleep? Oh, heav'n ! 
 What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — No, no ! 
 It is not blood ; for who would shed his blood ? 
 Abel ! what's this ? — who hath done this ? He moves not ' 
 He breathes not : and his hands drop down from mine 
 With stony lifelessness ! Ah ! cruel Cain ! 
 Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
 This violence ? Whatever hath assail'd him, 
 Thou wert the stronger, and shouldst have stepp'd in 
 Between him and aggression ! Father ! — Eve ! — 
 Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world ! 
 
 [Exit Zillah, calling on her Parents, <tc. 
 
 Cain (solus). And who hath brought him there? — I — who 
 abhor 
 
 The name of Death so deeply, that the thought 
 Empoison' d all my life, before I knew 
 His aspect — I have led him here, and giv'n 
 My brother to his cold and still embrace, 
 As if he would not have asserted his 
 Inexorable claim without my aid. 
 I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
 Had madden'd me ; — but he shall ne'er awake. 
 
 Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 
 
 Adam. A voice of woe from Zillah brings me here. — 
 What do I see ? — 'Tis true ! — My son ! — my son ! 
 Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine ! [To Evs. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Eve. Oh ! speak not of it now ; the serpent's fangs 
 Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ! 
 Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
 A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 
 
 Adam. Who, 
 Or what hath done this deed ? — speak, Cain, since thou 
 Wert present ; was it some more hostile angel, 
 Who walks not with Jehovah ? or some* wild 
 Brute of the forest ? 
 
 Eve. Ah ! a livid light 
 Breaks through, as from a thunder-cloud ! yon brand, 
 Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the altar, 
 And black with smoke, and red with 
 
 Adam. Speak, my son ? 
 
 Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are, 
 That we are not more miserable still. 
 
 Adah. Speak, Cain ! and say it was not thou ! 
 
 Eve. It was. I see it now : he hangs his guilty head, 
 And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
 Incarnadine. 
 
 A dah. Mother, thou dost him wrong — 
 
 Cain ! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
 Which grief wrings from our parent. 
 
 Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 
 May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
 For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 
 May all his days be desolate. May 
 
 Adah. Hold ! 
 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
 Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
 And my betroth'd. 
 
 Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 
 
 Zillah no husband — me no son ! — for thus 
 I curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
 All bonds I break between us ! as he broke 
 
 That of his nature, in yon Oh death ! death ! 
 
 Why didst thou not take me, who first incurr'd thee ? 
 Why dost thou not so now ? 
 
 Adam. Eve! let not this, 
 
 Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
 A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
 And now that it begins, let it be borne 
 In such sort as may show our God, that we 
 Are faithful servants to His holy will. 
 
 Eve (pointing to Cain). His will 1 the will of yon incarnate 
 spirit 
 
 Of death, whom T have brought upon the earth 
 
 To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
 
 Of life be on him ! and his agonies 
 
 Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
 
 From Eden, till his children do by him 
 
 As he did by his brother ! May the swords 
 
 And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
 
 By day and night — snakes spring up in his path — 
 
CAIN. 
 
 Earth's fruits be alhes in his mouth — the leaves 
 On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
 With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his victim ! 
 His waking a continual dread of death ! 
 May the clear rivers turn to blood, as he 
 Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip ! 
 May every element shun or change to him ! 
 May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
 And death itself wax something worse than death 
 To him who first acquainted him with man ! 
 Hence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain, 
 Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
 Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert their sire ! 
 May the grass wither from thy feet ! the woods 
 Deny thee shelter ! earth a home ! the dust 
 A grave ! the sun his light ! and heaven her God ! 
 
 [Exit Eve. 
 
 A dam. Cain ! get thee forth ; we dwell no more together. 
 
 Depart ! and leave the dead to me 1 am 
 
 Henceforth alone — we never mu3t meet more. 
 
 Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, my father: do not 
 Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head ! 
 
 A dam. I curse him not ; his spirit be his curse. 
 Come, Zillah ! 
 
 Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 
 
 A dam. We will return again, when he is gone 
 Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
 Come, Zillah ! 
 
 Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 
 And those lips once so warm — my heart ! my heart ! 
 
 [Exeunt Adam and Zillah, weeping, 
 
 Adah. Cain ! thou hast heard, we must g > joi th. I am 
 ready, 
 
 So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch, 
 And you his sister. Ere the sun declines, 
 Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
 Under the cloud of night. Nay, speak to me. 
 To me — thine own. 
 
 Cain. Leave me ! 
 
 Adah. Why, all have left thee. 
 
 Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? Dost thou not fear 
 To dwell with one who hath done this ? 
 
 A dah. I fear 
 
 Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
 Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brotherless. 
 I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
 And the great God. 
 
 A Voice from within exclaims, Cain ! Cain ! 
 
 A dah. Hear'st thou that voice ? 
 
 The Voice within. Cain ! Cain ! 
 
 Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone. 
 
 Enter the Angel of the Lord. 
 A ngel. Where is thy brother Abel ? 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Cain, Am I then 
 
 My brother's keeper ? 
 
 Angel. Cain ! what hast thou done? 
 
 The voice of thy slain brother's blocd cries out 
 Even from the ground, unto the Lord ! — Now art thou 
 Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her mouth 
 To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
 Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, it shall not 
 Yield thee her strength : a fugitive shalt thou 
 Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 
 
 Adah. This punishment is more than he can boar. 
 Behold, thou drivest him from the face of earth, 
 And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
 A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
 'Twill come pass, that whoso findeth him 
 Shall slay him. 
 
 Cain. Would they could ! but who are they 
 Shall slay me ? Where are these on the lone earth 
 As yet unpeopled ? 
 
 Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 
 
 And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 
 
 Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor say 
 That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
 A murderer in my boy, and of his father. 
 
 A ngel. Then he would but be what his father is. 
 Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
 To him thou now see'st so besmear'd with blood ? 
 The fratricide might well engender parricides. — 
 But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God, 
 And mine, commandeth me to set His seal 
 On Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
 Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
 Be taken on his head. Come hither ! 
 
 Cain. What 
 Wouldsj: thou with me ? 
 
 Angel. To mark upon thy brow 
 
 Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 
 
 Cain. No, let me die ! 
 
 Angel. It must not "be. 
 
 [The Angel sets the mark on Cain's broi9. 
 
 Cain. It burns 
 
 My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
 Is there more ? let me meet it as I may. 
 
 Angel. Stern hast thou been /and stubborn from the womb, 
 As the ground thou must henceforth till ; but he 
 Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended., 
 
 Cain. After the fall too soon was I begotten , 
 Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
 The serpent, and my sire still mourn' d for Eden. 
 That which I am, I am ; I did not seek 
 For life, nor did I make myself ; but could I 
 With my own death redeem him from the dust — 
 And why not so ? let him return to day, 
 And I lie ghastly ! so shall be restored 
 
CAIN. 
 
 457 
 
 By God the life to Him he loved ; and taken 
 From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 
 
 Angel. Who shall heal murder ? what is done is done ; 
 Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
 Unlike the last ! [The Angel disappears, 
 
 Adah. He's gone, let us go forth ; 
 
 I hear our little Enoch cry within our bower. 
 
 Cain. Ah ! little knows he what he weeps for ! 
 And I who have shed blood cannot shed tears !, 
 But the four rivers would not cleanse my soul. 
 Think'st thou my boy will bear to look on me ? 
 
 Adah. If I thought that he would not, I would — 
 
 Cain (interrupting her). No, 
 No more of threats : we have had too many of them ; 
 Go to our children ; I will follow thee ! 
 
 Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with the dead ; 
 Let us depart together. 
 
 Cain. Oh ! thou dead 
 
 And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
 Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou now art 
 I know not ! but if thou seest what / am, 
 I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
 Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul. — Farewell ! 
 I must not, dare not touch what I have made thee. 
 I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd 
 The same breast, clasp' d thee often to my own, 
 In fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
 Can never meet thee more, nor even dare 
 To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done 
 For me — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
 The first grave yet dug for mortality,, 
 But who hath dug that gravo ? Oh, earth ! Oh, earth ! 
 For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I 
 Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness. 
 
 [Adah stoops down and hisses the lody of ABEL 
 
 Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my brother, 
 Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee, 
 I alone must not weep. My office is 
 Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them : 
 But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me, 
 Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee. 
 Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee. 
 
 Cain. Eastward from Eden will we take our way : 
 'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 
 
 Adah. Lead ! thou shalt be my guide, and may our God 
 Be thine ! Now let us carry forth our children. 
 
 Cain. And he who lieth there was childless. I 
 Have dried the fountain of a gentle race, 
 Which might have graced his recent marriage couch, 
 And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine. 
 Uniting with our children Abel's offspring ! 
 O Abel ! 
 
 Adah, Peace be with him ! 
 
 Cain, But with me I [Exeunt. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 
 
 ■RT QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 "WAT TYLER." 
 
 " A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel ! 
 I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 It hath been wisely said, that "one fool makes many," and it hath 
 been poetically observed, 
 
 " That fools rush in where angels fear to tread." — Pope, 
 
 If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had no business, and where 
 he never was before, and never will be again, the following: poem would 
 not have been written. It is not impossible that it may be as good as his 
 own, seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, natural or 
 acquired, be worse. The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegade 
 intolerance and impious cant, of the poem by the author of " Wat Tyler," 
 are something so stupendous as to form the sublime of himself — con- 
 taining the quintessence of his own attributes. 
 
 So much for his poem — a word on his preface. In this preface it has 
 pleased the magnanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a supposed 
 "Satanic School," the which he doth recommend to the notice of the 
 legislature ; thereby adding to his other laurels the ambition of those of 
 an informer. If there exists anywhere, excepting in his imagination, 
 such a School, is he not sufficiently armed against it by his own intense 
 vanity? The truth is, that there are certain writers whom Mr. S. 
 imagines, like Scrub, to have "talked of him; for they laughed con- 
 sumedly." 
 
 I think I know enough of most of the writers to whom he is supposed 
 to allude, to assert, that they, in their individual capacities, have done 
 more good, in the charities of life, to their fellow-creatures in any one 
 year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his absurdities in his 
 whole life ; and this is saying a great deal. But I have a few questions 
 to ask. 
 
 lstly. Is Mr. Southey the author of " Wat Tyler"? 
 
 2ndly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the highest judge of his 
 beloved England, because it was a blasphemous and seditious publi- 
 cation ? 
 
 3rdly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in full Parliament, "a 
 rancorous renegado " ? 
 
 4thly. Is he not Poet Laureate, with his own lines on Martin the regicide 
 staring him in the face ? 
 
 And, 5thly. Putting the four preceding items together, with what con- 
 science dare he call the attention of the laws to the oublications of others, 
 be they what they may ? 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 459 
 
 I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceeding- ; its meanness 
 speaks for itself ; but I wish to touch upon the motive, which is neither 
 more nor less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in some recent 
 publications, as he was of yore in the " Anti- Jacobin" by his present 
 patrons. Hence all this " skimble-scamble stuff" about " Satanic," and 
 so forth. However, it is worthy of him — " qualis ab inceplo." 
 
 If there is anything obnoxious to the political opinions of a portion of 
 the public in the following poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He 
 might have written hexameters, as he has written everything else, for 
 aught that the writer cared — had they been upon another subject. But to 
 attempt to canonize a monarch, who, whatever were his household 
 virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot king, — inasmuch as several 
 years of his reign passed in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing 
 of the aggression upon France, — like all other exaggeration, necessarily 
 begets opposition. In whatever manner he may be spoken of in this 
 new " Vision," his public career will not be more favourably transmitted 
 by history. Of his private virtues (although a little expensive to the 
 nation) there can be no doubt. 
 
 With regard to the supernatural personages treated of, I can only say 
 that I know as much about them, and (as an honest man) have a better 
 right to talk of them, than Robert Southey. I have also treated them 
 more tolerantly. The way in which that poor insane creature, the 
 Laureate, deals about his judgments in the next world, is like his own 
 judgment in this. If it was not completely ludicrous, it would be some 
 thing worse. I don't think that there is much more to say at present. 
 
 QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 
 
 P.S. — It is possible that some readers may object, in these objection- 
 able times, to the freedom with which saints, angels, and spiritual persons 
 discourse in this " Vision." But, for precedents upon such points, I 
 must refer them to Fielding's " Journey from this World to the next," 
 and of the Visions of myself, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or translated. 
 The reader is also requested to observe, that no doctrinal tenets are 
 insisted upon or discussed; that the person of the Deity is carefully 
 withheld from sight, which is more' than can be said for the Laureate, 
 who hath thought proper to make Him talk, not " like a school divine," 
 but like the unscholarlike Mr. Southey. The whole action passes on the 
 outside of heaven; and Chaucer's "Wife of Bath," Pulci's " Morgan te 
 Maggiore," Swift's "Tale of a Tub," and the other works above 
 referred to, are cases in point of the freedom with which saints, &c, may 
 be permitted to converse in works not intended to be serious. 
 
 Q. R. 
 
 *** Mr. Southey, being, as he says, a good Christian and vindictive, 
 threatens, I understand, a reply to this our answer. It is to be hoped 
 that his visionary faculties will in the mean time (have acquired a little 
 more judgment, properly so called : otherwise he will get himself into 
 new dilemmas. These apostate Jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. Let him 
 take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudeth grievously " one Mr. Landor," 
 who cultivates much private renown in the shape of Latin verses ; and 
 not long ago, the Poet Laureate dedicated to him, it appeareth, one of his 
 fugitive lyrics upon the strength of a poem called Gebir. Who could 
 suppose, that in this same Gebir the aforesaid Savage Landor (for such i£ 
 his grim cognomen) putteth into the infernal regions no less a person 
 than the hero of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven, — yea, even George the 
 Third ! See also how personal Savage becometh, when he hath a mind. 
 The following is his portrait of our late gracious sovereign : — 
 
 (Prince Gobir having descended into the infernal regions, the shades of hLs royal ancestors 
 are, at his request, called up to his view ; and he exclaims to his ghostly guide)— 
 " Aroar, what wretch that nearest us ? what wretch 
 Ib that with eyebrows white and slanting brow ? 
 Listen 1 him yonder, who, bound down supine, 
 Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine-hung. 
 He too amongst my ancestor* ? I hate 
 
460 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The despot, but the dastard I despise. 
 Was he our countryman ?" 
 
 " Alas, O king ! 
 Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 
 Inclement winds blew blighting from north -east.* 
 " He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods 't " 
 ** Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods, 
 Though them indeed his daily face adored ; 
 And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
 Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 
 And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
 Oh madness of mankind 1 address'd, adored 
 
 Gebir, p. S3. 
 
 I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics of Savagius, wishing to keep 
 the proper veil over them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet worshipper 
 will suffer it j but certainly these teachers of " great moral lessons " are 
 apt to be found in strange company. 
 
 THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 I. 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate : 
 
 His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 
 
 So little trouble had been given of late ; 
 Not that the place by any means was full ; 
 
 Eut since the Gallic era " eighty- eight/' 
 The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pull, 
 
 And "a pull altogether," as they say 
 
 At sea — which drew most souls another way. 
 
 II. 
 
 The angels all were singing out of tune, 
 And hoarse with having little else to do, 
 
 Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
 Or curb a runaway young star or two, 
 
 Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 
 Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal bhi9, 
 
 Splitting some planet with its playful tail, 
 
 A.s boats are sometimes by a wanton whale, 
 
 nr. 
 
 The guardian seraphs had retired on high, 
 Finding their charges past all care below ; 
 
 Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 
 Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 
 
 Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 
 With such rapidity of vice and woe, 
 
 That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quilt©. 
 
 And yet was in arrear of human ills. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 IV. 
 
 His business so augmented of late years, 
 
 That he was forced, against his will no doubt 
 
 (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers), 
 For some resource to turn himself about, 
 
 And claim the help of his celestial peers, 
 To aid him ere he should be quite worn out. 
 
 By the increased demand for his remarks ; 
 
 bix angels and twelve saints were named his clerks. 
 
 V. 
 
 This was a handsome board — at least for heaven , 
 And yet they had even then enough to do, 
 
 So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 
 So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
 
 Each day too slow its thousands six or seven, 
 Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
 
 They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 
 
 The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 
 
 VI. 
 
 This by the way ! 'tis not mine to record 
 
 What angels shrink from : even the very devil 
 
 On this occasion his own work abhorr'd, 
 So surfeited with the infernal revel : 
 
 Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword, 
 It almos quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 
 
 (Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion — 
 
 Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) 
 
 VII. 
 
 Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
 Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 
 
 And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease, 
 With nothing but new names subscribed upon't : 
 
 'Twill one day finish : meantime they increase, 
 
 ''With seven heads and ten horns," and all in frort, 
 
 Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours are bom 
 
 Less formidable in the head than horn. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 In the first year of freedom's second dawn 
 
 Died George the Third ; although no tyrant, one 
 Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
 . Left him nor mental nor external sun : 
 A better farmer ne'er brush* d dew from lawn, 
 
 A worse king never left a realm undone ! 
 He died — but left his subjects still behind, 
 One half as mad — and t'other no less blind. 
 
 IX. 
 
 He died ! — his death made no great stir on earth ; 
 i His burial made some pomp ; there was profusion 
 Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 
 Of aught but tears — save those shed by collusion. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 For these things may be bought at their true worth ; 
 
 Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
 Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, 
 Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 
 
 X. 
 
 Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
 The fools who flock' d to swell or see the show, 
 
 Whe cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
 Made the attraction, and the black the woe. 
 
 There throbb'd not there a thought which pierced th8 pallj 
 And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low, 
 
 It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 
 
 The rottenness of eighty years in gold. 
 
 XI. 
 
 So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
 
 Return to what it must far sooner, were 
 The natural compound left alone to fight 
 
 Its way back into earth, and fire, and air ; 
 But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
 
 What nature made him at his birth, as bare 
 As the mere million's base unmummiod clay- 
 Yet all his spices but prolong decay. 
 
 XII. 
 
 He's dead — and upper earth with him has done ; 
 
 He's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 
 Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
 
 For him, unless he left a German will ; 
 But whore's the proctor who will ask his son ? 
 
 In whom his qualities are reigning still, 
 Except that household virtue, most uncommon, 
 Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " God save the king ! " It is a large economy 
 
 In God to save the like ; but if He will 
 Be saving, all the better ; for not one am I 
 
 Of those who think damnation better still : 
 I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
 
 In this small hope of bettering future ill 
 By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 
 The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 I know this is unpopular ; I know 
 
 'Tis blasphemous ; I know one may be damn'd 
 For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 
 
 I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 
 With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 
 
 I know that all save England's church have shamm'd, 
 And that the other twice two hundred churches 
 And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 463 
 
 xv. 
 
 God help us all ! God help me too ! I am, 
 God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, 
 
 Vnd not a whit more difficult to damn, 
 Than is to bring to land a late-hook' d fish, 
 
 Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ; 
 Not that I'm fit for such a noble ulsh, 
 
 As one day will be that immortal fry 
 
 Of almost everybody born to die. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 
 
 And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! there came 
 A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 
 
 A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame ; 
 In short, a roar of things extremely great, 
 
 Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim 
 But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
 Said, " There's another star gone out, I think ! " 
 
 xvn. 
 
 But ere he could return to his repose, 
 A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes — 
 
 At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd his nose : 
 " Saint Porter," said the Angel, " prithee rise ! * 
 
 Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
 An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes ; 
 
 To which the Saint replied, " Well, what's the matter ? 
 
 Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ? " 
 
 xvni. 
 
 " No," quoth the Cherub ; " George the Third is dead." 
 M And who is George the Third ? " replied the Apostle : 
 " What George ? what Third!" " The king of England," said 
 The Angel. " Well ! he won't find kings to jostle 
 
 Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 
 Because the last we saw here had a tussle, 
 
 And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, 
 
 Had he not flung his head In all our faces. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 " He was, if I remember, king of France ; 
 
 That head of his, which could not keep a crown 
 On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
 
 A claim to those of martyrs — like my own : 
 If I had had my sword, as I had once, 
 
 When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 
 But having but my keys, and not my brand, 
 I only knock* d his head from out his hand. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " And then he set up such a headless howl, 
 That all the saints came out and took him in ; 
 
 And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
 That fellow Paul — the parvenu ! The skin 
 
464 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Of St. Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
 
 In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sm 9 
 So as to make a martyr, never sped 
 Better than did this weak and wooden head. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
 There would have been a different tale to tell : 
 
 The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 
 Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 
 
 And so this very foolish head heaven solders 
 Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
 
 And seems the custom here to overthrow 
 
 Whatever has been wisely done below." " 
 
 XXII. 
 
 The Angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
 The king who comes has head and all entire, 
 
 And never knew much what it was about — 
 He did as doth the puppet — Toy its wire, 
 
 And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt : 
 My business and your own is not to inquire 
 
 Into such matters, but to mind our cue— 
 
 "Which is to act as we are bid to do." 
 
 XXIH. 
 
 While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 
 
 Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 
 Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
 
 Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Indc, 
 Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old ma& 
 
 With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 
 Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 
 Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 But bringing up the rear of this bright host, 
 
 A Spirit of a different . aspect waved 
 His wings, like thunder- clouds above some coast 
 
 Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is pavod £ 
 His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss' d ; 
 
 Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 
 Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 
 And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
 Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, 
 
 With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
 As made St. Peter wish himself within ; 
 
 He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, 
 And sweated through his apostolic skin : 
 
 Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 
 
 Or some such other spiritual liquor. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 * 
 
 The very cherubs huddled all together, 
 
 Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they feit 
 
 A tingling to the tip of every feather, 
 And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 
 
 Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew whiths 
 His guards had led him, though they gently dealt 
 
 With royal manes (for by many stories, 
 
 And true, we learn the angels are all Tories). 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
 Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 
 
 Flung over space a universal hue 
 
 Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges 
 
 Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new 
 Aurora borealis spread its fringes 
 
 O'er the North Pole ; the same seen, when ice-boun(i 
 
 By Captain Parry's crow, in " Melville's Sound." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
 A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 
 
 Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
 Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight 2 
 
 My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
 With earthly likenesses, for here the night 
 
 Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving 
 
 Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 'Twas the archangel Michael : all men know 
 The make of angels and archangels, since 
 
 There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, 
 From the fiends' leader to the angels' prinoc. 
 
 There also are some altar-pieces, though 
 I really can't say that they much ovinco 
 
 One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 
 
 But let the connoisseurs explain their merits. 
 
 XXX, 
 
 Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 
 
 A goodly work of Him from whom all glory 
 And good arise ; the portal pass'd —he stood ; 
 
 Before him the young cherubs and saints hoary-* 
 (I say young , begging to be understood 
 
 By looks, not years ; and should be very sorry 
 To state, they were not older than St. Peter, 
 But mevrely that they soem'd a little sweeter), 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before 
 
 That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 
 Of essences angelical, who woro 
 
 The aspect of a god j but this ne'er nursstf 
 
 2 a 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
 
 No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst 
 Intrude, however glorified and high ; 
 Heknew him but the viceroy of the sny. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 
 They knew each other both for good and ill ; 
 
 Such was their power, that neither could forget 
 His former friend and future foe ; but still 
 
 There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
 In either 's eye, as if 'twere less their will 
 
 Than destiny to make the eternal years 
 
 Their date of war, and their " champ clos " the spiiesm 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But here they were in neutral space : we know 
 From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 
 
 A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
 And that " the sons of God," like those of clay,. 
 
 Must keep him company ; and we might show 
 From the same book, in how polite a way 
 
 The dialogue is held between the Powers 
 
 Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up hours, 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 And this is not a theologic tract, 
 To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 
 
 If Job be allegory or a fact, 
 
 But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 
 
 From out the whole but such and such an act, 
 As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 
 
 'Tis every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 
 
 And accurate as any other vision. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 The spirits were in neutral space, before 
 
 The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds ia 
 
 The place where death's grand cause is argued o'effj> 
 And souls despatch'd to that world or to this ; 
 
 And therefore Michael and the other wore 
 A civil aspect : though they did not kiss, 
 
 Yet still between his Darkness and his Brightness 
 
 There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 
 
 xxxvi. 
 
 The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau, 
 
 But with a graceful oriental bend, 
 Pressing one radiant arm just where below 
 
 The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 
 He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 
 
 But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 
 With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 
 Poor noble meet a mushroom rich civilian. 
 
f EE VISION OF JUDGMENT, 
 
 4C7 
 
 xxxvn. 
 
 He merely bent his diabolic brow 
 
 An instant ; and then raising it, he stood 
 In act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
 
 Cause why King George by no means could or should 
 Mako out a case to be exempt from woe 
 
 Eternal, more than other kings, endued 
 With better sense and hearts, whom history mentions, 
 Who long have u paved hell with their good intentions. "* 
 
 xxxviii. # 
 
 Michael began : " What wouldst thou with this man, 
 Now dead, and brought before the Lord ? What ill 
 
 Hath he wrought since his mortal race began, 
 That thou canst claim him? Speak ! and do thy will, 
 
 If it be just : if in this earthly span 
 He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
 
 His duties as a king and mortal, say, 
 
 And he is thine ; if not, let him havo way." 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " Michael ! " replied the Prince of Air, " even here, 
 
 Before the gate of Him thou servest, must 
 I claim my subject : and will make appear 
 
 That as he was my worshipper in dust, 
 So shall he be in spirit, although dear 
 
 To thee and thine, because nor wine nor lust 
 Were of his weaknesses, yet on the throne 
 He reign'd o'er millions to servo mo alone. 
 
 XL. 
 
 u Look to our earth, or rather mine ; it was, 
 Once more thy Master's : but I triumph not 
 
 In this poor planet's conquest ; nor, alas ! 
 Need He tnou servest envy me my lot : 
 
 With all the myriads of bright worlds which pass 
 In worship round Him, He may havo forgo t 
 
 Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 
 
 I think few worth damnation save their kings, — 
 
 XLL 
 
 M And these but as kind of quit-rent, to 
 
 Assert my right as lord ; and even had 
 1 such an inclination, 'twere (as you 
 
 Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so bad, 
 That hell has nothing better left to do 
 
 Than leave them to themselves : so much more m;ia 
 And evil by their own internal curse, 
 Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 
 
 • " No saint In the course of hi* religious warfare was more sensible of tho unhappy 
 failure of pious resolves than Dr. Johnson : he said one day, talking to an fto iu.>intauc« 
 on this subject. * Sir, hell u pared with good intentions.' " 
 
 2 n 2 
 
BYRON'S POEAI&. 
 
 xin. 
 
 " Look to the earth, I said, and say again : 
 When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, poor won 
 
 Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
 The world and he both wore a different form, 
 
 And much of earth and all the watery plain 
 
 Of ocean call'd him king : through many a storm 
 
 Ris isles had floated on the abyss of time ; 
 
 fbr the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 
 
 XLin. 
 
 * He came to his sceptre young ; he leaves it old : 
 Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
 
 And left it ; and his annals too behold, 
 How to a minion * first he gave the helm ; 
 
 How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 
 The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 
 
 The meanest hearts ; and for the rest, but glance 
 
 Thine eye along America and France. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 '*'Tis true, he was a tool from first to last 
 (I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 
 
 So let him be consumed. From out the past 
 Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 
 
 Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 
 Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesars' school, 
 
 Take the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 
 
 More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with the slain, 
 
 XLV. 
 
 " He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 
 Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
 
 So that they utter' d the word ' Liberty ! ' 
 
 Found George the Third their first opponent. Whose 
 
 History was ever stain'd as his will be 
 With national and individual woes ? 
 
 I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
 
 His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want ; 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 44 1 know he was a constant consort ; own 
 He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 
 
 All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
 A.s temperance, if at Apicius' board, 
 
 Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
 I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 
 
 And this was well for him, but not for those 
 
 Millions who found him what oppression chose 
 
 • Lord Eut«s 
 
THE VISION OF JCDGMEHT. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 u The New World shook him off; the Old yet groans 
 Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
 
 Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 
 To all his vices, without what begot 
 
 Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 
 Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
 
 A lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 
 
 Upon the thrones of earth \ but let them quake ! 
 
 XL VIII. 
 
 ''Five millions of the primitive,* who hold 
 The faith which makes ye great on earth, implored 
 
 A -part of that vast all they held of old, — 
 Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 
 
 Michael, but you, and you, Sain* Peter ! Cold 
 Must be your souls, if you have not abhorrV 
 
 The foe to Catholic participation 
 
 in all the license of a Christian nation. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 " True : he allow'd them to pray God : but as 
 A consequence of prayer, refused the law 
 
 Which would have placed them upon the same base 
 With those who did not hold the saints in awe." 
 
 But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
 And cried, "You may the prisoner withdraw ; 
 
 Ere heaven shall ope her portals to this Guelpli, 
 
 While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself! 
 
 L. 
 
 " Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
 
 •My office (and his is no sinecure) 
 Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 
 
 The azure fields of heaven, of that be sure ! " 
 "Saint ! " replied Satan, "you do well to avenge 
 
 The wrongs he made your satellites enduro ; 
 And if to this exchange you should be given, 
 I'll try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 
 
 LI. 
 
 Here Michael interposed : " Good saint ! and devil ! 
 
 Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
 Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil : 
 
 Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
 And condescension to the vulgar's level : 
 
 Even saints sometimes forget themselves in session. 
 Have you got more to say ? " — "No." — " If you please, 
 I'll trouble you to call your witnesses." 
 
 * Roman uathoHou. 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 LB. 
 
 Then Satan turn'd and waved his swarthy hand, 
 Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 
 
 Clouds farther off than we can understand, 
 Although we find him sometimes in ou~ sides ; 
 
 Infernal thunder shook both sea and land 
 In all the planets, and hell's batteries 
 
 Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 
 
 As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
 As have the privilege of their damnation 
 
 Extended far beyond the mere controls 
 Of worlds past, present, or to come ; no station 
 
 Is theirs particularly in the rolls 
 Of hell assign 'd ; but where their inclination 
 
 Or business carries them in search of game, 
 
 They may range freely — being damn'd the sams. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
 It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 
 
 Stuck in their loins ; or like to an " entre'e " 
 Up the back stairs, or such free- masonry. 
 
 I borrow my comparisons from clay, 
 Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 
 
 Offended with such base low likenesses ; 
 
 We know their posts are nobler far than these. 
 
 LV. 
 
 When the great signal ran from heaven to hell — 
 About ten million times the distance reckon'd 
 
 From our sun to its earth, as we can tell 
 
 How much time it takes up, even to a second, 
 
 For every ray that travels to dispel 
 The fogs of London, through which, dimly beaconV 
 
 The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a year, 
 
 If that the summer is not too severe. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 I say that I can tell — 'twas half a minute : 
 I know the solar beams take up more time 
 
 Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it ; 
 But then their telegraph is less sublime, 
 
 And if they ran a race, they would not win it 
 
 'Gainst Satan's couriers bound for their own slime, 
 
 The sun takes up some years for every ray 
 
 To reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Upon the verge of space, about the size 
 Of half-a crown, a little speck appear'd 
 
 (I've seen a something like it in the skie3 
 In the JSgean, ere a squall) ; it near'd. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 471 
 
 And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 
 
 Like an aerial ship, it tack'd and steer' d, 
 Or was steer'd (I am doubtful of the grammar 
 Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza stammer ;— 
 
 Lvm. 
 
 But take your choice) ; and then it grew a cloud ; 
 
 And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 
 But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a crowd 
 
 Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these ; 
 They shadow' d with their myriads space ; their loud 
 
 And varied cries were like those of wild geese 
 (If nations may be liken'd to a goose), 
 And realized the phrase of " hell broke loose, " 
 
 SUb 
 
 Here crash' d a sturdy oath of stout John Bull, 
 
 Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore : 
 There Paddy brogued " By Jasus ! " — u What's your wullf" 
 
 The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the French ghost swore 
 In certain terms I sha'n't translate in full, 
 
 As the first coachman will ; and 'midst the war, 
 The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
 " Our president is going to war, I guess." 
 
 LX. 
 
 Besides, there were the Spaniard, Dutch, and Dane; 
 
 In short, a universal shoal of shades, 
 From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 
 
 Of all climes and professions, years and trades, 
 Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 
 
 Bitter as clubs in cards arc against spades : 
 All summon'd by this grand u subpoena," to 
 Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
 
 As angels can ; next, like Italian twilight, 
 He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail, 
 
 Or sunset streaming through a Gothic skylight 
 In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 
 
 Or distant lightning on the horizon by night, 
 Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 
 Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Then he address 'd himself to Satan : " Why, 
 My good old friend — for such I deem you, though 
 
 Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
 I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 
 
 Our difference is political, and I 
 
 Trust that, whatever may occur below, 
 
 You know my great respect for you : and this 
 
 Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 
 
m 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 u Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
 My call for witnesses ? I did not mean 
 
 That you should half of earth and hell produce ; 
 'Tis even superfluous, since two honest, clean, 
 
 True testimonies are enough : we lose 
 Our time, nay, our eternity, between 
 
 The accusation and defence : if we 
 
 Hear both, 'twill stretch our immortality." 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Satan replied, " To me the matter is 
 Indifferent, in a personal point of view : 
 
 I can have fifty better souls than this 
 With far less trouble than we have gone through 
 
 Already , and I merely argued his 
 
 Late majesty of Britain's case with you 
 
 Upon a point of form : you may dispose 
 
 Of him ; I've kings enough below, God knows ! ' 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd u multifaced *' 
 By multo -scribbling Southey). " Then we'll call 
 
 One or two persons of the myriads placed 
 Around our congress, and dispense with all 
 
 The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be so grace! 
 As to speak first ? there's choice enough — who shaU 
 
 It be ? " Then Satan answer' d, " There are many ; 
 
 But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as any." 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite 
 Upon the instant started from the throng, 
 
 Dress' d in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
 For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 
 
 By people in the next world ; where unite 
 
 All the costumes since Adam's right or wrong, 
 
 From Eve's fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 
 
 Almost as scanty, of days less remote. 
 
 LXVIx. 
 
 The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
 
 Assembled, and exclaim'd, M My friends of all 
 
 The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these clouds 
 So let's to business : why this general call ? 
 
 If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
 And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 
 
 Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! — 
 
 Saint Peter, may I count upon your vote ? * 
 
 Lxvin. 
 
 M Sir," replied Michael, u you mistake ; these thing? 
 
 Are of a former life, and what we do 
 Above is more august ; to judge of kings 
 
 Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 f * Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 
 
 Said Wilkes, " are cherubs; and that soul below 
 Looks much like George the Third, but to my mind 
 A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind ? " 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 " He is what you behold him, and his doom 
 Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 
 
 " If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
 Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 
 
 To lift itself against the loftiest." — " Some," 
 
 Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laid in lead 
 
 For such a liberty — and I, for one, 
 
 Have told them what I thought beneath the sun." 
 
 LXX. 
 
 "Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hasc 
 To urge against him," said the Archangel. ** Why/ 
 
 Replied the Spirit, " since old scores are past, 
 Must I turn evidence ? In faith, not I. 
 
 Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, 
 
 With all his Lords and Commons : in the sky 
 
 I don't like ripping up old stories, since 
 
 His conduct was but natural in a prince. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 u Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
 A poor unlucky devil without a shilling ; 
 
 But then I blame the man himself much less 
 Than Bute and Grafton,* and shall be unwilling 
 
 To see him punish'd here for their excess, 
 Since they were both damn'd long ago, and still in 
 
 Their place below : for me, I have forgiven, 
 
 And vote his ' habeas corpus' into heaven." 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 " Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand all this ; 
 
 You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 
 And seem to think it would not be amiss 
 
 To grow a whole one on the other side 
 Of Charon's ferry ; you forget that his 
 
 Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
 lie won't be sovereign more : you've lost your labour, 
 for at the best he will but be your neighbour. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 u However, I knew what to think of it, 
 When I beheld you in your jesting way, 
 
 Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
 Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 
 
 * His minister*. 
 
474 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
 His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say : 
 That fellow even in hell breeds further ills ; 
 I'll have him gagg'd — 'twas one of his own bill*. 
 
 lxxtv. 
 
 ''Call Junius ! " From the crowd a shadow stalk'd. 
 And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
 
 So that the very ghosts no longer walk'd 
 In comfort, at their own aerial ease ; 
 
 But were all ramm'd, and jamm'd (but to be balk'ci. 
 As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees, 
 
 Like wind compress'd and pent within a bladder. 
 
 Or like a human colic, which is sadder. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 The shadow came — a tall, thin, gray-hair'd figure, 
 
 That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 
 Quick in its motions, with an air of vigour, 
 
 But nought to mark its breeding or its birth : 
 Now it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 
 
 With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth ; 
 But as you gazed upon its features, they 
 Changed every instant — to what, none could say. 
 
 LXXYL 
 
 The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
 
 Could they distinguish whose the features were ; 
 
 The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 
 They varied like a dream — now here, now there ; 
 
 And several people swore from out the press, 
 They knew him perfectly ; and one could swear 
 
 He was his father : upon which another 
 
 Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother : 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Another that he was a duke, or knight, 
 
 An orator, a lawyer, or a priest,* 
 A nabob, a man-midwife : but the wight 
 
 Mysterious changed his countenance at least 
 As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 
 
 He stood, the puzzle only was increased ; 
 The man was a phantasmagoria in 
 Himself ; — he was so volatile and thin. 
 
 Lxxvin. 
 
 The moment that you had pronounced him one. 
 Presto ! his face changed, and he was another ; 
 
 And when that change was hardly well put on, 
 It varied, till I don't think his own mother . 
 
 • The various posthumous claimants to the honour of having been J unics. whose eatliy 
 seems as obscure as ever. The Duke of Grafton, Sir P. Francis Burke, H. Tooke. sud 
 Warren Hastings, are designated by the Poet. 
 
THE, VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 (If that he had a mother) would her son 
 
 Have known, ho shifted so from one to t'other ; 
 Till guessing from a pleasure grew a task, 
 At this epistolary " Iron Mask." 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 For sometimes he like Cerberus would seem — 
 
 " Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely says 
 Good Mrs. Malaprop) ; then you might deem 
 
 That he was not even one ; now many rays 
 Were flashing round him ; and now a thick steam 
 
 Hid him from sight — like fogs on London days : 
 Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's fancies., 
 
 And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own ; 
 
 I never let it out till now, for fear 
 Of doing people harm about the throne, 
 
 And injuring some minister or peer, 
 On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown ; 
 
 It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
 'Tis that what Junius we are wont to call 
 
 Was really t truly, nobody at all. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 I don't see wherefore letters should not be 
 Written without hands, since we daily view 
 
 Them written without heads ; and books, we see, 
 Are fill'd as well without the latter too^: 
 
 And really till we fix on somebody 
 
 For certain sure to claim them as his due, 
 
 Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will bother 
 
 The world to say if there be mouth or author. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 "And who and what art thou ? " the Archangel said. 
 
 " For that you may consult my title-page," 
 Replied this mighty shadow of a shade : 
 
 " If I have kept my secret half an age, 
 I scarce shall tell it now." " Canst thou upbraid," 
 
 Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
 Aught further ? " Junius answer'd, u You had bettor 
 First ask him for his answer to my letter. " 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 " My charges upon record will outlast 
 The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 
 
 "Repent'st thou not," said Michael, "of some past 
 Exaggeration ? something which may doom 
 
 Thyself if false, as him if true ? Thou wast 
 Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 
 
 Of passion? " — "Passion ! " cried the phantom dial 
 
 u I loved my country and I hated him." 
 
BYXtuN'S P0EM3. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 " What I have written, I have written : let 
 The rest be on his head or mine ! " So spoke 
 
 Old " Nominis Umbra and while speaking yet, 
 Away he melted in celestial smoke. 
 
 Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget 
 To call George Washington, and John Home Tooke* 
 
 And Franklin ;" — but at this time there was heard 
 
 A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 At length, with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
 
 Of cherubim appointed to that post, 
 The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
 
 His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 
 Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 
 
 < ' What's this ? " cried Michael ; " why, 'tis not a ghcwt ! * 
 " I know it," quoth the incubus ; " but he 
 Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 u Confound thfl renegado ! I have sprain'd 
 My left wing, he's so heavy ; one would think 
 
 Some of his works about his neck were chain'd. 
 But to the point : while hovering o'er the brink 
 
 Of Skidd aw (where as usual it still rain'd), 
 I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 
 
 And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 
 
 No less on history than the Holy Bible. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 " The former is the devil's scripture, and 
 The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 
 
 Belongs to all of us, you understand. 
 
 I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 
 
 And brought him off for sentence out of hand : 
 I've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 
 
 Xt least a quarter it can hardly be : 
 
 I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Here Satan said, w I know this man of old, 
 And have expected him for some time hero 5 
 
 A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
 Or more conceited in his petty sphere : 
 
 But surely it was not worth while to fold 
 
 Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear : 
 
 We had the poor wretch safe (without being bored 
 
 With carriage) coming of his own accord. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 " But since he's here, let's see what he has done,* 
 "Done !" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates 
 
 The very business you are now upon, 
 
 And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
 
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 477 
 
 Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 
 
 When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, prates ?" 
 u Let's hear," quoth Michael, " what he has to say ; 
 You know we're bound to that in every way." 
 
 xc. 
 
 Now the bard, glad to get an aud/ence, which 
 
 By no means often was his case below, 
 Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
 
 His voice into that awful note of woe 
 To all unhappy hearers within reach 
 
 Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow ; 
 But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 
 Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 
 
 xci. 
 
 But ere the spavin' d dactyls could be spurr'd 
 
 Into recitative, in great dismay, 
 Both cherubim and seraphim were heard 
 
 To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
 And Michael rose ere he could get a word 
 
 Of all his founder' d verses under way, 
 And cried, " For God's sake, stop, my friend ; 'twere Dest— 
 Non Di, non homines — you know the rest." 
 
 XCII. 
 
 A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 
 Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation ; 
 
 The angels had of course enough of song 
 When upon service ; and the generation 
 
 Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 
 Before, to profit by a new occasion : 
 
 The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, u What ! what ! 
 
 Pye* come again ? No more — no more of that !" 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 The tumult grew ; a universal cough 
 
 Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 
 When Castlereagh has been up long enough 
 
 (Before he was first minister of state, 
 I mean — the slaves hear now) ; some cried M Off, off !" 
 
 As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate, 
 The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 
 (Himself an author) only for his prose. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave ; 
 
 A good deal like a vulture in the face, 
 With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 
 
 A smart and sharper-looking sort of graoe 
 
 • George the Third's Poet Laureate; ca.wkinJv the meanest that «v»r revived the 
 hundred marks and the butt ot wine. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 
 
 "Was by no means so ugly as his case ; 
 But that indeed was hopeless as can be 
 Quite a poetic felony " de $e" 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Then Michael blew his trump, and still' d the noise 
 With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
 
 On earth besides ; except some grumbling voice, 
 Which now and then will rsake a slight inroad 
 
 Upon decorous silence, few will 'Cwice 
 
 Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow'd ; 
 
 And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
 
 With all the attitudes of self-applause. 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 He saM — (I only give the heads)— he said, 
 
 He meant no harm in scribbling ; 'twas his way 
 
 Upon all topics ; 'twas, besides, his bread, 
 
 Of which he butter' d both sides ; 'twould delay 
 
 Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 
 And take up rather more time than a day, 
 
 To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
 
 " Wat Tyler"—" Khymes on Blenheim"—" Waterloo 
 
 xcvu. 
 
 He had written praises of a regicide ; 
 
 He had written praises of all kings whatever ; 
 He had written for republics far and wide, 
 
 And then against them bitterer than ever ; 
 For pantisocracy he once had cried 
 
 Aloud, a scheme less moral than 'twas clevei , 
 Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
 Had turn'd his coat — and would have turn'd his skin, 
 
 xcvin. 
 
 He had sung against all battles, and again 
 In their high praise and glory ; he had call'd 
 
 Reviewing " the ungentle craft," and then* 
 Become as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 
 
 Fed, paid, and pamper'd by the very men 
 By whom his muse and morals had been maul'd : 
 
 He had written much blank verse, and blanker pros% 
 
 A ad more of both than anybody knows. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 He had written Wesley 's life ; — here turning roirad 
 To Satan, "Sir, I'm ready to write yours, 
 
 In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 
 With notes and preface, all that most allures 
 
 • 8e« " Life of Henry Kirke White." 
 
TEE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 
 
 479 
 
 The piou» purchaser ; and there's no ground 
 
 Fcr fe»>r, for I can choose my own reviewers 3 
 So let me have the proper documents, 
 That I may add you to my other saints." 
 
 c. 
 
 Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you, 
 
 Witn amiable modesty, decline 
 My offer, what says Michael ? There are few 
 
 Whose memoirs could be render' d more divine. 
 Mine is a pen-of-all-work : not so new 
 
 As it was once, but I would make you shine 
 Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
 Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown. 
 
 ci. 
 
 " But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision ! 
 
 Now you shall judge, all people ; yes, you shall 
 Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 
 
 Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 
 I settle all these things by intuition, 
 
 Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all, 
 Like king Alfonso.* When I thus see double, 
 I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 
 
 on. 
 
 He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 
 
 Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 
 Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 
 
 He read the first three lines of the contents ; 
 But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 
 
 Had vanish'd, with variety of scents, 
 Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, 
 Like lightning, off from his " melodious twang. "+ 
 
 cm. 
 
 Those grand heroics acted as a spell ; 
 
 The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their pinions ; 
 The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 
 
 The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions — 
 (For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, 
 
 And I leave every man to his opinions) ; 
 Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo ! 
 His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow I 
 
 » IT if . 
 
 Saint Peter, who nas hitherto been known 
 
 For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 
 And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down ; 
 
 Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, 
 
 • Alfonso, speaking of the Ptolemean system, said, that, "had he been consulted it 
 the creation of the world, he would have spared the Maker some absurdities.'* 
 
 t See Aubrey's account of the apparition which disappeared *' with a curious perfuztt 
 +nd a mott melodious twang ;" or see the Antiquary, vol. i. p. 225. 
 
BIKON S POEMS. 
 
 Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
 
 A different web being by the Destinies 
 Wovon for the Laureate's final wreath* wheno'es* 
 Eeform shall happen either here or there-. 
 
 cv. 
 
 He first sank to the bottom — like his works, 
 But soon rose to the surface — like himself ; 
 
 For all corrupted things are buoy'd like corks, 
 By their own rottenness, light as an elf, 
 
 Or wisp that flits o'er a morass ; he lurks, 
 It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 
 
 In his own den, to scrawl some " Life " or " Vision/* 
 
 As Welborn says — "the devil turn'd precisian." 
 
 cvi. 
 
 As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
 
 Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 
 Which kept my optics free from all delusion., 
 
 And show'd me what I in. my turn have shown ; 
 All I saw further, in the last confusion, 
 
 Was, that King George slipp'd into heaven for one ; 
 And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 
 I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 
 
 >> A drowned body lies at the bottom till rotten j it then floats, as moat poetic kr#w. 
 
HEAYEN AND EARTH: 
 
 FOUNDED ON THE FOLLOWING PASSAGE IN GENESIS, 
 
 CHAP. VI. 
 
 ** And it came to pass .... that the sons of God saw the daughters of men tu»t ths3 
 irero fair ; and they took them wives of all which they chose." 
 
 * And woman wailing for her demon lover."— Coleridge. 
 
 Uvamatis persona?, 
 
 ANGELS. 
 
 Samiasa, Azaziel, Raphael, the Archangel. 
 
 MEN. 
 
 Noah and his Sons — Irad and Japhet. 
 WOMEN. 
 
 Anah. I Aholibamah. 
 
 Ctorus of Spirits of the Earth — Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 PART I.— SCENE I. 
 
 A woody and mountainous district near Mount Ararat. 
 
 Time, Midnight. 
 
 J^nter Anah and Aholibamah. 
 
 Anah. Our father sleeps : it is the hour when they 
 Who love us are accustom'd to descend 
 Through the deep clouds o'er rocky Ararat : 
 How my heart beats ! 
 
 Aho. Let us proceed upon 
 
 Our invocation. 
 
 Anah. But the stars are hidden. 
 
 I tremble. 
 
 Aho. So do I, but not with fear 
 
 Of aught save their delay. 
 
 Anah. My sister, though 
 
 I love Azaziel more than — oh, too much ! — 
 What was I going to say ? my heart grows impious, 
 
 Aho. And where is the impiety of loving 
 Celestial natures ? 
 
 Anah. But, Aholibamah, 
 
 I love our God less since His angel loved me : 
 This cannot be of good ; and though I know not 
 
 2 I 
 
B IRON'S FOJfiALS. 
 
 That I do wrong, I feel a thousand fears 
 Which are not ominous of right. 
 
 Aho. Then wed thee 
 
 Unto some son of clay, and toil and spin ! 
 There's Japhet loves thee well, hath loved thee long ; 
 Marry, and bring forth dust ! 
 
 Anah. I should have loYod 
 
 Azaziel not less were he mortal ; yet 
 I am glad he is not. I can not outlive him. 
 And when I think that his immortal wings 
 Will one day hover o'er the sepulchre 
 Of the poor child of clay which so adored him, 
 As he adores the Highest, death becomes 
 Less terrible : but yet I pity him ; 
 His grief will be of ages, or at least 
 Mine would be such for him, were I the Seraph, 
 And he the perishable. 
 
 Aho. Rather say, 
 
 That he will single forth some other daughter 
 Of Earth, and love her as he once loved Anah. 
 
 A nah. And if it should be so, and she loved him, 
 Better thus than that he should weep for me. 
 
 Aho. If I thought thus of Samiasa's love, 
 All Seraph as he is, I'd spurn him from me. — 
 But to our invocation ! 'Tis the hour. 
 Anah, Seraph ! 
 
 From thy sphere ! 
 Whatever star contain thy glory ; 
 In the eternal depths of heaven 
 Albeit thou watchest with "the seven,"* 
 Though through space infinite and hoary 
 Before thy bright wings worlds be driven, 
 Yet hear ! 
 Oh ! think of her who holds thee dear ! 
 
 And though she nothing is to thee, 
 Yet think that thou art all to her. 
 Thou canst not tell — and never be 
 Such pangs decreed to aught save me — 
 The bitterness of tears. 
 Eternity is in thine years, 
 Unborn, undying beauty in thine eyes ; 
 With me thou canst not sympathize, 
 Except in love, and there thou must 
 Acknowledge that more loving dust 
 Ne'er wept beneath the skies. 
 Thou walk'st thy many worlds, thou see'et 
 
 The face of Him who made thee great, 
 As He hath made me of the least 
 Of those cast out from Eden's gate : 
 Yet, Seraph dear ! 
 Oh hear ! 
 
 • The archangels, <*ld to bs seven in number, and to occupy the eighSn rank la ha 
 wlcstial hierarchy -J. 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 For thou hast loved me, and I would Dot die 
 
 Until I know, what I must die in knowing, 
 That thou forgett'st in thine eternity 
 
 Her whose heart death could not keep from o'erflowing 
 
 For thee, immortal essence as thou art ! 
 Great is their love who love in sin and fear; 
 
 And such, I feel, are waging in my heart 
 A. war unworthy : to an Adamite 
 Forgive, my Seraph ! that such thoughts appear, 
 For sorrow is our element ; 
 Delight 
 
 An Eden kept afar from sight, 
 
 Though sometimes with our visions blent. 
 The hour is near 
 Which tells me we are not abandon'd quite — 
 Appear ! appear ! 
 Seraph ! 
 My own Azaziel ! be but here, 
 And leave the stars to their own light. 
 Ako. Samiasa ! 
 
 Wheresoe'er 
 Thou rulest in the upper air — 
 Or warring with the spirits who may dare 
 Dispute with Him 
 Who made all empires, empire ; or recalling 
 Some wandering star, which shoots through the abyss, 
 Whose tenants dying, while their world is falling, 
 Share the dim destiny of clay in this ; 
 
 Or joining with the inferior cherubim, 
 Thou deignest to partake their hymn — 
 Samiasa ! 
 
 I call thee, I await thee, and I love thee. 
 
 Many may worship thee, that will I not : 
 If that thy spirit down to mine may move thfCp 
 Descend and share my lot ! 
 Tnough I be form'd of clay, 
 
 And thou of beams 
 More bright than those of day 
 On Eden's streams, 
 Thine immortality can not repay 
 
 With love more warm than mine, 
 My love. There is a ray 
 
 In me, which, though forbidden yet to shin©, 
 I feel was lighted at thy God's and thine. 
 It may be hidden long : death and decay 
 
 Our mother Eve bequeath'dus — but my hoar^ 
 Defies it : though this life must pass away, 
 Is that a cause for thee and me to part ? 
 Thou art immortal — so am I : I feel- - 
 
 I feel my immortality o'ersweep 
 All pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peal, 
 
 Like the eternal thunders of the deep, 
 Into my ears this truth — " Thou liv'st for ev«* 
 But if it be in joy 
 
 2 I 2 
 
BYRON'S POEJTd. 
 
 I know not, nor would know ; 
 
 That secret rests with the Almighty Giver, 
 Who folds in clouds the fonts of bliss and woe. 
 But thee and me He never can destroy: 
 
 Change us He may, but not o'erwhelm ; we are 
 
 Of as eternal essence, and must war 
 
 With Him if He will war with us : with thee 
 I can share all things, even immortal sorrow ; 
 
 For thou hast ventured to share life with me, 
 And shall / shrink from thine eternity ? 
 
 No ! though the serpent's sting should pierce me thoroiigkp 
 
 And thou thyself wert like the serpent, coll 
 
 Around me still ! and I will smile, 
 And curse thee not ; but hold 
 Thee in as warm a fold 
 
 As But descend, and prove 
 
 A mortal's love 
 For an immortal. If the skies contain 
 More joy than thou canst give and take, remain ! 
 
 Anah. Sister ! sister! I view them winging 
 Their bright way through the parted night. 
 
 Aho. The clouds from off' their pinions flinging, 
 As though they bore to-morrow's light. 
 
 Anah. But if our father see the sight ! 
 
 Aho. He would but deem it was the moon 
 Rising unto some sorcerer's tune 
 An hour too soon. 
 
 A nah. They come ! he comes ! — Azaziel ! 
 
 Aho. Hast© 
 To meet them ! Oh, for wings to bear 
 My spirit, while they hover there, 
 To Samiasa's breast ! 
 
 Anah. Lo ! they have kindled all the west, 
 Like a returning sunset ; — lo ! 
 
 On Ararat's late secret crest 
 A mild and many- colour' d bow, 
 The remnant of their flashing path, 
 Now shines ! and now, behold ! it hath 
 Return'd to night, as rippling foam, 
 
 Which the leviathan hath lash'd 
 From his unfathomable home, 
 When sporting on the face of the calm deep, 
 
 Subsides soon after he again hath dash'd 
 Down, down, to where the ocean's fountains sleep. 
 
 Aho. They have touch'd earth ! — Samiasa ! 
 
 &mh. My Azaziel ! 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 SCENF II. 
 
 Enter Irad and Japhet. 
 
 Irad. Despond not : whei'efore wilt thou wander fchiu 
 To add thy silence to the silent night, 
 And lift thy tearful eye ur.to the stars? 
 They cannot aid thee. 
 
 Japh. But they soothe me — now 
 
 Perhaps she looks upon them as I look. 
 Me thinks a being that is beaut iful 
 Becometh more so as it looks on beauty, 
 The eternal beauty of undying things. 
 Oh, Anah ! 
 
 Irad. But she loves thee not. 
 
 Japh. Alas ! 
 
 Irad. And proud Aholibamah spurns me also. 
 
 Japh. I feel for thee too. 
 
 Irad. Let her keep her pride, 
 
 Mine hath enabled me to bear her scorn : 
 It may be, time too will avenge it. 
 
 Japh. Canst thou 
 
 Find joy in such a thought ? 
 
 Irad. Nor joy, nor sorrow. 
 
 I loved her well , I would have loved her better, 
 Had love been met with love ; as 'tis, I leave her 
 To brighter destinies, if so she deems them. 
 
 Japh. What destinies ? 
 
 Irad. I have some cause to think 
 
 She loves another. 
 
 Japh. Anah ? 
 
 Irad. No ; her sister. 
 
 Japh. What other ? 
 
 Irad. That I know not ; but her air, 
 
 If not her words, tells me she loves another. 
 
 Japh. Ay, but not Anah ; she but loves her God, 
 
 Irad. Whate'er she loveth, so she loves thee not, 
 What can it profit thee ? 
 
 Japh. True, nothing ; but 
 
 I love. 
 
 Irad. And so did I. 
 
 Japh. And now thou lov'st not, 
 
 Or think'st thou lov'st not, art thou happier ? 
 
 Irad. Yes. 
 
 Japh. I pity thee. 
 
 Irad. Me ! Why ? 
 
 Japh. For being happy, 
 
 Deprived of that which makes my misery. 
 
 Irad. I take thy taunt as part of thy distemper, 
 And would not feel as thou dost, for more shekels 
 Than all our father's herds would bring if weigh'd 
 Against the metal of the sons of Cain — 
 The yellow dust they try to barter with us, 
 As if such useless and discolour'd trash, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The refuse of the earth, could be received 
 For milk, and wool, and flesh, and fruits, and 
 Our flocks and wilderness afford. — Go, Japhet, 
 Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon— 
 I no ust back to my rest. 
 
 japh. And so would I, 
 
 If I could rest. 
 
 Trad. Thou wilt not to our tents then ? 
 
 Japh. No, Irad ; I will to the cavern, whoso 
 Mouth, they say, opens from the internal world, 
 To let the inner spirits of the earth 
 Forth when they walk its surface. 
 
 Irad. Wherefore so ? 
 
 What wouldst thou there ? 
 
 Japh. Soothe further my sad spirit 
 
 With gloom as sad : it is a hopeless spot, 
 And I am hopeless. 
 
 Irad. But 'tis dangerous ; 
 
 Strange sounds and sights have peopled it with terrors : 
 I must go with thee. 
 
 Japh. Trad, no ; believe me 
 
 I feel no evil thought, and fear no evil. 
 
 Irad. But evil things will be thy foe the more, 
 As not being of them : turn thy steps aside, 
 Or let mine be with thine. 
 
 Japh. No : neither, Irad ; 
 
 I must proceed alone. 
 
 Irad. Then peace be with thee ! 
 
 [Exit Irad. 
 
 Japh. (solus). Peace ! I" have sought it where it should 
 found, 
 
 In love — with love, too, which perhaps deserved it ; 
 
 And in its stead, a heaviness of heart — 
 
 A weakness of the spirit — listless days, 
 
 And nights inexorable to sweet sleep — 
 
 Have come upon me. Peace ! what peace ? the calm 
 
 Of desolation, and the stillness of 
 
 The untrodden forest, only broken by 
 
 The sweeping tempest through its groaning boughs ! 
 
 Such is the sullen or the fitful state 
 
 Of my mind overworn. The earth 's grown wicked, 
 
 And many signs and portents have proclaimed 
 
 A change at hand, and an o erwhelming doom 
 
 To perishable beings. Oh, my Anah ! 
 
 When the dread hour denounced shall open wido 
 
 The fountains of the deep, how mightest thou 
 
 Have lain within this bosom, folded from 
 
 The elements — this bosom, which in vain 
 
 Hath beat for thee, and then will beat more vainly, 
 
 While thine— 0 God ! at least remit to her 
 
 Thy wrath ! for she is pure amidst the failing, 
 
 As a star in the clouds, which cannot quench, 
 
 Although they obscure it for an hour. My Anah ! 
 
 How would I have adored thee, but thou wouldst not ; 
 
• 
 
 HEAVEN AJTD EARTH. 
 
 And still would I redeem thee — see thee live 
 When Ocean is Earth's grave, and, unopposed 
 By rock or shallow, the leviathan, 
 Lord of the shoreless sea and watery world, 
 Shall wonder at his boundlessness of realm. 
 
 [Exit Japhet. 
 
 Enter Noah and Shem. 
 
 Noah. Where is thy brother Japhet ? 
 
 Shem. He wout forth, 
 
 According to his wont, to meet with Irad, 
 He said ; but, as I fear, to bend his steps 
 Towards Anah's tents, round which he hovers nightly, 
 Like a dove round and round its pillaged nest ; 
 Or else he walks the wild up to the cavern 
 Which opens to the heart of Ararat. 
 
 Noah. What doth he there ? It is an evil spot, 
 Upon an earth all evil ; for things worse 
 lhan even wicked men resort there : he 
 Still loves this daughter of a fated race, 
 Aithough he could not wed her if she loved him, 
 And that she doth not. Oh, the unhappy hearts 
 Of men ! that one of my blood, knowing well 
 Ths destiny, and evil of these days, 
 And that the hour approach eth, should indulge 
 In such forbidden yearnings ! Lead the way ; 
 He must be sought for ! 
 
 Shem. Go not forward, father ; 
 
 I Trill seek Japhet. 
 
 Noah. Do not fear for me : 
 
 All evil things are powerless on the man 
 Selected by Jehovah. — Let us on. 
 
 Shem. To the tents of the father of the sisters ? 
 
 Noah. No ; to the cavern of the Caucascus. 
 
 [Exeunt Noah and She 
 
 SCENE III. 
 
 The mountains. — A cavern, and the rocks of 
 Caucasus. 
 
 Japh. (solus). Ye wilds, that look eternal ! and thou cav*. 
 i^hich seem'st unfathomable ! and ye mountains, 
 80 varied and so terrible in beauty ! 
 lere, in your rugged majesty of rocks, 
 Ind toppling trees that twine their roots with stone 
 n perpendicular places, where the foot 
 Of man would tremble, could he reach them — yes, 
 fe look eternal ! Yet, in a few days, 
 'erhaps even hours, ye will be changed, rent, huri'd 
 iefore the mass of waters ; and yon cave, 
 Vhich seems to lead into a lower world, 
 Shall have its depths search'd by the sweeping wave, 
 Ind dolphins gambol in the lion's den 1 
 
BYRON S FOEM». 
 
 And man — Oh, men ! my fellow beings ! Who 
 
 Shall weep above your universal grave, 
 
 Save I ? Who shall be left, to weep ? — My kinsmen, 
 
 Alas ! what am I better than ye are, 
 
 That I must live beyond ye ? Where shall be 
 
 The pleasant places where I thought of Anah 
 
 While I had hope ; or the more savage haunts, 
 
 Scarce less beloved, where I despair'd for her ? 
 
 And can it be ? — Shall yon exulting peak, 
 
 Whose glittering top is like a distant star, 
 
 Lie low beneath the boiling of the deep, 
 
 No more to have the morning sun break forth, 
 
 And scatter back the mists in floating folds 
 
 * 1 rom its tremendous brow ? no more to have 
 
 Day's broad orb drop behind its head at even, 
 
 Leaving it with a crown of many hues ? 
 
 No more to be the beacon of the world, 
 
 For angels to alight on, as the spot 
 
 Nearest the stars ? And can those words "no more" 
 
 Be meant for thee, for all things, save for us, 
 
 And the predestined creeping things reserved 
 
 By my sire, to Jehovah's bidding ? May 
 
 He preserve them, and 1 not have the power 
 
 To snatch the loveliest of earth's daughters from 
 
 A doom which even some serpent, with his mate, 
 
 Shall 'scape, to save his kind to be prolong'd, 
 
 To hiss and sting through some emerging world, 
 
 Reeking and dank from out the slime, whore oozo 
 
 Shall slumber o'er the wreck of this until 
 
 The salt morass subside into a sphere 
 
 Beneath the sun, and be the monument, 
 
 The sole and undistinguish'd sepulchre, 
 
 Of yet quick myriads of all life ? How much 
 
 Breath will be still'd at oace ! All-beauteous world ! 
 
 So young, so mark'd out for destruction, I 
 
 With a cleft heart look on thee day by day, 
 
 And night by night, thy number'd days and nights : 
 
 I cannot save thee, cannot save even her 
 
 Whose love had made me love thee more ; but as 
 
 A portion of thy dust, I cannot think 
 
 Upon thy coming doom without a feeling 
 
 *3uch as — Oh God ! and canst Thou He pauses. 
 
 A rushing sound from the cavern is heard, an 
 shouts of laughter — afterwards a Spirit passei 
 
 Japh. By all that earth holds holiest, speak ! 
 Spirit (laughs). Ha \ ha ! 
 
 Japh. By the approaching deluge ! by the earth 
 Which will be strangled by the ocean ! by 
 The deep which will lay open all her fountains 1 
 The heaven which will convert her clouds to seas, 
 
 Japh. 
 
 Of the Most High, what art thou • 
 
 In the name 
 
 Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
HEAVEN AND EAKTfi. 
 
 And the Omnipotent who makes and crushes ! 
 Thou unknown, terrible, and indistinct. 
 Yet awful Thing of Shadows, speak to me ! 
 Why dost thou laugh that horrid laugh ? 
 
 Spirit Why weep'st thou ? 
 
 Japh. For earth and all her children. 
 
 Spirit. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 
 
 [Spirit vanishes. 
 
 Japh. How the fiend mocks the tortures of a world. 
 The coming desolation of an orb, 
 On which the sun shall rise and warm no life ! 
 How the earth sleeps ! and all that in it is 
 Sleep too upon tho very eve of death ! 
 Why should they wake to meet it ? What is here, 
 Which looks like death in life, and speak like things 
 Born ere this dying world ? They come like clouds ! 
 
 [Various Spirits pass from the caver w. 
 Spirit. Kejoico ! 
 
 The abhorred race 
 Which could not keep in Eden their high place, 
 But listen'd to the voice 
 Of knowledge without power, 
 Are nigh the hour 
 Of death ! 
 
 Not slow, not single, not by sword, nor sorrow, 
 
 Nor years, nor heart-break, nor time's sapping motion. 
 Shall they drop off. Behold their last to-morrow ! 
 Earth shall be ocean ! 
 And no breath, 
 Save of the winds, be on the unbounded wave ! 
 
 Angels shall tiro their wings, but find no spot : 
 Not even a rock from out the liquid grave 
 
 Shall lift its point to save, 
 Or show the place where strong Despair hath died, 
 After long looking o'er the ocean wide 
 For the expected ebb which cometh not : 
 All shall be void, 
 Destroy'd ! 
 Another element shall be the lord 
 Of life, and the abhorr'd 
 Children of dust be quench'd ; and of each hue 
 Of earth nought left but the unbroken blue ; 
 And of the variegated mountain 
 Shall nought remain 
 Unchanged, or of tho level plain ; 
 Cedar and pine shall lift their tops in vain : 
 All merged within the universal fountain, 
 Man, earth, and fire, shall die, 
 And sea and sky 
 Look vast and lifeless in the Eternal aye. 
 Upon the foam 
 Who shall erect a home ? 
 Japh. (coming forward). My sire ! 
 north's seed shall not expire ; 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Only the evil shall be put away 
 From clay. 
 
 Avaunt ! ye exulting demons of the waste ! 
 
 Who howl your hideous joy 
 When God destroys whom you dare not destroy \ 
 Hence ! haste ! 
 Back to your inner caves ! 
 Until the waves 
 Shall search you in your secret place, 
 And drive your sullen race 
 Forth, to be roll'd upon the tossing winds 
 In restless wretchedness along all space ! 
 Spirit. Son of the saved ! 
 
 When thou and thine have braved 
 The wide and warring element ; 
 When the great barrier of the deep is rent. 
 Shall thou and thine be good or happy? — No ; 
 Thy new world and new race shall be of woe — 
 Less goodly in their aspect, in their years 
 Less than the glorious giants, who 
 Yet walk the world in pride, 
 The Sons of Heaven by many a mortal bride. 
 Thine shall be nothing of the past, save tearse 
 And art thou not ashamed 
 
 Thus to survive, 
 And eat, drink, and wive ? 
 With a base heart so far subdued and tamed, 
 As even to hear this wide destruction named, 
 Without such grief and courage, as should rather 
 Bid thee await the world- dissolving wave, 
 Than seek a shelter with thy favour'd father, 
 And build thy city o'er the drown'd earth's grave ? 
 Who would outlive their kind, 
 Except the base and blind ? 
 Mine 
 
 Hateth thine 
 As of a different order in the sphere, 
 But not our own. 
 There is not one who hath not left a throne 
 
 Vacant in heaven, to dwell in darkness hero, 
 Rather than see his mates endure alone. 
 
 Go, wretch ! and give 
 A life like thine to other wretches — live ! 
 And when the annihilating waters roar 
 Above what they have done, 
 Envy the Giant Patriarchs then no more, 
 And scorn thy sire as the surviving on© ! 
 Thyself for being his son ! 
 
 Chorus of Spirits issuing from he cavers** 
 
 Rejoice ! 
 ITo more the human voice 
 Shall vex our joys in middle air 
 
 With prayer ; 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 491 
 
 No more 
 
 Shall they adore ; 
 And we, who ne'er for ages have adored 
 
 The prayer-exacting Lord, 
 To whom the omission of a sacrifico 
 Is vice ; — 
 
 We, we shall view the deep's salt sources pour'd 
 Until one element shall do the work 
 Of all in chaos ; until they, 
 The creatures proud of their poor clay, 
 Shall perish, and their bleached bones shall lurk 
 In caves, in dens, in clefts o c mountains, where 
 The deep shall follow to their latest lair ; 
 
 Where even the brutes, in their despair, 
 Shall cease to prey on man and on each other, 
 And the striped tiger shall lie down to die 
 Beside the lamb, as though he were his brother ; 
 Till all things shall be as they were, 
 Silent and uncreated, save the sky ; 
 While a brief truce 
 Is made with Death, who shall forbear 
 The little remnant of the past creation, 
 To generate new nations for his use ; 
 This remnant, floating o'er the undulation 
 Of the subduing deluge, from its slime, 
 When the hot sun hath baked the reeking soil 
 Into a world, shall give again to Time 
 New beings — years — diseases — sorrow — crime — 
 With all companionship of hate and toil, 
 
 Until 
 
 Japh. (interrupting them). The Eternal Will 
 Shall deign to expound this dream 
 Of good and evil ; and redeem 
 
 Unto Himself all times, all things ; 
 And, gather'd under His almighty wings, 
 Abolish hell ! 
 And to the expiated Earth 
 Restore the beauty of her birth, 
 Her Eden, in an endless paradise, 
 Where man no more can fall as once he fell, 
 And even the very demons shall do well ! 
 Spirits. And when shall take effect this wondrous spell ?— 
 Japh. When the Redeemer cometh ; first in pain, 
 
 And then in glory. 
 Spirit. Meantime still struggle in the mortal chain, — 
 
 Till earth wax hoary ; 
 War with yourselves, and hell , and heaven in vain,— 
 
 Until the clouds look gory 
 With the blood reeking from each battle-plain ; 
 New times, new climes, new arts, new men : but 3till 
 The same old tears, old crimes, and oldest ill, 
 Shall be amongst your race in different form3 ; 
 But the same moral storms 
 
192 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Shall oversweep the future, as the waves 
 In a few hours the glorious Giants' graves. 10 
 
 Chorut of Spirits. 
 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 Mortal, farewell ! 
 Hark ! hark ! already we can hear the voice 
 Of growing ocean's gloomy swell ; 
 The winds, too, plume their piercing wings ! 
 The clouds have nearly fill'd their springs ; 
 The fountains of the great deep shall be broken, 
 
 And heaven set wide her windows ; f while mankind 
 View, unacknowledged, each tremendous token — 
 Still, as they were from the beginning, blind. 
 We hear the sound they cannot hear, 
 The mustering thunders of the threatening ephere ; 
 Yet a few hours their coming is delay'd ; 
 Their flashing banners, folded still on high, 
 
 Yet undisplay'd, 
 Save to the Spirits' all-pervading eye. 
 
 Howl, howl, oh Earth ! 
 Thy death is nearer than thy recent birth : 
 Tremble, ye mountains, soon to shrink below 
 
 The ocean's overflow ! 
 The wave shall break upon your cliffs ; and shells, 
 
 The little shells of ocean's least things be 
 Deposed where now the eagle's offspring dwells — 
 
 How shall he shriek o'er the remorseless sea ! 
 And call his nestlings up with fruitless yell, 
 Unanswer'd, save by the encroaching swell ; — 
 While man shall long in vain for his broad wings, 
 The wings which could not save : — 
 Where could he rest them, while the whole space brings 
 Nought to his eye beyond the deep, his grave ? 
 Brethren, rejoice ! 
 And loudly lift each superhuman voice- 
 All die,— 
 
 Save the slight remnant of Seth's seeu- - 
 
 The seed of Seth, 
 Exempt for future sorrow's sake from death* 
 But of the sons of Cain 
 None shall remain ; 
 And all his goodly daughters 
 Must lie beneath the desolating waters- — 
 Or, floating upward, with their long hair laid 
 Along the wave, the cruel Heaven upbraid, 
 Which would not spare 
 Beings even in death so fair. 
 It is decreed. 
 All die ! 
 
 • ** And there w >re giants in the earth in those days, and after ; mighty me::, whlcn 
 irere of old, men of renown."— Genesis.— B. 
 
 f " The same day were all the fountains of the great deep broken up ; and tht windowf 
 *f heaveu were open." — Qeneeis.—B. 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 And to the universal human cry 
 The universal silence shall succeed ! 
 Fly, brethren, fly { 
 But still rejoice ! 
 We fell ! 
 They fall ! 
 So perish all 
 
 The30 petty foes of Heaven who shrink from hell ! 
 
 [The Spirits disappear, soaring v.ptcardt. 
 
 Japh. (solus). God hath proclaimed the destiny of earxn $ 
 My father's ark of safety hath announced it ; 
 The very demons shriek it from their caves ; 
 The scroll of Enoch prophesied it long* 
 In silent books, which, in their silence, say 
 More to the mind than thunder to the ear : 
 And yet men listen' d not, nor listen ; but 
 Walk darkling to their doom ; which, though so nigh, 
 Shakes them no more in their dim disbelief, 
 Than their last cries shall shake the Almighty purpose. 
 Or deaf obedient Ocean, which fulfils it. 
 No sign yet hangs its banner in the air ; 
 The clouds are few, and of their wonted texture ; 
 The sun will rise upon the earth's last day 
 As on the fourth day of creation, when 
 God said unto him, "Shine !" and ho broke forth 
 Into the dawn, which lighted not the yet 
 Unform'd forefather of mankind — but roused 
 Before the human orison the earlier 
 Made and far sweeter voices of the birds, 
 Which in the open firmament of heaven 
 Have wings like angels, and like them salute 
 Heaven first each day before the Adamites ! 
 Their matins now draw nigh — the East is kindling, 
 And they will sing ! and day will break ! both near, 
 So near, the awful close ! For these must drop 
 Their outworn pinions on the deep ; and Day, 
 After the bright course of a few brief morrows, — 
 Ay, day will rise — but upon what ? a chaos, 
 "Which was ere day ; and which,renew'd, makes time 
 Nothing ! for without life, what are the hours i 
 No more to dust than is eternity 
 Unto Jehovah, who created both. 
 Without Him, even Eternity would be 
 A void : without man, Time, as made for man, 
 Dies with man, and is swallow'd in that deep 
 Which has no fountain ; as his race will be 
 Devour'd by that which drowns his infant world — 
 What have we here ? Shapes of both earth and air ? 
 No — all of heaven, they are so beautiful. 
 I cannot trace their features ; but their forms, 
 How lovelily they move along the side 
 Of the gray mountain, scattering its mist ! 
 
 • Tha book of Enoch, preserved by th* Ethiopians, is said by them to be anterte* *o t£* 
 
BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 And after the swart savage spirits, whose 
 Infernal immortality pour'd forth 
 Their impious hymn of triumph, they shall be 
 Welcome as Eden. It may be, they come 
 To tell me the reprieve of our young world, 
 For which I have so often pray'd — They come ! 
 Anah ! oh, God ! and with her 
 
 Enter Samiasa, Azaziel, Anah, and Aholibamab. 
 
 Anah. Japhet ! 
 
 Sam. ho ! 
 
 A son of Adam ! 
 
 Aza. What doth the earth-born here, 
 
 While all his race are slumbering ? 
 
 Japh. Angel ! what 
 
 Dost thou on earth when thou shouldst be on high ? 
 
 Aza. Know'st thou not, or forgett'st thou, that a ptrfc 
 Of our great function is to guard thine earth ? 
 
 Japh. But all good angels have forsaken earth, 
 Which is condemn'd ; nay, even the evil fly 
 The approaching chaos. Anah ! Anah ! my 
 In vain, and long, and still to be beloved ! 
 Why walk'st thou with this Spirit, in those hours 
 When no good spirit longer lights below ? 
 Anah. Japhet, I cannot answer thee; yet, yet 
 
 Forgive me 
 
 Japh. May the Heaven, which soon no moro 
 
 Will pardon, do so ! for thou art greatly tempted. 
 
 Aho. Back to thy tents, insulting son of Noah ! 
 We know thee not. 
 
 Japh. The hour may come when thou 
 
 Mayst know me better ; and thy sister know 
 Me still the same which I have ever been. 
 
 Sam. Son of the Patriarch, who hath ever been 
 Upright before his God, whate'er thy griefs, 
 And thy words seem of sorrow, mix'd with wrath, 
 How have Azaziel, or myself, brought on thee 
 Wrong? 
 
 Japh. Wrong ! the greatest of all wrongs ; but thotJ 
 Say'st well, though she be dust, I did not, could not, 
 Deserve her. Farewell, Anah ! I have said 
 That word so often ! but now say it, ne'er 
 To be repeated. Angel ! or whate'er 
 Thou art, or must be soon, hast thou the power 
 To save this beautiful — these beautiful — 
 Children of Cain ? 
 
 Aza. From what? 
 
 Japh. And is it so, 
 
 That ye too know not ? Angels ! angels ! ye 
 Have shared man's sin, and, it may be, now mus^ 
 Partake his punishment ; or, at the least, 
 My soitow. 
 
 Sam. Sorrow ! I ne'er thought till new 
 
 To hear an Adamite speak riddles to me. 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Japh. And hath not the Most High expounded them) 
 Then ye are lost, as they are lost. 
 
 Aho. So be it ! 
 
 If they love as they are loved, they will not shrink 
 More to be mortal, than I would to dare 
 An immortality of agonies 
 With Samiasa ! 
 
 Anah. Sister! sister! speak not 
 
 Thus. 
 
 A za. Fearest thou, my Anah? 
 
 A nah. Yes, for thee : 
 
 I would resign the greater remnant of 
 This little life of mine, before one hour 
 Of thine eternity should know a pang. 
 
 Japh. It is for him, then ! for the Seraph thov 
 Hast left mo ! That is nothing, if thou hast not 
 Left thy God too ! for unions like to these, 
 Between a mortal and an immortal, cannot 
 Be happy or be hallow'd. We are sent 
 Upon the earth to toil and die ; and they 
 Are made to minister on high unto 
 The Highest; but if he can save thee, soon 
 The hour will come in which celestial aid 
 Alone can do so. 
 
 Anah. Ah! he speaks of death. 
 
 Sam. Of death to us! and those who are with us ) 
 But that the man seems full of sorrow, 1 
 Could smile. 
 
 Japh. I grieve not for myself, nor fear ; 
 
 I am safe, not for my own deserts, but those 
 Of a well-doing sire, who bath been found 
 Righteous enough to save his children. Would 
 His power was greater of redemption ! or 
 That by exchanging my own life for hers, 
 Who could alone have made mine happy, she, 
 The last and loveliest of Cain's race, could share 
 The ark which shall receive a remnant of 
 The seed of Seth ! 
 
 A ho. And dost thou think that \?c, 
 
 With Cain's, the eldest born of Adam's, blood 
 Warm in our veins — strong Cain ! who was begotten 
 In Paradise — would mingle with Seth'a children ? 
 Seth, the last offspring of old Adam's dotage ? 
 No, not to save all earth, were earth in peril ! 
 Our race hath always dwelt apart from thine, 
 From the beginning, and shall do so ever. 
 
 Japh. I did not speak to thee, Aholibamah \ 
 Too much of the forefather, whom thou vauntest, 
 Has come down in that haughty blood which spring 
 From him who shed the first, and that a brother's! 
 But thou, my Anah ! — let me call thee mine, 
 Albeit thou art not ; 'tis a word I cannot 
 Part with, although I must from thee : my Anah J 
 Thou who dost rather make me dream that 
 
Hi RON'S POEM33. 
 
 Had left a daughter, whose pure pious raco 
 Survived in thee, so much unlike thou art 
 The rest of the stern Cainites, save in beauty, 
 
 For all of them are fairest in their favour- 
 
 Aho. {interrupting him). And wouldst thou have 
 
 In mind, in soul ? If / partook thy thought, 
 And dream' d that aught of A bel was in her I — 
 Get thee hence, son of Noah ; thou makest strife 
 Japh. Offspring of Cain, thy father did so ! 
 
 He slew not Seth : and what hast thou to do 
 With other deeds between his God and him \ 
 
 Japh. Thou speakest well : his God hath judged him, 
 I had not named his deed, but that thyself 
 Didst seem to glory in him, nor to shrink 
 From what he had done. 
 
 Aho. He was our fathers' father ; 
 The eldest born of man, the strongest, bravest, 
 And most enduring : — Shall I blush for him, 
 From whom we had our being ? Look upon 
 Our race ; behold their stature and their beauty, 
 Their courage, strength, and length of days 
 
 Japh. They are number d, 
 
 Aho. Be it so ! but while yet their hours endure, 
 I giory in my brethren and our fathers ! 
 
 Japh. My sire and race but glory in their God, 
 Anah ! and thou ? 
 
 A nah. Whate'er our God decrees, 
 
 The God of Seth as Cain, I must obey, 
 And will endeavour patiently to obey. 
 But could I dare to pray in this dread hour 
 Of universal vengeance (if such should be), 
 It would not be to live, alone exempt 
 Of all my house. My sister ! oh, my sister ! 
 What were the world : or other worlds, or all 
 The brightest future, without the sweet past — 
 Thy love — my father's — all the life, and all 
 The things which sprang up with me, like the stars. 
 Making my dim existence radiant with 
 Soft lights which were not mine ? Aholibamah ! 
 Oh ! if there should be mercy — seek it, find it : 
 I abhor death, because that thou must die. 
 
 Aho. What! hath this dreamer, with his father's ark, 
 The bugbear he hath built to scare the world. 
 Shaken my sister ? Are we not the loved 
 Of seraphs ? and if we were not, must we 
 Cling to a son of Noah for our lives ? 
 
 Rather than thus But the enthusiast dreams 
 
 The worst of dreams, the phantasies engender 'd 
 By hopeless love and heated vigils. Who 
 Shall shako these solid mountains, this firm earth, 
 And bid those clouds and waters take a shapo 
 Distinct from that which we and all our su-qa 
 
 our father's foe 
 
 But 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Have seen them wear on their eternal way ? 
 Who shall do this I 
 
 Japh, He whose one word produced them. 
 
 Aim. Who heard that word ? 
 
 Japk. The Universe, which leap'd 
 
 To life before it. Ah ! smil'st thou still in scorn i 
 Turn to thy seraphs : if they attest it not, 
 They are none. 
 
 Sam. Aholibamah, own thy God ! 
 
 Aho. I have ever hail'd our Maker, Samiasa, 
 As thine, and mine ; a God of love, not sorrow. 
 
 Japh. Alas ! what else is love but sorrow ? Even 
 He who made earth in love, had soon to grieve 
 Above its first and best inhabitants. 
 
 Aho. 'Tis said so. 
 
 Japh. It is even so. 
 
 Enter Noah and Shem. 
 
 Noah. Japhet ! What 
 
 Post thou here with these children of the wicked t 
 Dread'st thou not to partake their coming doom ? 
 
 Japh. Father, it cannot be a sin to seek 
 To save an earth-born being ; and behold, 
 These are not of the sinful, since they have 
 The fellowship of angels. 
 
 Noah. These are they, then, 
 
 Who leave the throne of God, to take to them wivea 
 From out the race of Cain ; the sons of heaven, 
 Who seek earth's daughters for their beauty ? 
 
 Aza. Patriarch! 
 Thou hast said it. 
 
 Noah. Woe, woe, woe to such communion ] 
 
 Has not God made a barrier between earth 
 And heaven, and limited each, kind to kind ? 
 
 Sam. Was not man made in high Jehovah's imago t 
 Did God not love what He had made ? And what 
 Do we but imitate and emulate 
 His love unto created love ? 
 
 Noah. i am 
 
 Eut man, and was not made to judge mankind, 
 Far less the sons of God : but as our God 
 Has deign'd to commune with me, and reveal 
 //« judgments, I reply, that the descent 
 Of seraphs from their everlasting seat 
 Unto a perishable and perishing, 
 Even on the very eve of perishing, world, 
 Cannot bo good. 
 
 Aza. What ! though it were to save ? 
 
 Noah. Not ye in all your glory can redeem 
 What He who made you glorious hath condemn'^ 
 Were your immortal mission safety, 'twould 
 Be general, not for two, though beautiful ; 
 And beautiful they arej but not the less 
 Condemned. 
 
 3 K 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Japh, Oh, father ! say it not. 
 
 Noah. Son ! son i 
 
 If that thou wouldst avoid their doom, forget 
 That they exist : they soon shall cease to be ; 
 While thou shalt be the sire of a new world, 
 And better. 
 
 Japh. Let me die with this, and them I 
 
 Noah. Thou shouldst for such a thought, but shalt not 
 Who can, redeems thee. 
 
 Sam. And why him and thee, 
 
 More than what he, thy son, prefers to both ? 
 
 Noah. Ask Him who made thee greater than myseli 
 And mine, but not less subject to His own 
 Aimightiness. And lo ! his mildest and 
 Least to be tempted messenger appears ! 
 
 Enter Raphael the Archangel. 
 
 Haph. Spirits ! ■ 
 
 Whose seat is near the throne, 
 
 What do ye here ? 
 Is thus a seraph's duty to be shown, 
 
 Now that the hour is near 
 When earth must be alone ? 
 Return ! 
 Adore and barn 
 In glorious homage with the elected M seven," 
 Your place is heaven. 
 Sam. Raphael ! 
 
 The first and fairest of the sons of God, 
 
 How long hath this been law, 
 That earth by angels must be left untrod ? 
 
 Earth ! which oft saw 
 Jehovah's footsteps not disdain her sod ! 
 The world He loved, and made 
 For love ; and oft have we obey' d 
 His frequent mission with delighted pinions ; 
 
 Adoring Him in His least works display' d ; 
 Watching this youngest star of His dominions : 
 And as the latest birth of His great word, 
 Eager to keep it worthy of our Lord. 
 Why is thy brow severe ? 
 And wherefore speak'st thou of destruction nciar ? 
 Ra/ph. Had Samiasa and Azaziel been 
 In their true place, with the ange li« choir, 
 Written in fire 
 They would have seen 
 Jehovah's late decree, 
 And not inquired their Maker's breath of mo 
 But ignorance must ever be 
 A part of sin ; 
 And even the spirits' knowledge shall grow lacA 
 
 As they wax proud within : 
 For Blindness is the first-born of Excessr 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 When all good angels left the world, ye titay'd, 
 Cltung with strange passions, and debased 
 
 By mortal feelings for a mortal maid : 
 But ye are pardon'd thus far and replaced 
 With your pure equals. Hence ! away ! away I 
 Or stay, 
 
 And lose eternity by that delay ! 
 Aza. And thou ; if earth be thus forbidden 
 In»the decree 
 To us until this moment hidden, 
 Dost thou not err, as we, 
 In being here ? 
 Raph. I came to call ye back to your fit sphere, 
 In the great name and at the word of God ! 
 Dear, dearest in themselves, and scarce less dear 
 
 That which I came to do : till now we trod 
 Together the eternal space, together 
 
 Let us still walk the stars. True, earth must die I 
 Her race, return'd into her womb, must wither, 
 And much which she inhorits : but oh ! why 
 Cannot this earth be made, or be destroy'd, 
 Without involving ever some vast void 
 In the immortal ranks ? immortal still 
 
 In their immeasurable forfeiture. 
 Our brother Satan fell ; his burning will 
 Rather than longer worship dared endure ! 
 But ye who still are pure ! 
 Seraphs ! less mighty than that mightiest one, 
 
 Think how he was undone ! 
 And think if tempting man can compensate 
 For heaven desired too lat< 
 Long have I warr'd, 
 Long must I war 
 With him who deem'd it hard 
 To be created, and to acknowledge Him 
 Who, 'midst the cherubim 
 Made him as suns to a dependent star, 
 Leaving the archangels at his right hand dim. 
 
 I loved him — beautiful he was ; oh, heaven ! 
 Save His who made, what beauty and what power 
 Was ever like to Satan's ! Would the hour 
 In which he fell could ever be forgiven ! 
 The wish is impious : but, oh yo ! 
 Yet undestroy'd, be warn'd ! Eterniiy 
 
 With him, or with his God, is in your choioo i 
 ile hath not tempted you, he cannot tempt 
 The angels, from his further snares exempt : 
 
 But man hath listen'd to his voioo. 
 And ye to woman's — beautiful she wi. 
 The serpent's voice less subtle than her kiss. 
 The snake but vanquish'd dust : but she will ftraw 
 A second host from heaven, to brenk heaven's law. 
 Yet, yet, oh fly ! 
 Ye cannot die, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But they 
 Shall pass away, 
 While ye shall fill with shrieks tho upper sky 
 
 For perishable clay, 
 Whose memory in your immortality 
 
 Shall long outlast the sun which gave them day. 
 Think how your essence differeth from theirs 
 In all but suffering ! Why partake 
 The agony to which they must be heirs — 
 Born to be plough'd with years, and sown with caree^ 
 And reap'd by Death, lord of the human soil ? 
 Even had their days been left to toil their path 
 Through time to dust, unshorten'd by God's wrath, 
 Still they are Evil's prey, and Sorrow's spoil. 
 
 Alio. Let them fly ! 
 
 I hear the voice which says that all must die, 
 Sooner than our white-bearded Patriarchs died ; 
 And that on high 
 An ocean is prepared, 
 While from below 
 The deop shall rise to meet heaven's overflow. 
 
 Fow shall be spared, 
 It seems ; and, of that few, the race of Cain 
 Must lift their eyes to Adam's God in vain. 
 Sisters ! since it is so, 
 And the eternal Lord 
 In vain would be implored 
 For the remission of one hour of woe, 
 Let us resign even what we have adored, 
 And meet the wave, as we would meet the swons, 
 
 If not unmoved, yet undismay'd, 
 And wailing less for us than those who shall 
 Survive in mortal or immortal thrall, 
 
 And, when the fatal waters are allay'd, 
 Weep for the myriads who can weep no more. 
 Fly, Seraphs ! to your own eternal shore, 
 Where w^nds nor howl nor waters roar. 
 Our portion is to die, 
 And yours to live for ever : 
 But which is best, a dead eternity, 
 Or living, is but known to the great Giver. 
 Obey Him, as we shall obey ; 
 I would not keep this life of mine of clay 
 An hour beyond His will ; 
 Nor see ye lose a portion of His grace, 
 For all the mere}'- which Seth's race 
 Find still. 
 Flyl 
 
 And as yo\: r pinions bear ye back to heaven, 
 Think tnat my love still mounts with thee on I 
 
 Samiasa ! 
 And if I look up with a tearless eye, 
 'Tis that an angel's bride disdains to weep — 
 Farewell ! Now lise, inexorable Deep I 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 A nah. And must we die ? 
 
 And must I lose thee too, 
 
 Azaziel? 
 Oh, my heart ! my heart ! 
 
 Thy prophecies were true, 
 And yet thou wert so happy too ! 
 The blow, though not unlook'd for, falls as new : 
 But yet depart ! 
 Ah, why ? 
 Yet let me not retain thee — fly ! 
 My pangs can be but brief ; but thine would be 
 Eternal, if repulsed from heaven for mo. 
 Too much already hast thou deign' d 
 To one of Adam's race ; 
 Our doom is sorrow ; not to us alone, 
 But to the spirits who have not disdain'd 
 To love us, cometh anguish with disgrace. 
 The first who taught us knowledge hath been hur'/cS 
 From his once archangelic throne 
 Into some unknown world : 
 
 And thou, Azaziel ! No — 
 Thou shalt not suffer woe 
 For me. Away ! nor weep ! 
 Thou canst not weep ! but yet 
 Mayst suffer more, not weeping ; then forget 
 Her, whom the surges of the all-strangling Deep 
 
 Can bring no pang like this. Fly ! fly ! 
 Being gone, 'twill be less difficult to die. 
 Japh. Oh, say not so ! 
 Father ! and thou, Archangel, thou ! 
 Surely celestial Mercy lurks below 
 
 That pure severe serenity of brow : 
 Let them not meet this sea without a shoro, 
 Save in our ark, or let me be no more ! 
 
 Noah, Peace, child of passion, peace ! 
 If not within thy heart, yet with thy tongue 
 
 Do God no wrong ! 
 Live as He wills it — die, when He ordains, 
 A righteous death, unlike the seed of Cain's. 
 
 Cease, or be sorrowful in silence ; cease 
 To weary Heaven's ear with thy selfish plaint. 
 Wouldst thou have God commit a sin for thee ? 
 Such would it be 
 To alter His intent 
 For a mere mortal sorrow. Be a man ! 
 And bear what Adam's race must bear, and can. 
 Japh. Ay, father ! but when they are gone, 
 And we are all alone, 
 Floating upon the azure desert, and 
 The depth beneath us hides our own dear land, 
 And dearer, silent friends and brethren, all 
 Buried in its immeasurable breast, 
 Who, who, our tears, our shrieks, shall then comniairJ f 
 Can we in desolation's peace have rest ? 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Oh God ! be Thou a God, and spar® 
 Yet while 'tis time ! 
 Renew not Adam's fall : 
 Mankind were then but twain, 
 But they are numerous now as are the waves 
 
 And the tremendous rain, 
 Whoso drops shall be less thick than would their graves, 
 Were graves permitted to the seed of Cain. 
 Noah. Silence, vain boy ! each word of thine's a crime i 
 Angel ! forgive this stripling's fond despair. 
 Ralph. Seraphs ! these mortals speak in passion : 
 Ye, 
 
 Who are, or should be, passionless and pure, 
 May now return with me. 
 
 Sam. It may not be : 
 
 We have chosen, and will endure. 
 
 Rajah. Say'st thou ? 
 
 Aza. He hath said it ; and I say, Amen ! 
 
 Raph. Again ! 
 
 Then from this hour, 
 
 Shorn as ye are of all celestial power, 
 
 And aliens from your God, 
 Farewell ! 
 
 Japh. Alas ! where shall they dwell ? 
 
 Hark, hark ! Deep sounds, and deeper still, 
 
 Are howling from the mountain's bosom : 
 There's not a breath of wind upon the hill, 
 
 Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom : 
 Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load. 
 Noah. Hark, hark ! the sea-birds cry ! 
 In clouds they overspread the lurid sky, 
 And hover round the mountain, where before 
 Never a white wing, wetted by the wave, 
 
 Yet dared to soar, 
 Even when the waters wax'd tco fierce to brave. 
 Soon it shall be their only shore, 
 And then, no more ! 
 Japh. * The sun ! th& sun ! 
 
 He riseth, but his better light is gone, 
 And a black circle, bound 
 His glaring disk around, 
 Proclaims Earth's last of summer days hath shone J 
 The clouds return into the hues of night, 
 Save where their brazen -coloured edges streak 
 The verge where brighter morns were wont to break 
 Noah. And lo ! yon flash of light, 
 The distant thunder's harbinger, appears ! 
 
 It cometh ! hence, away ! 
 Leave to the elements their evil prey ! 
 Hence to where our all-hallow'd ark uprears 
 Its safe and wreckless sides. 
 Japh. Oh, father, stay ! 
 Leave not my Anah to the swallowing tides ! 
 Afoah. Must we not leave all life to such ? Begon® \ 
 
li HAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Japh. Not I. 
 
 Noah. Then die 
 
 With them ! 
 How darest thou look on that prophetic sky, 
 And seek to save what all things now condemn, 
 In overwhelming unison 
 
 With just Jehovah's wrath ? 
 
 Japh. Can rage and justice join in the same path ? 
 
 Noah. Blasphemer ! dar'st thou murmur even low * 
 
 Raph. Patriarch, be still a father ! smoothe thy brow 
 Thy son, despite his folly, shall not sink : 
 He knows not what he says, yet shall not drink 
 
 With sobs the salt foam of the swelling waters ; 
 Eut be, when Passion passeth, good as thou, 
 
 Nor perish like Heaven's children with Man's daughtc 
 
 Aho. The tempest cometh : Heaven and Earth unite 
 For the annihilation of all life. 
 Unequal is the strife 
 Setween our strength and the Eternal Might ! 
 
 Sam. But ours is with thee : we will bear ye far 
 
 To some untroubled star, 
 Where thou and Anah shall partake our lot : 
 
 And if thou dost not weep for thy lost earth, 
 Our forfeit heaven shall also be forgot. 
 
 Anah. Oh ! my dear father's tents, my place of birth 
 And mountains, land, and woods, when ye are not, 
 Who shall dry up my tears? 
 
 Aza. Thy Spirit-lord. 
 
 Fear not ; though we are shut from heaven, 
 Yet much is ours, whence we cannot be driven. 
 
 Raph. Rebel ! thy words are wicked, as thy deeds 
 Shall henceforth be but weak ; the rlaming sword, 
 Which chased the first-born out of Paradise, 
 Still flashes in the angelic hands. 
 
 Aza. It cannot slay us : threaten dust with death, 
 And talk of weapons unto that which bleeds ! 
 What are thy swords in our immortal eyes ? 
 
 Raph. The moment cometh to approve thy strength ; 
 And learn at length 
 How vain to war with what thy God commands. 
 Thy former force was in thy faith. 
 
 Enter Mortals, flying for refuge. 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 The heavens and earth are mingling — God ! oh God \ 
 
 What have we done ? Yet spare ! 
 
 Hark ! even the forest beasts howl forth their prayer ! 
 
 The dragon crawls from out his den, 
 
 To herd, in terror, innocent with men ! 
 And the birds scream their agony through air. 
 Yet, yet, Jehovah ! yet withdraw Thy rod 
 Of wrath, and pity Thine own world's despair ) 
 Hoar not man only but all Nature plead ! 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Raph. Farewell, thou earth ! Ye wretched sons of clay,, 
 J cannot, must not, aid you. "Pis decreed ! 
 
 [Exit Raphael. 
 
 Japh. Some clouds sweep on as vultures for their prey, 
 While others, fix'd as rocks, await the word 
 At which their wrathful vials shall be pour'd. 
 No azure more shall robe the firmament, 
 Nor spangled stars be glorious : Death hath risen : 
 In the Sun's place, a pale and ghastly glare 
 Hath wound itself around the dying air. 
 
 Aza. Come, Anah ! quit this chaos-founded prison, 
 To which the elements again repair, 
 To turn it into what it was : beneath 
 The shelter of these wings thou shalt be safe, 
 As was the eagle's nestling once within 
 Its mother's. — Let the coming chaos chafe 
 With all its elements ! heed not their din ! 
 A brighter world than this, where thou shalt breathe 
 Ethereal life, will we explore : 
 These darken'd clouds are not the only skies. 
 
 [ Azaziel and Samiasa fly off, and disappear 
 with Anah and Aholibamah. 
 
 Japh. They are gone ! They have disappear'd amidst 
 the roar 
 
 Of the forsaken world ; and never more, 
 Whether they live, or die with all earth's life, 
 Now near its last, can aught restore 
 Anah unto these eyes. 
 
 Chorus of Mortals. 
 
 Oh son of Noah ! mercy on thy kind ! 
 What, wilt thou leave us all — all — all behind ? 
 While safe amidst the elemental strife, 
 Thou sitt'st within thy guarded ark ? 
 A mother (offering her infant to Japhet). Oh, let tliia 
 child embark ! 
 I brought him forth in woe, 
 But thought it joy 
 To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
 Why was he born ? 
 What hath he done — 
 My unwean'd son — 
 To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
 What is there in this milk of mine, that Death 
 Should stir all heaven and earth up to destroy 
 
 My boy, 
 
 And roll the waters o'er his placid breath ? 
 Save him, thou seed of Seth ! 
 Or cursed be — with Him who made 
 Thee and thy race, for which we are betray' d ! 
 Japh. Peace ! 'tis no hour for curses, but for yrayw. 
 
EEAVEN AND EARTH 
 
 Chorus of Mortals, 
 
 For prayer ! ! ! 
 And where 
 Shall prayer ascend 
 fiTken the swoln clouds unto the mountains bend 
 
 And bursty 
 And gushing oceans every barrier rend, 
 Until the very deserts know no thirst ? 
 
 Accurst 
 
 Be He, who made thee and thy fire ! 
 
 We deem our curses vain ; we must expire , 
 
 But as we know the worst, 
 Why should our hymn be raised, our knees be bent 
 Before the implacable Omnipotent, 
 Since we must fall the same 1 
 If He hath made earth, let it be His shame, 
 To make a world for torture. — Lo ! they come, 
 
 The loathsome waters, in their rage ! 
 And with their roar make wholesome Nature dumb t 
 
 The forest's trees (coeval with the hour 
 When Paradise upsprung, 
 
 Ere Eve gave Adam knowledge for her dower, 
 Or Adam his first hymn of slavery sung), 
 So massy, vast, yet green in their old age, 
 Are overtopt, 
 Their summer blossoms by the surges lopp'd 
 Which rise, and rise, and rise. 
 Vainly we look up to the low'ring skies — 
 
 They meet the seas, 
 And shut out God from our beseeching eyes. 
 
 Fly, son of Noah, fly, and take thine ease 
 In thine allotted ocean-tent ; 
 And view, all floating o'er the element, 
 The corpses of the world of thy young days : 
 Then to J ehovah raise 
 Thy song of praise ! 
 A Mortal. Blessed are the dead 
 Who die in the Lord ! 
 And though the waters be o'er earth outspread, 
 Yet, as His word, 
 Be the decree adored ! 
 He gave me life — He taketh but 
 The breath which His is own : 
 And though these eyes should be for ever shui, 
 Nor longer this weak voice before His throa* 
 Be heard in supplicating tone. 
 Still blessed be the Lord, 
 For what is past, 
 
 For that which is : 
 For all are Hi3. 
 From first to last — 
 Time — space — eternity — life — death — 
 
 The vast known and immeasurable unknown 
 
BYRON'S POEM is. 
 
 He made, and can unnrvake ; 
 \nd shall /, for a little gasp of breath, 
 
 Blaspheme and groan ? 
 No ; let me die, as I have lived, in faith, 
 Nor quiver, though the universe may quake t 
 
 Chorus of Mortals 
 
 Where shall we- fly ? 
 Not to the mountains high ; 
 For now their torrents rush, with double roar, 
 To meet the ocean, which, advancing still, 
 Already grasps each drowning hill, 
 Nor leaves an unsearch'd cave. 
 
 Enter a Womas. 
 
 Woman. Oh, saYe me, save ! 
 
 Our valley is no more : 
 lily father and my father's tent, 
 
 My brethren and my brethren's herds, 
 The pleasant trees that o'er our noonday bent 
 
 And sent forth evening songs from sweetest birds, 
 The little rivulet which freshen' d all 
 Our pastures green, 
 No more are to be seen. 
 When to the mountain cliff I climb'd this morn, 
 
 I turn'd to bless the spot, 
 And not a leaf appear'd about to fall ; — 
 
 And now they are not ! 
 Why was I born ? 
 
 Japh. To die ! in youth to die ! 
 And happier in that doom, 
 Than to behold the universal tomb 
 
 Which I 
 
 Am thus condemn' d to weep above in vain. 
 Why, when all perish, why must I remain ? 
 
 [The Waters rise; Men fly in every direction ; 
 many are overtaken by the waves. The Chorus 
 of Mortals disperses in search of safety up the 
 mountains; Japhet remains upon a rock, 
 while the ark floats towards him in th$ 
 distance. 
 
CHILDE HAEOLD'S PILGEIMAGE. 
 
 L*univers est une espSce de livre, dont on n'a hi que la promiere page qviand on n'a to 
 aaa son pays. J'en ai feuillete un assez grand nonibru, que j'ai trouve egalement mau- 
 % .uses. Cet examen ne m'a point 6t6 infructueux. Je halssais ma patrie. Toutea let 
 impertinences des peuplea divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vecu, m'ont reconcilifi avec elle. 
 Quand je n'aurais tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que celui-la, je n'en regretterais nl 
 U» frais ni les fatigues.— Ljt Cosmopolite. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 [TO THB FIR.'IT AND SECOND CANTOS. ] 
 
 The following poem was written, for the most part, amidst the scenes 
 which it attempts to describe. It was begun in Albania; and the parts 
 relative to Spain and Portugal were composed from the author's obser- 
 vations in these countries. Thus much it may be necessary to state for 
 the correctness of the descriptions. The scenes attempted to be sketched 
 are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania, and Greece. There, for the 
 present, the poem stops : its reception will determine whether the author 
 may venture to conduct his readers to the capital of the East, through 
 Ionia and Phrygia : these two Cantos are merely experimental. 
 
 A fictitious character is introduced for the sake of giving some con- 
 nection to the piece; which, however, makes no pretensions to regularity. 
 It has been suggested to me by friends, on whose opinions I set a high 
 value, that in this fictitious character, 11 Childe Harold," I may incur the 
 suspicion of having intended some real personage : this I beg leave, once 
 for all, to disclaim — Harold is the child of imagination, for the purpose I 
 have stated. In some very trivial particulars, and those merely local, 
 there might be grounds for such a notion; but in the main points, I 
 should hope, none whatever. 
 
 It is almost superfluous to mention that the appellation "Childe," as 
 "Childe Waters," "Childe Childers," &c, is used as more consonant 
 with the old structure of versification which I have adopted. The " Good 
 Night," in the beginning of the first canto, was suggested by " Lord 
 Maxwell's Good Night," in the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 
 
 With the different poems which have been published on Spanish sub- 
 jects, there may be found some slight coincidence in the first part which 
 treats of the Peninsula, but it can only be casual ; as, with the exception 
 of a few concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was written in the 
 Levant. 
 
 The stanza of Spenser, according to one of our most successful poets, 
 admits of every variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following observation : — 
 4 Not long ago, I began a poem in the style and stanza of Spenser, in 
 which I propose to give full scope to my inclination, and be either droll or 
 pathetic, descriptive or sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour 
 strikes me; for, if I mistake not, the measure which I have adopted 
 admits equally of all these kinds of composition." Strengthened in my 
 opinion by such authority, and by the example of some in the highest 
 order of Italian poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at similar 
 variations in the following composition ; satisfied that, if they are unsuc- 
 cessful, their failure must be in the execution, rather than m the design, 
 sanctioned by the practice of Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 
 
508 
 
 BYRON'S P0EM3. 
 
 ADDITION TO THE PEEFACE. 
 
 I have now waited till almost all our periodical journals have dia« 
 tributed their usual portion of criticism. To the justice of the generality 
 of their criticisms I have nothing to object: it would ill become me to 
 quarrel with their very slight degree of censure, when, perhaps, if they 
 had been less kind, they had been more candid. Returning, therefore, to 
 all and each my best thanks for their liberality, on one point alone shall I 
 venture an observation. Amongst the many objections justly urged to 
 the very indifferent character of the " vagrant Childe" (whom, notwith- 
 standing many hints to the contrary, I still maintain to be a fictitious 
 personage), it has been stated that, besides the anachronism, he is very 
 vnknightly, as the times of the Knights were times of Love, Honour, and 
 so forth. Now, it so happens that the good old times, when " l'amour du 
 bon vieux terns, l'amour antique " nourished, were the most profligate of 
 all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on this subject may 
 consult Sainte-Palaye, passim, and more particularly vol. ii. p. 69. The 
 vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatsoever; 
 and the songs of the Troubadours were not more decent, and certainly 
 were much less refined, than those of Ovid. The "Cours d'amour, 
 parlemens d'amour, ou de courtesie et de gentilesse," had much more of 
 love than of courtesy or gentleness. See Roland on the same subject 
 with Sainte-Palaye. Whatever other objection may be urged to that 
 most unamiable personage, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly knightly 
 in his attributes — "No waiter, but a knight templar."* By the bye, I 
 fear that Sir Tristrem and Sir Lancelot were no better than they should 
 be, although very poetical personages and true knights, "sans peur," 
 though not "sans reproche." If the story of the institution of the 
 " Garter" be not a fable, the knights of that order have for several cen- 
 turies borne the badge of a countess of Salisbury, of indifferent memory. 
 So much for chivalry. Burke need not have regretted that its days are 
 over, though Marie- Antoinette was quite as chaste as most of those in 
 whose honours lances were shivered and knights unhorsed. 
 
 Before the days of Bayard, and down to those of Sir Joseph Banks (the 
 most chaste and celebrated of ancient and modern times), few exceptions 
 will be found to this statement ; and I fear a little investigation will teach 
 us not to regret these monstrous mummeries of the middle ages. 
 
 I now leave " Childe Harold " to live his day, such as he is ; it had been 
 more agreeable, and certainly more easy, to have drawn an amiable charac- 
 ter. It had been easy to varnish over his faults, to make him do more, and 
 express less; but he never was intended as an example, further than to 
 show, that early perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety of past 
 pleasures and disappointment in new ones, and that even the beauties of 
 nature, and the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the most powerful of 
 all excitements), are lost on a soul so constituted, or rather misdirected. 
 Had I proceeded with the poem, this character would have deepened as 
 he drew to the close j for the outline which I once meant to fill up for him 
 was, with some exceptions, the sketch of a modern Timon, perhaps a 
 poetical Zeluco. 
 
 Loxpok, 1813. 
 
 * Tbt 3o79ra„ or the Doublo Arrangemeai. 
 
CI11LDE HAliOLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 50P 
 
 TO IANTHE. 
 
 Not in those climes where I have late been straying, 
 Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd 
 Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
 Forms which it sighs but to have only drcam'd, 
 Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
 To paint those charms which varied as they beam'd ; 
 To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
 To those who gaze on thee what language could they speak ) 
 
 Ah ! mayst thou ever be what now thou art, 
 Nor unbesccm the promise of thy spring, 
 As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
 Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
 And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
 And surely she who now so fondly rears 
 Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
 Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
 Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears. 
 
 Young Peri of the West ! — 'tis well for me 
 My years already doubly number thine ; 
 My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
 And safely view thy ripening beauties shine ; 
 Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline ; 
 Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed, 
 Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
 To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
 But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest hours decreed 
 
 Oh ! lot that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, 
 Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
 Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
 Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
 That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh, 
 Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
 This much, dear maid, accord ; nor question why 
 To one so young my strain I would commend, 
 But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend. 
 
 Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
 And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined 
 Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
 My days once number 'd, should this homage past 
 Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
 Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
 Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
 Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship i^ss 
 require ? 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE: 
 
 & Eomaunt. 
 
 — 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 I. 
 
 Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
 Muse ! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will ! 
 Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
 Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill : 
 Yet there I've wander' d by thy vaunted rill ; 
 Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine,* 
 Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
 Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
 To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 
 
 II. 
 
 Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
 Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight ; 
 But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
 And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. 
 Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
 Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
 Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
 Save concubines and carnal companie, 
 And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree. 
 
 m. 
 
 Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his name 
 And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
 Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
 And had been glorious in another day ; 
 But one sad lozel soils a name for aye, 
 However mighty in the olden time ; 
 Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, 
 Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
 Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 
 
 • The little village of Castri stand? partly on the site of Delphi. Along the path of the 
 mountain, from Chrysso, are the regains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock. 
 " One," said the guide, "of a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty had 
 certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A little above Castri is a cave, 
 supposed the Pythian, of immense depth ; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow- 
 house. On the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery ; some way above which is 
 the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns difficult of ascent, and apparently leading 
 to the interior of the mountain ; probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by Paw- 
 ■anias. From this part descend the fountain and the *' Dews of Catstalie." 
 
CHiLDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 
 Disporting there like any other fly, 
 Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
 One blast might chill him into misery. 
 But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
 Worse than adversity the Childe belell ; 
 He felt the fulness ol satiety : 
 Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
 Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite s sad colL 
 
 v. 
 
 For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, 
 Nor made atonement when he did amiss ; 
 Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, 
 And that loved one, alas ! could ne'er be his. 
 Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
 Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
 Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
 And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
 Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste. 
 
 vi. 
 
 And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
 And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
 'Tis said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
 But Pride congeal'd the drop within his eo : 
 Apart he stalk' d in joyless reverie, 
 And from his native land resolved to go, 
 And visit scorching climes beyond the sea ; 
 With pleasure drugg'd, ho almost long'd for woe, 
 A.nd e'en for change of scene would seek the shades below, 
 
 VII. 
 
 The Childe departed from his father's hall ; 
 It was a vast and venerable pile ; 
 So old, it seemed only not to fall, 
 Yet strength was pillar' d in each massy aisle. 
 Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 
 Where Superstition once had made her den 
 Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile ; 
 And monks might deem their time was come agen, 
 If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
 Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's brow, 
 As if the memory of some deadly feud 
 Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
 But this none knew, nor haply cared to know ; 
 For his was not that open artless soul 
 That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
 Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
 Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could not control. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And none did love him — though to hall and bower 
 He gather' d revellers from far an»d near, 
 He knew them flatt'rers of the festal hour ; 
 The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
 Yea ! none did love him — not his lemans dear — 
 But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
 And where these are, light Eros finds a fecre ; 
 Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
 And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair, 
 
 x. 
 
 Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
 Though parting fVom that mother he did shun ; 
 A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
 Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
 If friends he had, he bade adieu to none ; 
 Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel : 
 Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
 A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
 Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal. 
 
 XI. 
 
 His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
 The laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
 Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, 
 Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
 And long had fed his youthful appetite ; 
 His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine, 
 And all that mote to luxury invite, 
 Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, 
 And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line* 
 
 XII. 
 
 The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds blew, 
 As glad to waft him from his native home ; 
 And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
 And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
 And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
 Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
 The silent thought, nor from his lips did come - 
 One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
 And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning kept. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 But when the sun was sinking in the sea, 
 He seized his harp, which he at times could string, 
 And strike, albeifc with untaught melody, 
 When deem'd be Bo Strange ear was listening : 
 And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
 And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight, 
 While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
 And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
 Thus to the elements he pour'd his last " Good Night, 59 
 
childe Harold's pilgrimage. 
 
 " Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 
 
 Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
 The night- winds sigh, the breakers nwr, 
 
 And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
 Yon sun that sets upon the sea 
 
 We follow in his flight : 
 Farewell awhile to him and thee, 
 
 My native Land — Good Night ! 
 
 u A few short hours, and he will riso 
 
 To give the morrow birth ; 
 And I shall hail the main and skies, 
 
 But not my mother earth. 
 Deserted is my own good hall, 
 
 Its hearth is desolate ; 
 Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 
 
 My dog howls at the gate. 
 
 u Come hither, hither, my little page, 
 
 Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
 Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 
 
 Or tremble at the gale ? 
 But dash the tear-drop from thine eyo ; 
 
 Our ship is swift and strong : 
 Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 
 
 Moro merrily along." 
 
 '* Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 
 
 I fear not wave nor wind : 
 Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 
 
 Am sorrowful in mind ; 
 For I have from my father gone, 
 
 A mother whom I love, 
 And have no friend, save these alone, 
 
 But thee — and One above. 
 
 " My father bless'd me fervently, 
 
 Yet did not much complain ; 
 But sorely will my mother sigh 
 
 Till I come back again." — 
 " Enough, enough, my little lad ! 
 
 Such tears become thine eye ; 
 If I thy guileless bosom had, 
 
 Mine own would not be dry. 
 
 u Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman, 
 
 Why dost thou look so pale ? 
 Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? 
 
 Or shiver at the gale ?" — 
 4t Deem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 
 
 Sir Childe, I'm not so weak ; 
 But thinking on an absent wife 
 
 Will blanch a faithful cheek. 
 
 " My spouse and boys dwell near thy liaU, 
 Along the bordering lake, 
 2 L 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And when they on their father call, 
 What answer shall she make ?" — 
 
 " Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 
 Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
 
 But I, who am of lighter mood, 
 Will laugh to flee away. 
 
 u For who would trust the seeming sighs 
 
 Of wife or paramour ? 
 Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eyes 
 
 We late saw streaming o'er. 
 For pleasures past I do not grieve, 
 
 Nor perils gathering near ; 
 My greatest grief is that I leave 
 
 No thing that claims a tear. 
 
 €t And now I'm in the world alone, 
 
 Upon the wide, wide sea : 
 But why should I for others groan, 
 
 When none will sigh for me ? 
 Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 
 
 Till fed by stranger hands ; 
 But long ere I come back again 
 
 He'd tear me where he stands. 
 
 " With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 
 
 Athwart the foaming brine ; 
 Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 
 
 So not again to mine. 
 Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! 
 
 And when you fail my sight, 
 Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 
 
 My native land — Good Night ! 99 
 
 XIV. 
 
 On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
 And winds are rude, in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
 Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
 New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
 And Cintra's mountain greets them on their way, 
 And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
 His fabled golden tribute bent to pay ; 
 And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
 And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few rustics reap. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
 What Heaven hath done for this delicious land ! 
 What fruits of fragrance blush on every tree ! 
 What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
 But man would mar them with an impious hand : 
 And when the Almighty lifts His fiercest scourge 
 'Gainst those who most transgress His high command. 
 With treble vengeance will His hot shafts urge 
 Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest foemen purge. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S P1LGRIMAQB, 
 
 515 
 
 XVI. 
 
 What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
 Her image floating on that noble tide, 
 Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
 But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
 Of mighty strength, since AJbion was allied. 
 And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
 A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
 Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the sword 
 To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unsparing ?ord. 
 
 x Tr n. 
 
 But whoso entereth within this town, 
 That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
 Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
 'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
 For hut and palace show like filthily : 
 The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt ; 
 Ne personage of high or mean degree 
 Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
 Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, un wash' d ; unhurt 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest scenes- 
 Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men ? 
 Lo ! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
 In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
 Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
 To follow half on which the eye dilates 
 Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
 Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
 Who to the awestruck world unlock'd Elysium's gates ? 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown 'd, 
 The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy steep, 
 The mountain-moss by scorching skies imbrown'd, 
 The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must weep. 
 The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
 The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
 The torrents that from cliff" to valley leap, 
 The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
 Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty gloi?. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Then slowly climb the many- winding way, 
 And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
 From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
 %nd rest ye at " Our Lady's house of woe 
 
 • The convent of " Our Lady of Punishment," Nossa Senora do Pena, on the summit 
 •f the rock. Below, at some distance, is the Cork Convent, where St. Honoriua dug Lu 
 dsn, over which is kis epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty of the view. 
 
 U 2 
 
516 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Where frugal monks their little relics show. 
 And smidry legends to the stranger tell : 
 Here impious men have punish'd been, and to ! 
 Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
 In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
 Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path : 
 Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
 These are memorials frail of murderous wrath : 
 For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
 Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's knife, 
 Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 
 And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
 Throughout this purple land, where law secures not life I • 
 
 XXII. 
 
 On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
 Are domes where whilome kings did make repair ; 
 But now the wild flowers round them only breathe ; 
 Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there, 
 And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair ; 
 There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest son, 
 Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
 When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hath done, 
 Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont to shun. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pleasure plan, 
 Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous brow, 
 But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
 Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
 Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
 To halls deserted, portals gaping wide ; 
 Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
 Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
 Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle tide. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Behold the hall where chiefs were late convened !+ 
 Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye I 
 With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
 A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
 
 • It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1809, the assassinations In the street* of 
 
 J is bon and its vicinity were not confined by the Portuguese to their countrymen ; but 
 that Englishmen were daily butchered : and so far from redress being obtained, we were 
 requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot defending himself against his 
 allies. I was once Btopped in the way to the theatre at eight o'clock in the evening, when 
 the streets were not more empty than they generally are at that hour, opposite to an 
 open shop, and in a carriage with a friend : had we not fortunately been armed, I have 
 Hot the least doubt that we should have " adorned a tale," instead of telling one. The 
 crime of assassination is not confined to Portugal : in Sicily and Malta we are knocked 
 on the head at a handsome average nightly, and not a Sicilian or Maltese is erst 
 punished. 
 
 t The Convention of Cintra was signed ix the palace of the Marches© Marialra, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 517 
 
 There sits in parchment robe array'd, and by 
 His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
 Where blazon' d glare names known to chivalry, 
 And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
 Whereat the Urchin points, and laughs with all his soul. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
 That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome : 
 Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
 And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
 Here Folly dash'd to earth the victor's plume, 
 And Policy regain' d what arms had lost : 
 For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom ! 
 Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquer'd host, 
 Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's coast. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And ever since that martial synod met, 
 Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
 And folks in office at the mention fret, 
 And fain would blush, if blush they could, for shame. 
 How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
 Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
 To view these champions cheated of their fame, 
 By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
 Where Scorn her finger points through many a coming year I 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains ho 
 Did take his way in solitary guise : 
 Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to flee, 
 More restless than the swallow in the skies : 
 Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, 
 For Meditation fix'd at times on him, 
 And conscious Reason whisper' d to despise 
 His early youth misspent in maddest whim ; 
 But as ho gazed on truth, his aching eyes grew dim. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 To horso ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
 A scene of peace, though soothing to his soul : 
 Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
 But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
 Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
 Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
 And o'er him many changing scenes must roll 
 Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuago, 
 Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience sage. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 
 
 Where dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckless queen ;* 
 
 • Her luckless Majesty went subsequently mad; and Dr. Willis, who 80 deitorcoilj 
 •udgelled kingly pericranium*, could make nothing of hers. 
 
613 
 
 BORON'S POEMS. 
 
 And church and court did mingle their array) 
 And mass and revel were alternate seen 
 Lordlings and freres — ill sorted fry I ween ! 
 But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
 A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious sheen, 
 That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
 And bow the knee to Pomp that loves to varnish guilt. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
 (Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race ! ) 
 Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
 Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant placa. 
 Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
 And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
 The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace, 
 Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
 And life, that bloated Ease can never hope to share. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
 And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend ; 
 Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed ! 
 Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
 Spain's realms appear, whereon her shepherds tend 
 Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader knows-— 
 Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
 For Spain is compass' d by unyielding foes, 
 And all must shield their all, or share subjection's woes. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, 
 Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divide ? 
 Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
 Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide ? 
 Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride ? 
 Or fence of art like China's vasty wall ? — 
 Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
 Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall, 
 Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land from Gaul. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
 And scarce a name distinguished the brook, 
 Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides. 
 Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook, 
 And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
 That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
 For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
 Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
 Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the low.* 
 
 * As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized them. That they are since im- 
 proved, at least in courage, is evident. The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced 
 the follies of Cintra. He has, indeed, done wonders : he has, perhaps, changed the 
 character of a nation, reconciled rival superstition*, and baffled an enemy who never 
 retreated before his predecessors. — 1813. 
 
4 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 519 
 XXXIV. 
 
 But ere the mingling bounds have far been pass'd. 
 Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
 In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
 So noted ancient roundelays among. 
 Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
 Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour dress' d : 
 Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk the strong ; 
 The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
 Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts oppress'd. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 
 Where is that standard which Pelagio bore, 
 When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
 That dyed thy mountain streams with Gothic gore ?* 
 Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
 Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
 And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
 Red gleam' d the cross, and waned the crescent pale, 
 While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish matrons' wail. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale ? 
 Ah ! such, alas : the hero's amplest fate ! 
 When granite moulders and when records fail, 
 A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
 Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine estate, 
 See how the mighty shrink into a song ! 
 Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great ? 
 Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
 When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History does thee wrong f 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance ! 
 
 Lo ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
 
 But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
 
 Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
 
 Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
 
 And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar i 
 
 In every peal she calls — " Awake ! arise !" 
 
 Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
 
 When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore ? 
 
 j , x • 4 ; 'Jj 
 
 xxxvin. 
 
 Hark ! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note T 
 Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath ? 
 Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
 Nor saved your brethren ere they sank benoath 
 Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, 
 
 • Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius preserved hla independence 
 lu the fastnesses of the Asturias, and the descendants of his followers, after tomo 
 MUturits, completed their struggle by the conquest of Grenada. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The bale-fires flash on high : — from rock to rock 
 Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe ; 
 Death rides upon the sulphury Siroe, 
 Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
 His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
 With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
 And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
 Bestless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
 Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet 
 Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are doce ; 
 For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
 To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most swuefc* 
 
 XL. 
 
 By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
 (For one who hath no friend, no brother there) 
 Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
 Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
 What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair, 
 And gnash their fangs loud-yelling for the prey ! 
 All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 
 The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
 And Havoc scarce for joy can number their array. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice ; 
 Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high ; 
 Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue sky ; 
 The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory ! 
 The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
 That fights for all but ever fights in vain, 
 Are met, — as if at home they could not die — 
 To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
 And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 There shall they rot — Ambition's honour' d fools ! 
 Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps their clay ! 
 Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
 The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
 By myriads, when they dare to pave their way 
 With human hearts — to what ? — a dream alone. 
 Can despots compass aught that hails their sway ? 
 Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 
 Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone I 
 
 XLin. 
 
 Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief ! 
 
 As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick' d his steed, 
 
 Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
 
 A scene where mingling foes should boast and bleed I 
 
CHILDB HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 621 
 
 Peaoo to the perish'd ! may the warrior's meed 
 And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
 Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
 Thy name shall circle round the gaping throng, 
 And shine in worthless lays, the theme of transient song. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Enough of Battle's minions ! let them play 
 Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
 Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay, \ 
 Though thousands fall to deck some single name. 
 In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
 Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's good, 
 And die, that living might have proved her shame ; 
 Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
 Or in a narrower sphere wild Kapine's path pursued. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
 Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
 Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish' d- for prey ! 
 Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
 Blackening her lovely domes, with traces rude. 
 Inevitable hour ! 'Gainst fate to strive 
 Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
 Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive, 
 And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive. 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
 The feast, the song, the revel here abounds ; 
 Strange modes of merriment the hours consume, 
 Nor bleed these patriots with their country's wounds : 
 Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebek sounds ; 
 Here Folly still his votaries enthralls ; 
 And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnight rounds : 
 Girt with the silent crimes of Capitals, 
 Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tott'ring walls. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
 He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
 Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
 Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
 No more beneath soft eve's consenting star 
 Fandango twirls his jocund castanet : 
 Ah, monarchs ! could ye taste the mirth ye mar, 
 Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret : 
 The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be happy yet f 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 How carols now the lusty muleteer ? 
 Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, 
 
roo 
 
 17 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
 His quick bells wildly jingling on the way ? 
 No ! as he speeds he chants " Viva el Rey !"* 
 And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
 The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
 When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed boy, 
 And gore-faced Treason sprung from her adulterate joy. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
 With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets rest, 
 Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded ground ; 
 And, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd vest 
 Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest : 
 Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the host, 
 Here the bold peasant storm'd the dragon's nest ; 
 Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
 And points to yonder cliffs which oft were won and lost. 
 
 i 
 
 L. 
 
 And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
 Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,*]* 
 Which tells you whom to shun and whom to greet : 
 Woe to the man that walks in public view 
 Without of loyalty this token true : I 
 Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke ; 
 And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
 If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, 
 Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the cannon's smoke. 
 
 LI. 
 
 At every turn Morena's dusky height 
 Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
 And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
 The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
 The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
 The station' d bands, the never-vacant watch, 
 The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
 The holster' d steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
 The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing match, £ 
 
 Lii. 
 
 Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
 Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
 
 • "Viva el Rey Fernando !" Long live King Ferdinand 1 is the chorus of most of iho 
 Spanish patriotic songs. They are chiefly in dispraise of the old King Charles, the Queen, 
 and the Prince of Peace. I have heard many of them : some of the airs are beautiful. 
 Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an ancient but decayed family, was born 
 at Eadajoz, on the frontiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish 
 guards, till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised him to the dukedom of 
 Alcudia, &c. &c. It is to this man that the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of 
 their country. 
 
 f The red cockade, with " Fernando VII." in the centre. 
 
 j All who have seen a battery will recollect the pyramidal form in which shot and 
 •hells are piled. The Sierra Morena was fortified in every defile through which I passed 
 in my way to Seville. 
 
Her lover sinks— she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
 Her cmei is— slam- she fills his fatal post 
 
 Childe Harold, canto i., 56. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 523 
 
 A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod ; 
 A little moment deigneth to delay : 
 Soon will his legions sweep through these their way ; 
 The West must own the Scourger of the world. 
 Ah ! Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning- day, 
 When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings unfurl'd, 
 And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to Hades hurl'd. 
 
 mi. 
 
 And must they fall ? the young, the proud, the brave, 
 To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome reign ? 
 No step between submission and a grave ? 
 The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain ? 
 And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
 Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal ? 
 Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain f 
 And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
 The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Manhood's heart of steel ? 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
 Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
 And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
 Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war ? 
 And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
 Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
 Now views the column-scatt'ring bay'net jar, 
 The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
 Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might quake to tread. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
 Oh ! had you known her in her softer hour, 
 Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal-black veil, 
 Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower, 
 Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 
 Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 
 Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
 Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 
 Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's fearful chasa, 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear ; 
 Her chief is slain — she tills his fatal post ; 
 Her fellows flee — she checks their base career ; 
 The foe retires — she heads the sallying host : 
 Who can appease like her a lover's ghost ? 
 Who can avenge so well a leader's fall ? 
 What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope is lost I 
 Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
 Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd wall ?* 
 
 • Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by her valour elevated herself te 
 the highest rank of heroines. When the author was at Seville, she walked daily on the 
 Prado, decorated with medals and orders, by command of the Junta. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Lvn. 
 
 Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
 But form'd for all the 'witching arts of love : 
 Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 
 And in the horrid phalanx dare to move., 
 'Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
 Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
 In softness as in firmness far above 
 Remoter females, famed for sickening prate ; 
 Her mind is nobler sure, her charms gpschance as great. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress* d 
 Denotes how soft that chin which bears his touch : * 
 Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
 Bid man be valiant ere he merit such : 
 Her glance, how wildly beautiful ! how much 
 Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
 Which glows yet smoother from his amorous clutch ! 
 Who round the North for paler dames would seek ? 
 How poor their forms appear ! how languid, wan, and weak t 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Match me, ye climes ! which poets love to laud ; 
 Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now 
 I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
 Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ! 
 Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow 
 To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
 With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign to know, 
 There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
 His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically kind. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Oh, thou Parnassus ! whom I now survey, 
 Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
 Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
 But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 
 In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
 What marvel if I thus essay to sing ? 
 The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
 Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, 
 Though from thy heights no more one Muse will wave her wscj 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Oft have I dream' d of thee ! whose glorious name 
 Who knows not, knows rot man's divinest lore * 
 And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
 That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
 W hen I recount thy worshippers of yore, 
 I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
 
 • " Sigilla in men to lmyrensa Amoris digital© 
 
 Yestigio 'Jeraonstrant mollitudinem."— -AUL. Qn, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
 But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
 Id silent joy to think at last I look on thee ! 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
 Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
 Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
 Which others rave of, though they know it not ? 
 Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
 And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
 Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
 Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
 And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Of thee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
 I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
 Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
 Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
 And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
 Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
 Let me some remnant — some memorial bear ; 
 Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
 Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle vaunt. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece was young, 
 See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
 Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
 The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 
 Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
 The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
 Nursed in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
 Ah ! that to these were given such peaceful shades 
 As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly her glades. 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
 Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient days ; 
 But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
 Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
 Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
 While boyish blood is mantling, who can 'scape 
 The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
 A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
 Aud mould to every taste thy dear delusive shape. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 When Paphos fell by Time — accursed Time ! 
 The Queen who conquers all must yield to theo— 
 The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a clime * 
 And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
 To nought else constant, hither deign' d to flee ; 
 And fix'd her shrine within these walls of white ; 
 
byron's poems, 
 
 Though not to one dome circumscribeth ishe 
 Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
 A thousand altars rise, for ever blaz' ng bright. 
 
 Lxvn. 
 
 From morn till night, from night till startled Men?., 
 Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
 The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
 Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
 Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
 He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
 Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
 Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
 And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by turns. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
 What hallows it upon this Christian shore? 
 Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : 
 Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's roar ? 
 Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting gore 
 Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his horn ; 
 The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for more ; 
 Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn, 
 Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n affects to mourn, 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
 London ! right well thou know'st the day of prayer : 
 Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
 And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air : 
 Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair, 
 And humblest gig through sundry suburbs whirl ; 
 To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair ; 
 Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
 Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 
 Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 
 Some Eichmond-hill ascend, some scud to Ware, 
 And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
 Ask ye, Boeotian shades ! the reason why ? 
 'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
 Grasp' d in the holy hand of Mystery, 
 In whose dread name both men and maids are sworn, 
 And consecrate the oath with draught, and dance till mens. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 All have their fooleries — not alike are thine, 
 Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
 Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
 Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
 Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
 (W ell do I ween the only virgin there) 
 
OHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
 Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
 Young, old, high, low, at once the same diversion share. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
 Thousands on thousands piled are seated round ; 
 Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, 
 Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
 Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
 Skill' d in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
 Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
 None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, 
 A.s moon-struck bards comj)lain, by Love's sad archery. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steeds, 
 With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light-poised lanoe, 
 Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
 And lowly bending to the lists advance ; 
 Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance : 
 If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 
 The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance, 
 Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
 And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay. 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
 But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
 Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
 The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
 The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er, 
 Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed : 
 His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
 Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
 Alas ! too oft condomn'd for him to bear and bleed. 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls, 
 The den expands, and Expectation mute 
 Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
 Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute, 
 And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot, 
 The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
 Here, there, he points his threatening front, to nuit 
 His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
 His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : away, 
 Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear : 
 Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
 The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
 With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers vee > 
 On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ; 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Streams from his flank the crimson torront clear : 
 He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes : 
 Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud bellowings speak his woe*. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
 Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
 Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
 Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
 One gallant steed is stretch' d a mangled corse ; 
 Another, hideous sight ! unseam'd appears, 
 His gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
 Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears ; 
 Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he beam. 
 
 Lxxvm. 
 
 Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
 Full in the centre stands the bull at bav, 
 'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, 
 And foes disabled in the brutal frav : 
 And now the Matadores around him play, 
 Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
 Once more through all he bursts his thundering way — 
 Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
 Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon the sand J 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, 
 Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
 He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline : 
 Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
 Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
 The decorated car appears — on high 
 The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
 Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
 The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish swain. 
 Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
 In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
 What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
 Though now one phalanx' d host should meet the foe, 
 Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, 
 To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
 For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's warm stream muat 
 flow. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 But jealousy has fled : his bars, his bolts, 
 His wither'd sentinel, Duenna sage ! 
 And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
 Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage, 
 Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd age. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen 
 (Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage), 
 With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
 While on the gay dance shone Night's lover-loving Queop 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Oh ! many a time and oft, had Harold loved, 
 Or dream 'd he loved, since rapture is a dream ; 
 But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
 For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream : 
 A.nd lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
 Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
 How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he seem, 
 Full from the font of joy's delicious springs * 
 Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings. 
 
 LXXXIH. 
 
 Yet to the beauteous form he* was not blind, 
 Though now it moved him as it moves the wise ; 
 Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
 E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
 But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
 And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb, 
 Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise : 
 Pleasure's pall'd victim ! life-abhorring gloom 
 Wrote on his faded brow cursi Tain's unresting doom. 
 
 LXXXTV. 
 
 Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
 But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
 Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the song ; 
 But who may smile that sinks beneath his fate ? 
 Nought that he saw his sadness could abate : 
 Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway, 
 And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
 Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay, 
 To charms as fair as those that soothed his happier day 
 
 TO INEZ. 
 
 Nat, smile not at my sullen brow j 
 
 Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
 Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 
 
 Bhouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 
 
 And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
 
 I bear, corroding joy and youth ? 
 And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
 
 A pang, ev'n thou must fail to soothe ? 
 
 • " ■ Medio de foate leporum, 
 
 Borglt ainajd aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angav - — Lwl 
 
 2 M 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 It is not love, it is not hate, 
 
 Nor low ambition's honours lost, 
 That bids me loathe my present state, 
 
 And fly from all I prized the most : 
 
 It is that weariness which springs 
 
 From all I meet, or hear, or see : 
 To me no pleasure Beauty briugs ; 
 
 Thine eyes have scarce a charm for m& 
 
 It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
 
 The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore : 
 That will not look beyond the tomb, 
 
 But cannot hope for rest before. 
 
 What Exile from himself can flee ? 
 
 To zones, though more and more remot©- 
 Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 
 
 The blight of life — the demon Thoughts 
 
 Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 
 
 And taste of all that I forsake ; 
 Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
 
 And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 
 
 Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
 
 With many a retrospection curst ; 
 And all my solace is to know, 
 
 Whate'er betides, I've known the worst* 
 
 What is that worst ? Nay, do not ask — 
 
 In pity from the search forbear : 
 Smile on — nor venture to unmask 
 
 Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 
 Who may forget how well thy walls have stood ? 
 When all were changing, thou alone wert true, 
 First to be free and last to be subdued : 
 And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
 Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye ; 
 A traitor only fell beneath the feud : * 
 Here all were noble, save Nobility ; 
 None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallen Chivalry ! 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fate ! 
 They fight for freedom, who were never free ; 
 
 Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the governor of Cadiz, in Hay, 1M& 
 
 f V. « 
 
 i 
 
childe harold's pilgrimage. 
 
 531 
 
 A kingless people for a nerveless state, 
 Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee, 
 True to the veriest slaves of Treachery ; 
 Fond of a land which gave them nought but life, 
 Pride points the path that leads to liberty ; 
 Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife ; 
 War, war is still the cry, " War even to the knife ! " * 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 • Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards know, 
 Go, read whate'er is writ ot bloodiest strife : 
 Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign foe 
 Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
 From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
 War mouldeth there each weapon to his need — 
 So may he guard the sister and tho wife, 
 So may he make each curst oppressor bleed, 
 
 So may such foes deserve the most remorseless deed ! 
 
 LXXXVITT. 
 
 Flows there a tear of pity for the dead ? 
 Look o'er the ravage of tho recking plain : 
 Look on the hands with female slaughter red ; 
 Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
 Then to the vulture let each corse remain ; 
 Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, 
 Let their bleach'd bones, and blood's unbleaching stain, 
 Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe : 
 Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes we saw ! 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Nor yet, alas ! the dreadful work is done ; 
 Fresh legions pour adovvn tho Pyrenees : 
 It deepens still, the work is scarce begun, 
 Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
 Fallen nations gaze on Spain ; if freed, she frees 
 More than her fell Pizarro's once enchain'd : 
 Strange retribution ! now Columbia's case 
 Kepairs the wrongs that Quito's sons sustain'd, 
 While o'er the parent clime prowls Murder unrestrained. 
 
 xo. 
 
 Not. all the blood at Talavera shed, 
 Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 
 Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 
 Have won for Spain her well-asserted right. 
 When shall her Olive-Branch be free from blight ? 
 When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil ! 
 How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 
 Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 
 A nd Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil ? 
 
 » '* Wut to the kalfe," Palafox's answer to tho French general at the siege of Sjvraffoa* 
 
 2 M 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 And thou, my friend ! — since unavailing woe 
 Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the strain-* 
 Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
 Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain : 
 But thus unlaurell'd to descend in vain, 
 By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
 And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
 While Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
 What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ? 
 
 XCTI. 
 
 Oh, known the earliest, and esteem' d the most ! 
 Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear ! 
 Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 
 In dreams deny me not to see thee here ! 
 And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
 Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
 And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
 Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
 And mourn'd and mourner lie united in repose. 
 
 xcin. 
 
 Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage : 
 Ye who of him may farther seek to know, 
 Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
 If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe. 
 Is this too much ? stern critic ! say not so : 
 Patience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
 In other lands, where he was doom'd to go : 
 Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
 Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous hands were quell'cL 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 I. 
 
 COME, blue-eyed maid of heaven ! — but thou, alas ! 
 Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
 Goddess of wisdom ! here thy temple was, 
 And is, despite of war and wasting fire,* 
 And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
 But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
 Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
 Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
 That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd breasts bestow. 
 
 • Part of the Acropolis wa» destroyed by the explosion of • magazine during the 
 Venetian tiegx 
 
CfllLDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 533 
 
 Ancient of days ! august Athena ! where,* 
 Where are thy men of might ? thy grand in soul ? 
 Gone — glimmering through the dream of things that wer* : 
 First in the race that led to Glory's goal, 
 They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole ? 
 A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour ! 
 The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
 Are sought in vain, and o'er each mouldering tower, 
 Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. 
 
 Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
 Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn : 
 Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre ! 
 Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
 Even gods must yield — religions take their turn 
 'Twas Jove's— 'tis Mahomet's — and other creeds 
 Will rise with other years, till man shall learn 
 Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds ; 
 Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is built on 
 reeds. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven — 
 Is't not enough, unhappy thing ! to know 
 Thou art ? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
 That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, 
 Thou know'st not, reck'st not to what region, so 
 On earth no more, but mingled with the skies ? 
 Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe ? 
 Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies : 
 That little urn saith more than thousand homilies. 
 
 • We can all feel, or imagine, the regret with which the rains of cities, once the 
 capitals of empires, are beheld ; the reflections suggested by such objects are too trite to 
 require recapitulation. But never did tbe littleness of man, and the vanity of his very 
 best virtues — of patriotism to exalt, and of valour to defend his country — appear more con- 
 spicuous than in the record of what Athens was, and the certainty of what she now is. 
 This theatre of contention between mighty factions, of the struggles of orators, the ex- 
 altation and deposition of tyrants, the triumph and punishment of generals, is now 
 become a scene of petty intrigue and perpetual disturbance, between the bickering agents 
 of certain British nobility and gentry. " The wild foxes, the owls and serpents in the 
 ruins of Babylon," were surely less degrading than such inhabitants. The Turks have 
 the plea of conquest for their tyranny, and the Greeks have only suffered the fortune of 
 war, incidental to the bravest ; but how are the mighty fallen, when two painters contest 
 the privilege of plundering the Parthenon, and triumph in turn, according to the tenour 
 of each succeeding firman ! Sylla could but punish, Philip subdue, and Xerxes burn 
 Athens ; but it remained for the paltry antiquarian, and his despicable agents, to render 
 her contemptible as himself and his pursuits. The Parthenon, before its destruction in 
 part, by fire during tho Venetian siege, had been a temple, a church, and a mosque. Is 
 each point of view it is an object of regard : it changed its worshippers ; but still it wsj 
 a place of worship thrice sacred to devotion : its violation is a triple sacrifice. But— 
 
 " Man, proud man, 
 Drest in a little brief authority, 
 Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven 
 At make the angels weep." 
 
1)34 » BYRON'S POEMS, 
 
 V. 
 
 Or burst the vanish* d Hero's lofty mound ; 
 Far on the solitary shore he sleeps :* 
 He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around ; 
 But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
 Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
 Where demi-gods appear' d, as records tell. 
 Bemove yon skull from out the scatter' d heaps : 
 Is that a temple where a god may dwell ? 
 Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her shatter'd csll f 
 
 vi. 
 
 ;Look on ?ts broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
 Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
 Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
 The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul : 
 Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
 The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, 
 And Passion's host, that never brook' d control ." 
 Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
 People this lonely tower, this tenement refit ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
 " All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
 Why should we shrink from what we cannot shun ? 
 Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
 With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
 Pursue- what Chance or Fate proclaimeth best ; 
 Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
 There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
 But Silence spreads the couch of ever welcome rest. 
 
 Yin. 
 
 Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
 A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
 To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
 And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
 How sweet it were in concert to adore 
 With those who made our mortal labours light I 
 To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
 Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
 The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught the right ! 
 
 There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
 Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
 Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee dead, 
 When busy memory flashes on my brain ? 
 
 * It was not always the custom of the Greeks to hum their dead ; the greater Ajar, in 
 particular, was interred entire. Almost all the chiefs became gods after their decease ; 
 fad he was indeed neglected, who had not annual games near his tomb, or festivals in 
 tumour of his memory by his countrymen, as Achilles, Brasidas, &c, and at last evesa 
 Antinous, whose death was as heroic as his life was infamous. 
 
CHtLDB HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 535 
 
 Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
 And woo the vision to my vacant breast : 
 If aught of young RemembraDce then remain, 
 Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
 For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy spirit blest ! 
 
 x. 
 
 Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
 The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
 Here, son of Saturn ! was thy favorite throne :* 
 Mightiest of many such ! Here let me trace 
 The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
 It may not be : nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
 Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. 
 Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh ; 
 Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek carols by. 
 
 XL 
 
 But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
 On high, where Pallas linger'd loath to floe 
 The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
 The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he ? 
 Blush, Caledonia ! such thy son could be ! 
 England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
 Thy free-born men should spare what once was free ; 
 Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
 And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 
 
 xn. 
 
 But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath spared 
 Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
 His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
 Is he whose head conceived, whose hand prepared, 
 Aught to displace Athena's poor remains : 
 Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard, 
 Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, 
 And never knew, till then, th© weight of Despot's chains. 
 
 xni. 
 
 What ! shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
 Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
 Though in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 
 Tell not the aeed to blushing Europe's ears ; 
 The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
 The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
 Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, 
 Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
 Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 
 
 • The temple of Jupiter Olymphia, of which sixteen columns, entirely of marble, yrt 
 survive : originally there were one hundred and fifty. These columns, however, are bj 
 many supposed to have belonged to the Fantheoo. 
 
BYRON y S POEMS. 
 
 0 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Where was thine Mgis, Pallas ! that appall'd 
 Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ?* 
 ^here Peleus' son ? whom Hell in vain enthralTd, 
 His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
 Bursting to light in terrible array ! 
 "What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once more, 
 To scare a second robber from his prey ? 
 Idly he wander d on the Stygian shore, 
 tfor now preserved the walls he loved to shield before. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on thee, 
 Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved ! 
 Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
 Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed 
 By British hands, which it had best behoved 
 To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
 Curst be the hour when from their isle they roved, 
 And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
 And snatch' d thy shrinking Gods to northern climes abhorr'd ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
 To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave ? 
 Little reck'd he of all that men regret ; 
 No loved-one now in feign'd lament could rave ; 
 No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
 Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
 Hard is his heart whom charms may not enslave ; 
 But Harold felt not as in other times, 
 And left without a sigh the land of war and crimes. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea, 
 Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight : 
 When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be. 
 The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
 Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
 The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
 The convoy spread like wild swans in their flight, 
 The dullest sailor wearing bravely now, 
 So gaily curl the waves before each dashing prow. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A.nd oh ! the little warlike world within ! 
 The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy ,+ 
 The hoarse command, the busy humming din, 
 When at a word, the tops are mann'd on high : 
 Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry ! 
 
 * According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened Alaric from the Acropolii ; 
 but others relate that the Gothic king was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer.— 
 See Chandler. 
 
 t To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on deck during action. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 537 
 
 While through the seaman's hand the tackle glides ; 
 Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
 Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides, 
 And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
 "Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks : 
 Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
 For the lone Chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
 Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
 With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
 That strict restraint, which broken, ever balks 
 Conquest and Fame : but Britons rarely swervo 
 From law, however stern, which tends their strength tc ncrv*. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Blow ! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale ! 
 Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray ; 
 Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
 That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
 Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
 To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze ! 
 What leagues are lost, before the dawn of day, 
 Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
 The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs like these ! 
 
 XXI. 
 
 The moon is up ; by Heaven a lovely eve ! 
 Long streams of light o'er dancing waves expand ; 
 Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids believe ; 
 Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
 Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
 Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 
 A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
 Or to some well-known measure featly move, 
 Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free to rove. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shore ; 
 Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
 Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Moor 
 Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze : 
 How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
 Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown, 
 Distinct, though darkening with her waning phase ; 
 But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 
 From mountain-cliff to coast descending sombre down. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
 We once have loved, though love is at an end : 
 The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
 Though friendless now, will dream it had a friend. 
 Who with the weight of years would wish to bend, 
 
638 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS* 
 
 When Youth itself survives young Love and joy ? 
 Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
 Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
 Ah ! happy years I once more who would not be a boy f 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
 To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
 The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and Pride, 
 And flies unconscious o'er each backward year. 
 None are so desolate but something dear, 
 Dearer than self, possesses or possess' d 
 I A thought, and claims the homage of a tear ; 
 
 A flashing pang ! of which the weary breast 
 Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
 To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
 Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, 
 And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
 To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
 With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
 Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean ; 
 This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 
 Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unroll'cL 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, 
 To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
 And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
 With none who bless us, none whom we can bless ; 
 Minions of splendour shrinking from distress ! 
 None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
 If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
 Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued ; 
 This is to be alone ; this, this is solitude i 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 More blest the life of godly eremite, 
 Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, 
 Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
 Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so serene, 
 That he who there at such an hour hath been 
 Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot ; 
 Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene, 
 Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
 Then turn to hate a world he had almost forgot. 
 
 XXVIH. 
 
 Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
 Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
 Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the tack* 
 And each well-known caprice of wave and wind ; 
 Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 5^9 
 
 Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel, 
 The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
 As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
 Till on some jocund morn — lo, land ! and all is well. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,* 
 The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
 There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
 Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to weep, 
 And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
 For him who dared prefer a mortal bride : 
 Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
 Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
 While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen doubly sigh'd. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone : 
 But trust not this ; too easy youth, beware ! 
 A mortal Sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
 And thou mayst find a new Calypso there. 
 Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
 This wayward, loveless heart, it would be thine ; 
 But check' d by every tie, I may not dare 
 To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
 Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for mine. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
 He look'd, and met its beam without a thought, 
 Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
 Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
 Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
 But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
 And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought : 
 Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
 Well deem'd the little God his ancient sway was o'er. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Fair Florence, found, in sooth with some amaze, 
 One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
 Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
 Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, 
 Their hope, their doom, their punishment, their law ; 
 All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claimc : 
 And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 
 Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told flames, 
 "Vhich, though sometimes they frown, yet rarely anger dame* 
 
 XXXTTT. 
 
 Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
 Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
 
 * Gout is Mid to have been the ialand of Calypso. 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
 And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
 Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
 As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
 But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
 And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
 Yet never would he join the lover's whining crew. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
 Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs ; 
 What careth she for hearts when once possess'd ? 
 Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ! 
 But not too humbly, or she will despise 
 Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes ; 
 Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
 Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; 
 Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion crowns thy hopes, 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 'Tis an old lesson ; Time approves it true, 
 And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
 When all is won that all desire to woo, 
 The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost : 
 Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
 These are thy fruits, successful Passion I these ! 
 If, kindly cruel, early Hope is cross' d, 
 Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
 Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to please. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Away ! nor let me loiter in my song, 
 For we have many a mountain-path to tread, 
 And many a varied shore to sail along, 
 By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
 Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
 Imagined in its little schemes of thought ; 
 Or e'er in new Utopias were ared, 
 To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
 If that corrupted thing could ever such be taught. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
 Though alway changing, in her aspect mild ; 
 From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
 Her never-wean'd, though not her favour' d child. 
 Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
 Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path : 
 To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
 Though I have mark'd her when none other hath, 
 And sought her more and more, and loved her best in wratfi* 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose ! 
 Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise, 
 
CElLDE DAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
 Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize : 
 Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
 On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
 The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
 And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
 Through many a cypress grove within each city's ken, 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren spot, 
 Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave ;* 
 And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
 The lover's refuge, and the Lesbians' grave. 
 Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
 That breast imbued with such immortal fire ? 
 Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
 If life eternal may await the lyre, 
 That only Heaven to which Earth's children may aspire. 
 
 XL. 
 
 'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
 Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar ;+ 
 A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave : 
 Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 
 Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar :£ 
 Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
 (Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
 In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
 But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh' d at martial wight. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 But when he saw the evening star above 
 Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
 And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
 He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow : 
 And as the stately vessel glided slow 
 Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
 He watch' d the billows' melancholy flow, 
 And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
 More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his pallid front. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
 Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
 Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
 Array'd in nany a dun and purple streak, 
 Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
 Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
 
 • Ithaca. 
 
 t Leucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory (the Lover's Leap) S&ppho is said 
 to have thrown herself. 
 
 X Actium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The battle of Lepanto, equally bloody 
 and considerable, but less known, was fought In the Gulf of Fatras. Here the author oi 
 Don Quixote lost taia left band. 
 
BZRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
 Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
 And gathering storms around convulse the closing year. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
 And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
 Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
 Which all admire, but many dread to view : 
 His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants were few ; 
 Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
 The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
 This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
 Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed summer's hsat, 
 
 XUV. 
 
 Here the red cross — for still the cross is here, 
 Though sadly scoff'd at by the circumcised — 
 Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear ; 
 Churchman and votary alike despised. 
 Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er disguised, 
 Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
 For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
 Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
 Who from true worship's gold can separate thy dross ? 
 
 XLV. 
 
 Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
 A world for woman, -lovely, harmless thing ! 
 In yonder rippling bay, their naval host, 
 Did many a Bom an chief and Asian king* 
 To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
 Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! + 
 Now, like the hands that rear'd them, withering ; 
 Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
 God ! wp*s Thy globe ordain'd for such to win and lose ? 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 
 Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 
 Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount sublime, 
 Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
 Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
 Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
 A charm they know not ; loved Parnassus fails, 
 Though classic ground and consecrated most, 
 To match some spots that lurk within this lowering coasfc, 
 
 • It is said that, on the day previous to the battle of Actium, Antony had thirteetf 
 kings at his levee. 
 
 t Nicopolis, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some distance from Actium, whero 
 the wall of the Hippodrome survives in a few fragments. These ruins are large manses 
 »f brickwork, the bricks of which are joined by interstices of mortar, as large as the 
 flicks themselves, and equally durable. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 543 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,* 
 And left the primal city of the land, 
 And onwards did his further journey take 
 To greet Albania's chief, whose dread command + 
 Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
 He sways a nation turbulent and bold : 
 Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
 Disdain his power, and from their rocky hold 
 Hurl their defiance far, nor yiek*p «nless to gold.+ 
 
 XLVDX 
 
 Monastic Zitza ! from thy shady brow, § 
 Thou small but favour' d spot of holy ground ! 
 Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
 What rainbow tints, what magic charms are found ! 
 Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
 And bluest skies that harmonize the whole : 
 Beneath tho distant torrent's rushing sound 
 Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
 Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet please the soul. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill, 
 Which, were it not for many a mountain nigh 
 Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
 Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
 The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
 Here dwells the caioyer, nor rude is ho, ! || 
 Nor niggard of his cheer : the passer by 
 Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
 From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen to s«o. 
 
 L. 
 
 Here in the sultriest season lot him rest, 
 Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
 Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
 From heaven itself he may inhale tho breeze : 
 The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
 Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
 Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
 Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
 And gaze, untired, tho morn, tho noon, the eve away. 
 
 " According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina : hut rouqueville is always out. 
 
 t ''.lio celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man, there is an incorrect account 
 In Pouqueville's Travels. 
 
 I Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle of Suli, withstood thirty 
 thousand Albanians for eighteen years; the castle at last was taken by bribery. In 
 this contest there were several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of 
 Greece. 
 
 § The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' journey from Joannina, or Yanina, 
 the capital of the Pachalick. In the vaUey the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) flcwa, 
 and, not far from Zitza, forms a fine cataract. The situation is, perhaps, the finest in 
 G reece, though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of Acamania and JE t < >] i a may contest 
 tho palm. Delphi, Parnassus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port P«jiphti, are 
 very inferior ; as also every scene in Ionia, or the Troad : I am almost Inclined to add the 
 approach to Constantinople ; but, from the different features of the last, a comparison 
 v.ui hardly be made. 
 
 I The Greek monks are so called. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
 Nature's volcanic amphitheatre,* 
 Chimaera's alps extend from left to right : 
 Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; 
 Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the mountain fir 
 Nodding above ; behold black Acheron ! + 
 Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
 Pluto ! if this be hell I look upon, 
 Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall seek for none. 
 
 MI. 
 
 Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
 Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
 Veil'd by the screen of hills : here men are few. 
 Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
 But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
 Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter' d flock, 
 The little shepherd in his white capote X 
 Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
 Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 
 
 liii. 
 
 Oh ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
 Prophetic fount, and oracle divine ? 
 What valley echoed the response of Jove ? 
 What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's shrine ? 
 All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
 That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke ! 
 Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine : 
 Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
 When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink beneath the 
 stroke ! 
 
 uv. 
 
 Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail ; 
 Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
 Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
 As ever Spring yclad in grassy die : 
 E'en on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
 Where some bold river breaks the long expanse, 
 And woods along the banks are waving high, 
 Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
 Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's solemn trance. 
 
 LT. 
 
 The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,§ 
 The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; H 
 
 • The Chimarlot mountains appear to have heen volcanic. 
 
 f Now called Kalamas. % Albanese cloak. 
 
 § Anciently Mount Tomarus. 
 
 jj The river Laos was full at the time the author passed it ; and, immediately above 
 Tepaleen, was to the eye as wide as the Thames at Westminster ; at least in the opinion 
 of the author and his fellow traveller. In the summer it must be much narrower. It 
 certainly ia the finest river in the Levant ; neither Achelous, Alpheus, Acberoa, Soft* 
 Blander, nor Cayster, approached it in breadth or beauty. 
 
OHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 545 
 
 The shades of wonted night were gathering yet, 
 When, down the steep banks winding warily, 
 Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
 The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
 Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and drawing nigh, 
 He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
 Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the lengthening glen. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
 
 And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
 
 Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
 
 Where all around proclaim' d his high estate. 
 
 Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
 
 While busy preparation shook the court, 
 
 Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons wait ; 
 
 Within, a palace, and without, a fort ; 
 
 Here men of every clime appear to make resort. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 * Richly caparison' d, a ready row 
 
 Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
 Circled the wide-extending court below : 
 Above, strange groups adorn' d tha eorridore ; 
 And oft-times through the area's echoing door, 
 Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed away : 
 The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Moor, 
 Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
 While the deep war-drum's sound announced the closo ©f day. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
 With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
 And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to seo * 
 The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon ; 
 The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
 And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek ; 
 And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son ! 
 The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to speak, 
 Master of all around, too potent to bo meek, 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Are mix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
 Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
 There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
 And some that smoke, and some that play, are found ; 
 Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground ; 
 Half- whispering there the Greek is heard to prate • 
 Hark ! from the mosque the nightly solemn sound, 
 The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
 u There is no god but God ! — to prayer— lo ! God is great ! * 
 
 LX. 
 
 Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
 
 Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
 
 2 N 
 
BYRON'S POEMb. 
 
 But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
 Revel and feast assumed the rule again ; 
 Now all was bustle, and the menial train 
 Prepared and spread the plenteous board within ; 
 The vacant gallery now seem'd made in vain, 
 But from the chambers came the mingling din, 
 As page and slave anon were passing out and in. 
 
 LXL 
 
 Here woman's voice is never heard ; apart, 
 And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move, 
 She yields to one her person and her heart, 
 Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove : 
 For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
 And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
 Blest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
 Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
 Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion shares. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
 Of living water from the centre rose, 
 "Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
 And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
 Ali reclined, a man of war and woes : 
 Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
 While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
 Along that aged venerable face, 
 The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him with disgrace 
 
 Lxni. 
 
 It is not that yen hoary lengthening beard 
 111 suits the passions which belong to youth : 
 Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
 So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth ; 
 But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth, 
 Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
 In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth : 
 Blood follows blood, and through their mortal span, 
 In bloodier acts conclude those who with blood began. 
 
 lxiv. 
 
 'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
 The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
 And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
 Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat, 
 Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retreat 
 Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise : 
 And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet ; 
 But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 
 And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of both destroys 
 
 liXV. 
 
 Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
 STot virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 547 
 
 Where is the foe that ever saw their back? 
 Who can so well the toil of war endure ? 
 Their native fastnesses not more secure 
 Than they in doubtful time of troublous need : 
 Their wrath how deadly ! but their friendship sura, 
 When Gratitude or Valour bids them bleed, 
 Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's tower, 
 Thronging to war in splendour and success ; 
 And after view'd them, when, within their power, 
 Himself awhile the victim of distress ; 
 That saddening hour when bad men hotlier press : 
 But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 
 When less barbarians would have cheer'd him less, 
 And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof* — 
 In aught that tries the heart how few withstand the proof I 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 It chanced that adverse winds once drove his bark 
 Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
 When all around was desolate and dark ; 
 To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 
 Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, 
 Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk : 
 At length they ventured forth, though doubting sore 
 That those who loathe alike the Frank and Turk 
 Might once again renew their ancient butcher-work. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Vain fear ! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome hand, 
 Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous swamp, 
 Kinder than polish'd slaves, though not so bland, 
 And piled the hearth, and wrung their garments damp. 
 And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful lamp, 
 And spread their fare : though homety, all they had : 
 Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare stamp — 
 To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, 
 Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least the baa. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 It came to pass, that when he did address 
 Himself to quit at length this mountain land, 
 Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, 
 And wasted far and near with glaive and brand ; 
 And therefore did he take a trusty band 
 To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
 In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd, 
 Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, 
 And from his further bank ^Itolia's wolds espied, 
 
 '- Alluding to the wrecker* of Cornwall. 
 
648 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 t 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove,. 
 And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
 How brow^i the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
 Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
 As winds come whispering lightly from the west, 
 Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene : 
 Here Harold was received a welcome guest ; 
 Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
 For many a joy could he from Night's soft presence glean. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly blazed, 
 The feast was done, the red wine circling fast,* 
 And he that unawares had there ygazed 
 With gaping wonderment had stared aghast ; 
 For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was past, 
 The native revels of the troop began ; 
 Each Palikar his sabre from him cast, + 
 And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to man, 
 Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced the kirtled clan. 
 
 lxxii. 
 
 Childe Harold at a little distance stood, 
 And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
 Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude : 
 In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
 Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee ; 
 And, as the flames along their faces gleam' d, 
 Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
 The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 
 While thus in concert they this lay half sang, half scream'd 
 
 Tambourgi ! Tambourgi ! thy larum afar £ 
 Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war ; 
 All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
 Chimariot, Illyrian, and darj^ Suliote ! § 
 
 Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
 
 In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote ? 
 
 To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild flock, 
 
 And descends to the plain like the stream from the rock. 
 
 Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
 The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ? 
 Let those guns so unerring such vengeance forego ? 
 What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe ? 
 
 • The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, and, indeed, very few of the 
 ethers. 
 
 t Palikar, a general name for a soldier amongst the Greeks and Albanese who speak 
 Romaic : it means, properly, a " lad." 
 1 Drummer. 
 
 § These stanzas are partly taken from different Albanese sows- as far as I was able to 
 ■aake them out by the exposition of the Albanese in Romaic ana Italian. 
 
OHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 543 
 
 Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
 For a time they abandon the cave and the chas9 : 
 But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, before 
 The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 
 
 Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the waves, 
 And teach the pale Franks what it is to be slaves, 
 Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
 And track to his covert the captive on shore. 
 
 I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
 My sabre shall win what the leeble must buy ; 
 Shall win the young bride with her long flowing hair, 
 And many a maid from her mother shall tear. 
 
 I love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
 Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall soothe; 
 Let her bring from her chamber the many-toned lyre, 
 And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 
 
 Eemember the moment when Previsa fell,* 
 The shrieks of the conquer' d, the conquerors' yell ; 
 The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we shared, 
 The wealthy we slaughter' d, the lovely we spared. 
 
 I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear ; 
 He neither must know who would serve the Vizier : 
 Since the days of our prophet the Crescent ne'er saw 
 A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 
 
 Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
 Let the yellow-hair' d + Giaoursf view his horsetail f with 
 dread, 
 
 When his Delhis $ come dashing in blood o'er the banks, 
 How few shall escape from the Muscovite ranks ! 
 
 Selictar ! § unsheath then our chiefs scimitar ! 
 Tambourgi ! thy larum gives promise of war. 
 Ye mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
 ^hall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
 Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, great ! 
 Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children forth, 
 And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
 Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
 The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
 In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
 Oh ! who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
 Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from the tomb ? 
 
 • It was taken by storm from the French. 
 
 t Yellow is the epithet given to Russians. Giaour : Inflila}. Horeetan : U» 
 iniignia of a Pacha. 
 | Horsemen, answering to our forivrn hope. 
 Jj tielictar : swordbearer 
 
550 
 
 BYRON'8 POEMB, 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Sph-it of Freedom ! when on Phyle's brow * 
 Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
 Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which no w 
 Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
 Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 
 But every carle can lord it o'er thy land ; 
 Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
 Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish hand, 
 From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in deed, unmann'd 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
 That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye, 
 Who but would deem their bosoms burn'd anew 
 With thy un quenched beam, lost liberty ! 
 And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
 That gives them back their fathers' heritage : 
 For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
 Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
 Or tear their name denied from Slavery's mournful page. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 
 Who would be free themselves must strike the blow ? 
 By their right arms the conquest must be wrought ? 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? no ! 
 True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
 But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
 Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe ! 
 Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the same ; 
 Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine years of shame. 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
 The Giaour from Othman's race again may wrest ; 
 And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
 Keceive the fiery Frank, her former guest ;f 
 Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
 The Prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, t 
 May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
 But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
 But slave succeed to slave through years of endless toil. 
 
 LXXVUI. 
 
 Yet mark their mirth — ere Lenten days begin, 
 That penance which their holy rites prepare 
 To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
 By daily abstinence and nightly prayer : 
 
 * Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, has still considerable remains, 
 ft -was seized by Thr<isybulU8, previous to the expulsion of the Thirty, 
 t When taken by the Latins, and retained for several years. 
 
 X Mecca and A'n<]ina were taken some time ago by the Wahabees, a sect yearly Uv 
 creasing. 
 
CHILDB HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
 Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
 To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
 In motley robe to dance at masking hall, 
 JLnd join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 And whose more rife with merriment than thine, 
 Oh Stamboul ! once the empress of their reign ? 
 Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine. 
 And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
 /Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
 Gay were her minstrels once, for free her throng, 
 All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
 Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such song, 
 As woo'd the eye, and thrill'd the Bosphorus along. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore, 
 Oft Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
 And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
 And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
 The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
 And when a transient breeze swept o'er the wave, 
 'Twas, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
 A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
 Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks they lave. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
 Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
 No thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
 While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
 Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
 Or gently press' d, return'd the pressure still : 
 Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy band, 
 Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
 These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill I 
 
 TiYYYTT , 
 
 But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
 Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
 Even through the closest searment half betray' d ? 
 To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
 Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
 To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
 Is source of wayward thought and stern disdain : 
 IIow do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
 And long to change the robe of revel for the shroud ! 
 
 Lxxxni. 
 
 This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
 If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast : 
 Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
 The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he lost, 
 Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
 
552 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
 Ah ! Greece ! they love thee least who owe thee most i 
 Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
 Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde I 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 When riseth Lacedaemon's hardihood, 
 When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
 When Athens' children are with hearts endued, 
 When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men, 
 Then mayst thou be restored ; but not till then. 
 A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
 An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
 Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, 
 Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Tim© and Fate ? 
 
 LXXXY. 
 
 And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
 Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou ! 
 Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, 
 Proclaim thee nature's varied favourite now ; * 
 Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow, 
 Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
 Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
 So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
 So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth ; 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 Save where some solitary column mourns 
 Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; + 
 Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
 Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave ; X 
 Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
 
 • On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the snow never is entirely melted, 
 notwithstanding the intense heat of the summer ; hut I never saw it lie on the plains, 
 even in winter. 
 
 j Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that constructed the public 
 edifices of Athens. The modern name is Mount Mendeli. An immense cave, formed by 
 the quarries, still remains, and will till the end of time. 
 
 % In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon, there is no scene more in- 
 teresting than Cape Colonna. To the antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inex 
 haustible source of observation and design ; to the philosopher, the supposed scene of 
 some of Plato's conversations will not be unwelcome ; and the traveller will be struck 
 with the beauty of the prospect over " Isles that crown the Mge&n deep :" but, for an 
 Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual spot of Falconer's 
 Shipwreck. Paliaa and Plato are forgotten in the recollection of Falconer and 
 Campbell : — 
 
 " Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
 The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 
 
 This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. In two journeys which 
 I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, the view from either side, by land, was more 
 striking than the approach from the isles. In our seco/id land excursion; we had a narrow 
 escape from a party of Mainotes, concealed in the caverns beneath. We were told after- 
 wards, by one of their prisoners, subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred from 
 attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians : conjecturing very sagaciously, but 
 falsely, that we had a complete guard of these Arnaouts at hand, they remained 
 stationary, and thus saved our party, which was too small to have opposed any effectual 
 resistance. Colonna la no less a resort of painters than of pirates ; there 
 
 " The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
 And makes degraded nature picturesque." 
 
 (See Hodgson's Lady Jane Orey, &c.) 
 
 But theie Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herself. I was fortunate enough 
 to engage a very superior German artist, and hope to renew my acquaintance with this 
 »ad many other Levantine scenes, by the arrival of his performances. 
 
OHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 553 
 
 Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
 Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
 While strangers only not regardless pass, 
 Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and sigh u Alaa ! '* 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 Yet are thy skies" as blue, thy crags as wild : 
 Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy fields, 
 Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
 And still his honied wealth Hymettus yields ; 
 There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress builds, 
 The froeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air ; 
 Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
 Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
 Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is fair. 
 
 Lxxxvm. 
 
 Where'er we tread 'tis haunted, holy ground 
 No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
 But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
 And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
 Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
 The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
 Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and wold 
 Defies the power which crush'd thy temples gone : 
 Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon. 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
 Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
 Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame ; 
 The Battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
 First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
 As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
 When Marathon became a magic word ; * 
 Which uttcr'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
 The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's career, 
 
 XC. 
 
 The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
 The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear ; 
 Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain below ; 
 Death in the front, Destruction in the rear ! 
 Such was the scene — what now remaineth here ? 
 What sacred trophy marks the hallow'd ground, 
 Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear ? 
 The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
 The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! spurns around. 
 
 *' Sta, viator, heroem calcas I" was the epitaph on the famous German general Coon* 
 Merci ; — what then must be our feelings when standing on the tumulus of the two 
 hundred (Greeks) who fell on Marathon ? The principal barrow has recently been opened 
 by Fauvel : few or no relics, as vases, &c, were found by the excavator. The plain of 
 Marathon was offered to me for sale at the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nln* 
 hundred pounds I Alas ! — " Expende — q.uot libra* in duce summo — invenies ! " — was th« 
 diut of Miltiades worth no mora J It could scarcely have fetched lew if sold by wtivhL 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 XOI. 
 
 Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
 Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng ; 
 Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
 Hail the bright clime of battle and of song ; 
 Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
 Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore : 
 Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
 Which sages venerate and bards adore, 
 As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 
 
 xcn. 
 
 The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
 If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome hearth ; 
 He that is lonely, hither let him roam, 
 And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
 Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; 
 But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
 And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
 When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred side, 
 Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and Persian died. 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 Let such approach this consecrated land, 
 And pass in peace along the magic waste : 
 But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
 Deface the scenes, already how defaced ! 
 Not for such purpose were these altars placed. 
 Revere the remnants nations once revered : 
 So may our country's name be undisgraced, 
 So mayst thou prosper where thy youth was rear'd, 
 By every honest joy of love and life endear 'd ! 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
 Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
 Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
 Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
 To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
 111 may such contest now the spirit move 
 Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial praise, 
 Since cold each kinder heart that might approve, 
 And none are left to please when none are left to lova. 
 
 xov. 
 
 Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one ! 
 Whom youth and youth's affections bound to me ; 
 Who did for me what none beside have done, 
 Nor shrank from one, albeit unworthy thee. 
 What is my being ? thou hast ceased to be ! 
 Nor stay'd to welcome here thy wanderer home, 
 Who mourns o'er hours which we no more shall see- 
 Would they had never been, or were to come ! 
 Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh cause to roam J 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 555 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
 How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 
 And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
 But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
 All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death ! thou hast : 
 The parent, friend, and now the more than friend ; 
 Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
 And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
 Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet to lend. 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
 And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
 Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
 False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
 To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
 Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer, 
 To feign the pleasure or conceal the piquo ; 
 Smiles form the channel of a future tear, 
 Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer. 
 
 xcvni. 
 
 What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
 What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow ? 
 To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
 And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
 Before the Chastener numbly let me bow, 
 O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy' d : 
 Roll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow. 
 Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy'd, 
 And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years alloy'd. 
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 : * Afln que cette application voua fore at de penser a autre chose ; 11 n*y a en yertt* da 
 rtia&le que celui-la et le temps."— Lettre du Roi do Pru$se d D'Alerribert, Sept. 7, 1776. 
 
 I. 
 
 Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ! 
 Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
 When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smded, 
 And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
 But with a hope. — 
 
 Awaking with a start. 
 The waters heave around me ; and on high 
 The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
 Whither I know not ; but the hour s gone by, 
 When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine ey«. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 II. 
 
 Once more upon the waters ! yet once more I 
 And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
 That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
 Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead ! 
 Though the strain' d mast should quiver as a reed. 
 And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale, 
 Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
 Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail 
 Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prev 
 
 ■ . III. 
 
 In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
 The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind ; 
 Again I seize the theme, then but begun, 
 And bear it with me, as the gushing wind 
 Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
 The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
 Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
 O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
 Plod the last sands of life, — where not a flower appears. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Since my young days of passion — joy, or pain, 
 Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string, 
 And both may jar ; it may be that in vain 
 I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
 Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
 So that it wean me from the weary dream 
 Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
 Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
 To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful theme. 
 
 V. 
 
 He, who grown aged in this world of woe, 
 In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
 So that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
 Can love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
 Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
 Of silent, sharp endurance ; he can tell 
 Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife 
 • With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
 Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's haunted colU 
 
 VI. 
 
 'Tis to create, and in creating live 
 A being more intense, that we endow 
 With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
 The life we image, even as I do now. 
 What am I ? Nothing : but not so art thou, 
 Soul of my thought ! with whom I traverse earth, 
 Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
 Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth, 
 And feeling still with thee in my crush'd feelings' dearth* 
 
ohilde Harold's pilgrimage. 
 
 vii. 
 
 Yet must I think less wildly ! — I have thought 
 Too long and darkly, till my brain became. 
 In its own eddy" boiling and o'erwrought, 
 A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : 
 And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tamo, 
 My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too late ! 
 Yet am I changed ; though still enough the same 
 In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
 And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Something too much of this : — but now 'tis past, 
 And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
 Long absent Harold re-appears at last ; 
 He of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
 Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal 
 Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
 In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
 Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb ; 
 And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. 
 
 IX. 
 
 His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found 
 The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd again, 
 And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
 And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain | 
 Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
 Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
 And heavy though it clank'd not ; worn with pain, 
 Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, 
 Entering with every step he took through many a scene. 
 
 x. 
 
 Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
 Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
 And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
 And sheathed with an invulnerablo mind, 
 That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
 And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
 Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
 Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
 He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand, 
 
 XI. 
 
 But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 
 
 To wear it ? who can curiously behold 
 • The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, 
 
 Nor feel the heart can never all grow old ? 
 
 Who can contemplate Fame, through clouds unfold 
 
 The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
 
 Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
 
 On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
 Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 xn. 
 
 But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
 Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he held 
 Little in common ; untaught to submit 
 His thoughts to others, though his soul was quelTd 
 In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncompell'd, 
 He would not yield dominion of his mind 
 To spirits against whom his own rebell'd ; 
 Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
 A life within itself, to breathe without mankind. 
 
 xni. 
 
 Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends ; 
 Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; 
 Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
 He had the passion and the power to roam ; 
 The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
 Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
 A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
 Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake 
 For Nature's pages glass' d by sunbeams on the lake. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
 Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
 As their own beams ; and earth, and earth-born jars, 
 And human frailties, were forgotten quite : 
 Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, 
 He had been happy ; but this clay will sink 
 Its spark immortal, envying it the light, 
 To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
 That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink* 
 
 xv. 
 
 But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
 .Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
 Droop' d as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing, 
 To whom the boundless air alone were home : 
 Then came his fit again, which to o'er come, 
 As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
 His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
 Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
 Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
 With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; 
 The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
 That all was over on this side the tomb, 
 Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
 Which, though 'twere wild, — as on the plunder' d wreck 
 When mariners would madly meet their doom 
 With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck, — 
 Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to check* 
 
OHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 559 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Stop ! — for thy tread is on an Empire's dust ! 
 An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ! 
 Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust ? 
 Nor column trophied for triumphal show ? 
 None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
 As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
 TTow that red rain hath made the harvest grow ! 
 And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
 Thou first and last of fields ! king-making Victory ! 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
 The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo ! . 
 How in ah hour the power which gave annuls 
 Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ; 
 In " pride of place" here last the eagle flew,* 
 Then tore witn bloody talon the rent plain, 
 Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through ; 
 Ambition's life and labours all were vain ; 
 He wears the shatter'd links of the world's broken chain. 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit 
 And foam in fetters ; — but is Earth more free ? 
 Did nations combat to make One submit ; 
 Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty ? 
 What ! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
 The patch'd-up idol of enlighten' d days ? 
 Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall we 
 Pay the Wolf homage ? proffering lowly gaze 
 And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove before ye praise I 
 
 XX. 
 
 If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
 In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot tears 
 For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
 The trampler of her vineyards ; in vain years 
 Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
 Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
 Of roused-up millions : all that most endears 
 Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
 Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant lord.1* 
 
 XXI. 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night, 
 And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
 Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
 
 * "In pride of place " is a term of falconry, and means the highest pitch of flight, Bse 
 
 liacbeth, Sto. 
 
 44 An eagle towering in his pride of place," Ac 
 t See the famous song on Harmedius and Aristogiton. The best English translation ii 
 Lu " Bland 'a Anthology/' by Mr. (now Lord Chief Justice) Denman,— 
 " With myrtle my »word will I wreathe," Ac. <j 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ; 
 A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
 Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spate again, 
 And all went merry as a marriage-bell ;* 
 But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knoll 1 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
 Or the car rattling o'er the stony street ; 
 On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; 
 No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet 
 To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
 But, hark ! — that heavy sound breaks in once more, 
 As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; , 
 And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! 
 Arm I arm ! it is — it is— the cannon's opening roar ! 
 
 XXIH. 
 
 Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
 Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain ; he did hear 
 That sound the first amidst the festival, 
 And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear ; 
 And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, 
 His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
 Which stretch' d his father on a bloody bier, 
 And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : 
 He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
 And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, 
 And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
 Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 
 And there were sudden partings, such as press 
 The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs 
 Which ne'er might be repeated : who would guess 
 If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
 Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise f 
 
 XXV, 
 
 And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, 
 The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, 
 Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
 And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
 And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; 
 And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
 Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; 
 While throng' d the citizens with terror dumb, 
 Or whispering with white lips — u The foe ! They come ! tl 
 come !" 
 
 » Oa the night previopo to tha action, it U laid that a ball was given at Bruml*. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 561 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" rose. 
 The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
 Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes : 
 How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills 
 Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which fills 
 Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
 With the fierce native daring which instils 
 The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
 And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears ! * 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, *♦" 
 Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
 Grieving, if aught inanimate o'er grieves, 
 Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! 
 Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
 Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
 In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
 Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 
 An3 burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
 Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
 The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, 
 The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
 Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
 The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent 
 The earth is cover d thick with other clay, 
 Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, 
 Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red burial blent ! 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
 Partly because they blend me with his line, 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song ! 
 And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
 They rcach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant 
 Howard ! 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, 
 And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
 
 • Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the " gentle Lochiel" of the •forty- 
 five." 
 
 t The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the forest of Ardennes, famous 
 In Boiardo's " Orlando," and immortal in Shakespeare's " As you like it." It is also 
 celebrated in Tacitus, ae being the spot of successful defence by the Germans against the 
 Roman encroachments, i have ventured to adopt the name connected with nobler asto* 
 tiations than those of mere slaughter. 
 
 2 o 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, 
 Which living waves where thou didst cease to live, 
 And saw around me the wide field revive 
 With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
 Hope forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
 With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
 I turn'd from all she brought to those she could not bring.* 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
 And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
 In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
 Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 
 The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must awake 
 Those whom they thirst for ; though the sound of Fame 
 May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
 The fever of vain longing, and the name 
 So honour' d, but assumes a stronger, bitterer claim. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 They mourn, but smile at length ; and, smiling, mourn : 
 The tree will wither long before it fall ; 
 The hull drives on, though mast and sail be torn ; 
 The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
 In massy hoariness ; the ruin'd wall 
 Stands when its wind- worn battlements are gone ; 
 The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
 The day drags through though storms keep out the sun ; 
 And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on : 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
 In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
 A thousand images of one that was, 
 The same, and still the more, the more it breaks : 
 And thus the heart will do which not forsakes, 
 Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
 And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
 Yet withers on till all without is old, 
 Showing no visible sign, for such things are untold. 
 
 ■* My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed intelligent and accurate. Th» 
 place where Major Howard fell was not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was « 
 third, cut down, or shivered in the battle), which stand a few yards from each other at « 
 pathway's side. Beneath these he died and was buried. The body has since been removed 
 to England. A small hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will probably soon 
 be effaced ; the plough has been upon it, and the grain is. After pointing out the different 
 spots where Picton and other gallant men had perished, the guide said, " Here Majoi 
 Howard lay : I was near him when wounded." I told him my relationship, and he 
 seemed then still more anxious to point out the particular spot and circumstances. The 
 place is one of the most marked in the field, from the peculiarity of the two trees above 
 mentioned. I went on horseback twice over the field, comparing it with my recollection 
 of similar scenes. As a plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some gre.V- 
 action, though this may be mere imagination : I have viewed with attention those cf 
 Platea, Troy, Mantinea, Leuctra, Chaeronea, and Marathon ; and the field around Mont 
 St. Jean and Hougoumont appears to want little but a better cause, and that undefinabU 
 but impressive halo which the lapse of ages throws around t celebrated spot, to vifl Ut 
 Interest vith. any «r all of these , except, perhaps, the last mentioned. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 563 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 There is a very life in our despair, 
 Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
 Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
 As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
 Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
 Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,* 
 All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
 Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
 Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would he name threescore ! 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 The Psalmist numbered out the years of man : 
 
 • They are enough : and if thy tale be true, 
 
 Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting span, 
 More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
 Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
 Their children's lips shall echo them, and say — 
 " Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
 Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 
 
 And this is much, and all which will not pass away. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men, 
 Whose spirit antithetically mix'd 
 One moment of the mightiest, and again 
 On little objects with like firmness fix'd, 
 Extreme in all things ! hadst thou been betwixt, 
 Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ; 
 For daring made thy rise as fall : thou seek'st 
 Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
 And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene ! 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou ! 
 She trembles at thee- still, and thy wild name 
 Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than now 
 That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
 Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
 The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
 A god unto thyself : nor less the same 
 To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
 t^Tho deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou didst assert 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Oh ! more or less than man — in high or low, 
 Battling with nations, flying from the field ; 
 Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, now 
 More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield : 
 An empire thou couldst crush, command; rebuild, 
 But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor 
 However deeply in men's spirits skill' d, 
 
 * The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphalt** were said U be fair withotrt 
 ft&d , withj^* Ashes, Vide Tacitus, Histor- lib. v. 7. 
 
 2 0 2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war, 
 Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Yet well thy soul hath brook' d the turning tide 
 "With that untaught innate philosophy, 
 Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
 Is gall and wormwood to an enemy. 
 When the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
 To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled 
 With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
 When Fortune fled her spoil' d and favourite child, 
 He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him piled. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
 Ambition steel' d thee on too far to show 
 That just habitual scorn, which could contemn 
 Men and their thoughts ; 'twas wise to feel, not so 
 To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
 And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
 Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow ; 
 'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
 So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
 Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
 Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the shock ; 
 But men's thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne, 
 Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
 The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
 (Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
 Like stern Diogenes to mock at men ; 
 F:>r sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.* 
 
 XLII. 
 
 But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
 And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
 And motion of the soul which will not dwell 
 In its own narrow being, but aspire 
 Beyond the fitting medium of desire ; 
 And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
 Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
 Of aught but rest ; a fever at the core, 
 Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 
 
 • The great error of Napoleon, " if we have writ our annals true," was a con4*imed 
 
 obtrusion on mankind of his want of all community of feeling for or with them ; perhap* 
 more offensive to human vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling and suspicious 
 tyranny. Such were his speeches to public assemblies as well as individuals ; and the 
 single expression which he is said to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian 
 winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire, " This is pleasanter than 
 JIoscow," would probably alienate more favour from his cause than the destruction and 
 reverses which led to the remark. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S JPILQRlMAGE. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 This makes the madmen who have made men mad 
 By their contagion ! Conquerors and Kings, 
 Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
 Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
 Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
 And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
 Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
 Are theirs ! One breast laid open were a school 
 Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rulo. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 Their breath is agitation, and their life 
 A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
 And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
 That should their days, surviving perils past, 
 Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
 With sorrow and supineness, aud so die ; 
 Even as a flams unfed, which runs to wasto 
 With its own nickering, or a sword laid by, 
 Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
 The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow ; 
 He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
 Must look down on the hate of those below. 
 Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
 And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
 Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
 Contending tempests on his naked head, 
 And thus reward the toils which to those summits led. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Away with these ! true Wisdom's world will be 
 Within its own creation, or in thine, 
 Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee, 
 Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 
 There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
 A blending of all beauties ; streams and dells, 
 Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, vine, 
 And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
 From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells, 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
 Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
 All tenantless, save to the cranny ing wind, 
 Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
 There was a day when they were young and proud, 
 Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
 But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
 And those which waved are shredless dust ere now t 
 And the bleak battlements shall bear no future blow. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Beneath these battlements, within those walls, 
 Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud state 
 Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
 Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
 Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
 "What want these outlaws conquerors should have ? * 
 But History's purchased page to call them great ? 
 A wider space, an ornamented grave ? 
 Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave, 
 
 XLIS. 
 
 In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
 What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
 And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
 With emblems well devised by amorous pride, 
 Through all the mail of iron hearts would glide ; 
 But still their flame was fierceness, and drew on 
 Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
 And many a tower for some fair mischief won, 
 Saw the discolour' d Rhine beneath its ruin run. 
 
 L. 
 
 But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
 Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 
 Through banks whose beauty would endure for ever 
 Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
 Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
 With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to see 
 Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
 Earth paved like Heaven ; and to seem such to me 
 Even now what wants thy stream ? — that it should Lethe be. 
 
 LI. 
 
 A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
 But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
 
 » And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering ranks : 
 Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
 Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
 And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
 Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
 But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting dream 
 
 Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as they seem. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
 
 Yet not insensibly to all which here 
 
 Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
 
 In glens which might have made even exile dear : 
 
 Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
 
 • "What wants that knave that a king should have ?" was King James's question 
 on meeting Johnny Armstrong and his followers in full accoutrements.— See the ballad. 
 
childe Harold's pilgrimage. 
 
 567 
 
 And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
 Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
 Joy was not always absent from his face, 
 But o'er it in such scenes would steal with transient trace. 
 
 LIU. 
 
 Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
 Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
 It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
 On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
 Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
 Hath wean'd it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
 For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
 In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
 And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 And he had learn'd to love, — I know not why, 
 For this in such as him seems strange of mood, — 
 The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
 Even in in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
 To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
 With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
 But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
 Small power the nipp'd affections have to grow, 
 In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased to glow. 
 
 LV. 
 
 And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
 Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
 Than the church links withal ; and, though unwed, 
 That love was pure, and far above disguise, 
 Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
 Still undivided, and cemented more 
 By peril, dreaded most in female eyes ; 
 But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
 Well to that heart might his these absent greetings poor ! 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels * 
 Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
 Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
 Between the banks which bear the vine, 
 And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
 And fields which promise corn and wine, 
 And scatter 'd cities crowning these, 
 Whose far white walls along them shine. 
 Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
 With double joy wert thou with me. 
 
 * The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest summit of " the Seven Mountains," 
 over the Rhine banks ; it is in ruins, and connected with some singular traditions : it is 
 the first in view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the river ; on this 
 bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of another, called the Jew's Castle, and a large 
 cross commemorative of the murder of a chief by his brother. The number of castles 
 and cities along the course of the Rhine on both tides is very great, and their situation* 
 remarkably beautiful. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And peasant girls, with deep-blue eye9, 
 And hands which offer early flowers, 
 Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; 
 Above, the frequent feudal towers 
 Through green leaves lift their walls of gra/ f 
 And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
 And noble arch in proud decay, 
 Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
 But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-— 
 Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 
 
 I send the lilies given to me ; 
 Though long before thy hand they touch, 
 I know that they must wither'd be, 
 But yet reject them not as such ; 
 For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
 Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
 And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
 When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
 And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
 And offer' d from my heart to thine ! 
 
 The river nobly foams and flows, 
 
 The charm of this enchanted ground, 
 
 And all its thousand turns disclose 
 
 Some fresher beauty varying round : 
 
 The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
 
 Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
 
 Nor could on earth a spot be found 
 
 To nature and to me so dear, 
 
 Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
 
 Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 
 
 LVI. 
 
 By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
 There is a small and simple pyramid, 
 Crowning the summit of the verdant mound ; 
 Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
 Our enemy's — but let not that forbid 
 Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
 Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's lid ; 
 Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
 Falling for France, whose rights he battled to resume, 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Brief, brave, and glorious was his young career, — 
 His mourners were two hosts, his friends and foea, 
 And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
 Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
 For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
 The few in number, who had not o'erstep* 
 The charter to chastise which she bestows 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 56*9 
 
 On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
 The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.* 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shatter' d wallf 
 Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
 Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball 
 Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
 A tower of victory, from whence the flight 
 Of baffled foes was watch' d along the plain : 
 But Peace destroy'd what War could never blight, 
 And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's rain — 
 On which the iron shower for years had pour'd in vain. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delighted 
 The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
 Thine is a scene alike were souls united 
 Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
 And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
 On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
 Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
 Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
 Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 
 
 LX. 
 
 Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 
 There can be no farewell to scene like thine, 
 The mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; 
 And if reluctantly the eyes resign 
 Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely Rhine ! 
 'Tis with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 
 More mighty spots may rise — more glaring shine, 
 But none unite in one attaching maze 
 The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories of old days. 
 
 * The monument of the young and lamented General Marceau (killed by a rifle-ball at 
 Alterkirchen, on the last day of the fourth year of the French republic) still reinaiiu aa 
 described. The inscriptions on his monument are rather too long, and not required : hi* 
 name was enough ; France adored, and her enemies admired ; both wept over him. Hia 
 funeral was attended by the generals and detachments from both armies. In the same 
 grare General Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in every sense of the word ; but 
 though he distinguished himself greatly in battle, he had not the good fortune to die 
 there : his death was attended by suspicions of poison. A separate monument (not over 
 bis body, which is buried by Marceau's) is raised for him near Andernach, opposite to 
 which one of his most memorable exploits was performed, in throwing a bridge to an 
 island on the Rhine. The shape and style are different from that of Marceau's, and the 
 Inscription more simple and pleasing: — "The Army of the Sambre and Meuse to its 
 Commander-in-Chief, Hoche." This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was esteemed 
 nmong the first of France's earlier generals, before Buonaparte monopolized her triumphs. 
 He was the destined commander of the invading army of Ireland. 
 
 f Ehrenbreitstein, ». e. " the broad stone of honour," one of the strongest fortresses in 
 Europe, was dismantled and blown up by the French at the truce of Leoben. It had been, 
 and could only be, reduced by famine or treachery. It yielded to the former, aided by 
 surprise. After having seen the fortifications of Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much 
 strike by comparison ; but the situation is commanding. General Marceau besieged it in 
 vain for some time, and I slept in a room where I was shown a window at which he is 
 ■aid to have been standing observing the progress of the siege by moonlight, when a ball 
 struck immediately below it. 
 
C70 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 LXI. 
 
 The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
 Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
 The rolling stream the precipice's gloom, 
 The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between, 
 The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
 In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
 A race of faces happy as the scene, 
 Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
 Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires near them fall* 
 
 LXII. 
 
 But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
 The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
 Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
 And throned Eternity in icy halls 
 Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
 The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow ! 
 All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
 Gather around these summits, as to show 
 How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below. 
 
 Lxni. 
 
 But ere these matchless heights I dare to scan, 
 There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain, — 
 Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where man 
 May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
 Nor blush for those who conquer' d on that plain ; 
 Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombless host, 
 A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
 Themselves their monument ; the Stygian coast 
 Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek' d each wandering 
 ghost.* 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
 Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand ; 
 They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
 Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
 Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
 A-H unbought champions in no princely cause 
 Of vice-entail'd Corruption ; they no land 
 Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
 Making kings' rights divine, by some Draconic clause. 
 
 • The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones diminished to a small number by 
 the Burgundian legion in the service of France ; who anxiously effaced this record of their 
 ancestor's less successful invasions. A few still remain, notwithstanding the pains taken 
 by the Burgundians for ages (all who passed that way removing a bone to their own 
 country), and the less justifiable larcenies of the Swiss postilions, who carried them off to 
 sell for knife -handles ; a purpose for which the whiteness imbibed by the bleaching of 
 years had rendered them in great request. 
 
 Of these relics I ventured to bring away as much as may have made a quarter of a hero, 
 for which the sole excuse is, that if I had not, the next passer by might have perverted 
 them to worse uses than the careful preservation which I intend for them. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 571 
 
 LXV. 
 
 3y a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
 A gray and grief- worn aspect of old days ; 
 'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 
 And looks as with the wild bewilder' d gaze 
 Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
 Yet still with consciousness ; and there it stands 
 Making a marvel that it not decays, 
 When the coeval prido of human hands, 
 Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject lands.* 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 And there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the name ! — 
 Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
 Her youth to Heaven ; her heart, beneath a claim 
 Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's grave. 
 Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would crave 
 The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, 
 And then she died on him she could not save. 
 Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
 And held within their urn one mind, one heart, one dust.*|" 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 But these are deeds, which should not pass away, 
 And names that must not wither, though the earth 
 Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
 The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth ; 
 The high, the mountain-majesty of worth, 
 Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
 And from its immortality look forth 
 In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,^ 
 Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,§ 
 The mirror where the stars and mountains view 
 
 * Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of Helvetia, where Avenche now 
 
 etude 
 
 f Julia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after a vain endeavour to save 
 her father, condemned to death as a traitor by Aulus Crecina. Her epitaph was discovered 
 many years ago ; it is thus : — "Julia Alpinula : hie jaceo. Infelicis patris in Mix prole*. 
 Deae A vent ire Sacerdos. Exoraro patris necem non potui : Male mori in fatis ille erat 
 Vixl annos xxm." — I know of no human composition so affecting as this, nor a history of 
 deeper interest. These are the names and actions which ought not to perish, and to which 
 we turn with a true and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering detail of a 
 confused mass of conquests and battles, with which the mind is roused for a time to a 
 false and feverish sympathy, from whence it recurs [at length with all the nausea conse- 
 quent on such intoxication. 
 
 X This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3rd, 1816), which even at this distance 
 dazzles mine. (July 20th.) — I this day observed for some time the distinct reflection of 
 Mont Blanc and Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing in my 
 boat ; the distance of these mountains from their mirror is sixty miles. 
 
 § The following touching stanza forms part of the beautiful lines which About thi 
 time the poet addressed to his sister : — 
 
 " I did remind thee of our own dear lake. 
 By the old hall which may be mine no more. 
 Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
 The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
 . Sad havoc Time must with my memory make 
 
 Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before ; 
 Though, like all things which I have loved, thej art 
 Resign'd for ever, or <!ivt«Ud far." 
 
571 
 
 BYROTTiS f 0EM8. 
 
 The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
 Its clear depth yields of their far height and hue : 
 There is too much of man here, to look through 
 With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
 But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
 Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of old, 
 Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in their fold. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind : 
 All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
 Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
 Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
 In one hot throng, where we become the spoil 
 Of our infection, till too late and long 
 We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
 In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
 *Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 There, in a moment, we may plunge our years 
 In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
 Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, 
 And colour things to come with hues of Night ; 
 The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
 To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
 The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
 But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
 Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor' d ne'er shall be. 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
 And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
 By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,* 
 Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
 Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
 A fair but froward infant her own care, 
 Kissing its cries away as these awake ! — 
 Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
 Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict or bear ? 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 I live not in myself, but I become 
 Portion of that around me ; and to me 
 High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
 Of human cities torture : I can see 
 Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
 A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
 Class'd among creatures, when the soul can flee, 
 And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain 
 Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 
 
 * The colour of the Rhone at Geneva is blue, to a depth of that which I have nev*2 
 •quailed in water, salt or fresh, except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 578 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life : 
 I look upon the peopled desert past, 
 As on a place of agony and strife, 
 vVTiere, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
 To act and suffer, but remount at last 
 With a fresh pinion ; which I feel to spring, 
 Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the blast 
 Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 
 Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our being cling, 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
 From what it hates in this degraded form, 
 Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
 Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
 When elements to elements conform, 
 And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
 Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
 The bodiless thought ? the Spirit of each spot ? 
 Of which, even now, I share at times the immortal lot ? 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part 
 Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
 Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
 With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
 All objects, if compared with these ? and stem 
 A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
 Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
 Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
 Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not gloit 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 But this is not my theme ; and I return 
 To that which is immediate, and requiro 
 Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
 To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
 A native of the land where I respire 
 The clear air for awhile — a passing guest, 
 Where ho became a being, — whose desire 
 Was to be glorious ; 'twas a foolish quest, 
 The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed all rest. j 
 
 LXXVII. 1 
 
 Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rousseau, , 
 The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
 Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
 Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
 The breath which made him wretched ; yet he knew 
 How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
 O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly hue 
 Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd 
 The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly and favt. 
 
574 
 
 B¥KON'S POEMS. 
 
 Lxxvm. 
 
 His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
 On fire by lightning ; with ethereal flame 
 Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
 Thus, and enamour' d, were in him the same. 
 But his was not the love of living dame, 
 Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
 But of ideal beauty, which became 
 In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
 Along his burning page, distemper' d though it seemrv 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
 Invested her with all that's wild and sweet ; 
 This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss * 
 Which every morn his fever' d lip would greet, 
 From hers, who but with friendship his would meet ; 
 But to that gentle touch, through brain and breast 
 Flash' d the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat : 
 In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest 
 Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek possess'd* 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 His life was one long war with self-sought foes, 
 Or friends by him self-banish' d ; for his mind 
 Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
 For its own cruel sacrifice the kind, 
 'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange and blind, 
 But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who may know ? 
 Since cause might be which skill could never find ; 
 But he was phrensied by disease or woe 
 To that worst pitch of all, which wears a reasoning show. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 For then he was inspired, and from him came 
 As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
 Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
 Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more : 
 Did he not this for France ? which lay before 
 Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years ; 
 Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
 Till by the voice of him and his compeers, 
 Housed up to too much wrath, which follows o'ergrown feara \ 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 They made themselves a fearful monument ! 
 The wreck of old opinions — things which grew, 
 Breathed from the birth of time : the veil they rent, 
 And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
 
 • ThiB refers to the account in his "Confessions" of his passion for the Comtesaa 
 d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. Lambert), and his long walk every morning, for the sako 
 of the single kiss -which was the common salutation of French acquaintance. Rousseau's 
 description of his feelings on this occasion may be considered as the most passionate, yet 
 not impure, description and expression of love that ever kindled into words ; which, after 
 all, must be felt, from tfaeir very force, to bo inadequate to the delineation : a painting 
 tan give no sufficient idea of the ooron. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 But good with ill they also overthrew, 
 Lea7ing but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
 Upon the same foundation, and renew 
 Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour refill' d, 
 As heretofore, because ambition was self-will' d. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
 Mankind have felt their strength, and made it felt. 
 They might have used it better, but, allured 
 By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
 On one another ; pity, ceased to melt 
 With her once natural charities. But they, 
 Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
 They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
 What marvel then, at times, if they mistook their prey ? 
 
 LXXXTV. 
 
 What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
 The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
 That which disfigures it ; and they who war 
 With their own hopes, and have been vanquish'd boar 
 Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
 Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
 Which shall atone for years ; none need despair : 
 It came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
 To punish or forgive— in one we shall be slower. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Clear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
 With the wild world I dwelt in is a thing 
 Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
 Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
 This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
 To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
 Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
 Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, 
 That I with stern delights should e'er have been so moved. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 It is the hush of night, and all between 
 Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
 Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
 Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
 Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
 There breathes a living fragrance from the shore, 
 Of flowers yet fresh with cl.ildhood ; on the ear 
 Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
 Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol more : 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 He is an evening reveller, who makes 
 His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
 At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
 Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
 There seems a floating whisper on the hill ; 
 
573 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
 All silently their tears of love instil, 
 Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
 Deep into nature's breast the spirit of her hues. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 Ye stars ! which are the poetry of heaven, 
 It in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
 01 men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
 TCiat in our aspirations to be great, 
 Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
 And claim a kindred with you ; for ye are 
 A beauty, and a mystery, and create 
 In us such love and reverence from afar. 
 That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star, 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 All heaven and earth are still — though not in sleep, 
 But breathless, as we grow when feeling most ; 
 And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep : — 
 All heaven and earth are still : — From the high host 
 Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
 All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
 Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
 But hath a part of being, and a sense 
 Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 
 
 XC. 
 
 Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
 In solitude, where we are least alone ; 
 A truth, which through our being then doth melt, 
 And purifies from self : it is a tone, 
 The soul and source of music, which makes known 
 Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
 Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
 Binding all things with beauty ; — 'twould disarm 
 The spectre death, had he substantial power to harm. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 Not vainly did the early Persian make 
 
 His altar the high places and the peak 
 
 Of earth-o'ergazing mountains,* and thus take 
 
 A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
 
 • It is to be recollected, that the most beautiful and impressive doctrines of the divine 
 Founder of Christianity were delivered, not in the Temple, but on the Mount. To waive 
 the question of devotion, and turn to human eloquence, — the most effectual and splendid 
 specimens were not pronounced within walls. Demosthenes addressed the public and 
 popular assemblies. Cicero spoke in the forum. That this added to their effect on the 
 mind of both orator and hearers, may be conceived from the difference between what we 
 read of the emotions then and there produced, and those we ourselves experience in the 
 perusal in the closet. It is one thing to read the " Diad" at Sigaeum and on the tumuli, 
 or by the springs, with Mount Ida above, and the plain, and rivers, and Archipelago 
 around you; and another to trim your taper over it in a snug library— this I know. 
 Were the esily *ud rapid progress of what is called Methodism to be attributed to anv 
 cause beyonu the enthusiasm excited by its vehement faith and doctrines (the truth or 
 error of which T presume neither to canvass nor to question), I should venture to ascribe 
 it to the practice of preaching in the fields, and the unstudied and extemporaneous 
 effusions of its teacheiB. The Mussulmans, whose erroneous devotion (at least in the 
 iwwer orders) Is most sincere, and therefore impressive, are accustomed to repeat theii 
 
childe Harold's pilgrimage. 
 
 577 
 
 The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weak, 
 Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and compare 
 Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
 With Nature's realms of worship, earth and air, 
 Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy prayer ! 
 
 XCII. 
 
 The sky is changed ? — and such a change ! Oh night, 
 And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong, 
 Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
 Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
 From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
 Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone cloud, 
 But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
 And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
 Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud ! 
 
 xcm. 
 
 And this is in the night : — Most glorious night! 
 Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let mc bo 
 A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,*" — 
 A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
 
 • How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
 And the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
 And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glco 
 Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
 
 As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. 
 
 XCIV. 
 
 Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between 
 Heights which appear as lovers who have paruxi 
 In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
 That they can meet no more, though broken-] ie:irtcd ; 
 Though in their souls, which thus each other thwarted, 
 Love was the very root of the fond rage 
 Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed : — 
 Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
 Of years all winters, — war within themselves to wage. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft his way, 
 The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
 For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
 And fling their thunderbolts from hand to hand, 
 Flashing and cast around : of all the band, 
 
 /prescribed orisons and prnyers, wherever they may be, at the stated hours— of course, fie- 
 «pJutly in the open air, kneeling upon a light mat (which they carry for the purpose of a 
 bed or cushion as reqnir»»<l) ; the ceremony lasts some minutes, aitring which they are 
 (totally absorbed, and only living in their supplication: nothing can disturb them. On 
 ^ne the simple and entire nincerity of these men, and the spirit which appeared to be 
 ,irithin and upon them, made a far greater impressson than any general rite which waa 
 „«er performed in places of worship, of which I have seen those of almost every persuaf ion 
 under the sun— including most of our own sectaries, and the Greek, the Catholic, the 
 Armenian, the Lutheran, the Jewish, and the Mahometan. Many of the negroes, of whom 
 .there are numbers in the Turkish empire, are idolaters, and have free exercise of their 
 belief and its rites ; some of these I had a distant view of at Patras ; and, from what I 
 could make out of them, they appeared to be of a truly Pagan description, and not very 
 agreeable to a spectator. 
 
 • The thunder-storm to which these lines refer occurred on the 13th of June, 181»>. ;>t 
 Tmilnight. I have seen, among the Acroceraunian mountains of Chimari, ■everal nior< 
 l^errible, but nope more beautiful. 
 
 2 p 
 
 « 
 
BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 The brightest through these parted hills hath fork'd 
 His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
 That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
 There the hot shaft should blast whatever therein lurk'd* 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings ! ye ! 
 With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a roul 
 To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
 Things that have made me watchful ; the far roll 
 Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
 Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
 But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal ? 
 Are ye like those within the human breast ? 
 Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some high nest ? 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 Could I embodv and unbosom now 
 That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
 My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
 Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or weak, 
 All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
 Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one word, 
 And that one word were Lightning, I would speak ; 
 But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
 With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as a sword. 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
 With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, 
 Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
 And living as if earth contain' d no tomb, — 
 And glowing into day : we may resume 
 The march of our existence : and thus I, 
 Still on thy shores, fair Leman ! may find room 
 And food for meditation, nor pass by 
 Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd fittingly. 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 Clarens ! sweet Clarens ! birthplace of deep Love ! 
 Thine air is the young breath of passionate thought ; 
 Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
 The very Glaciers have his colours caught, 
 And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 
 By rays which sleep there lovingly : the rocks, 
 The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who sougnt 
 In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
 Which stir and sting the soul with hope that woos, then m 
 
 0. 
 
 Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
 
 Undying Love's who here ascends a throne 
 
 To which the steps are mountains ; where the gosl 
 
 Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
 
 Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
 
CE1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIM At j~ « 
 
 la the still cave and forest ; o'er the flower 
 His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown 
 His soft and f/snmer breath, whose tender powec 
 Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hoiar* 
 
 at. 
 
 All thin^ are here of him ; from the black pines, 
 Which ai,^ his shade on high, and the loud roar 
 Of torrants, where he listeneth, to the vines # 
 Which slope his green path downward to tho shore, 
 Waore the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
 F tf<sing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
 'j£h& covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
 Put light leaves, young as joy, stands whero it stood, 
 Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 
 
 on. 
 
 A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
 And fairy-form'd and many-colour'd things, 
 Who worship him with notes more sweet than words, 
 And innocently open their glad wings 
 Fearless and full of life ; the gush of springs, 
 And fall of lofty fountains, and tho bond 
 Of stirring branches, and the bud which rings, 
 The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
 Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty end. 
 
 cm. 
 
 He who hath loved not, here would learn that lore^ 
 And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
 That tender mystery, will love the more ; 
 For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
 And the world's waste, have driven him far from those;, 
 For 'tis his nature to advance or die : 
 He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
 Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
 With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 
 
 Civ. 
 
 'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
 Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
 It was the scene which passion must allot 
 To the mind's purified beings ; 'twas the ground 
 Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
 And hallow'd it with loveliness ; 'tis lone, 
 And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
 And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here the Rhone 
 Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have rear'd a throco 
 
 cv. 
 
 Lausanne ! and Ferney ! ye have been the abodes 
 Of names which unto ycu bequeath'd a nam© ;* 
 
 • Voltaire and Gibbon. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Mortals, who sought and found, by dangerous roads, 
 A path to perpetuity of fame : 
 They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
 Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
 Thoughts which should call down thunder, and the flams 
 Of Heaven, again assail' d, if Heaven the while 
 On man and man's research could deign do more than smiU 
 
 CVI. 
 
 The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
 Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
 A wit as various, — gay — grave — sage — or wild- 
 Historian, bard, philosopher, combined; 
 He multiplied himself among mankind, 
 The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
 Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the wind 
 Blew where it listed, laying all things prone, — 
 Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne. 
 
 evil. 
 
 The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought, 
 And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
 In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
 And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
 Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 
 The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
 Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear, 
 And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
 Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
 If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
 It is not ours to judge, — fai less condemn ; 
 The hour must come when such things shall be made 
 Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay 'd 
 By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
 Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay'd ; 
 And, when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
 Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just, 
 
 cix. 
 
 But let me quit man's works, again to read 
 His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
 This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
 Until it seems prolonging without end. 
 The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, » 
 And I must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
 May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
 To their most great and growing region, where 
 The earth to her embrace compels the powers of air, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PlLCTOIAOB. 
 
 ex. 
 
 Italia ! too, Italia ! looking- on thee 
 Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
 Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won thco, 
 To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
 Who glorify thy consecrated pages ; 
 Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; still, 
 The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
 Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her iili, 
 Flows from the eternal source of Rome's imperial lull. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
 Renew'd with no kind auspices : — to feel 
 We are not what we have been, and to deem 
 We are not what we should be, — and to steel 
 The heart against itself; and to conceal, 
 With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — 
 Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal, — 
 Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
 Is a stern task of soul : — No matter, — it is taught. 
 
 CXII. 
 
 And for these words, thus woven into song, 
 It may bo that they are a harmless wile, — 
 The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
 Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
 My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
 Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
 So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
 As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 
 I stood and stand alone, — remember' d or forgot. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 I have not loved the world nor tho world me ; 
 I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd 
 To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
 Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
 In worship of an echo ; in the crowd 
 They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
 Among them, but not of them ; in a shroud 
 Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, and still coulJ, 
 Had I not filed my mind, which thus itself subdued.* 
 
 cxrv. 
 
 I have not loved the world, nor tho world me, — 
 
 But let us part fair foes ; I do believe, 
 
 Though I have found them not, that there may be 
 
 Words which are things, — hopes which will not deceive, 
 
 • — " If it be thus, 
 For Ranquo's Issue have I filed my wind,"— MacbetX 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
 Snares for the failing : I would also deem 
 O'er other's griefs tha-b some sincerely grieve ; 
 That two, or one, are almost what they seem.,— - 
 Hiat goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 My daughter ! with thy name this song begun — 
 My daughter ! with thy name thus much shall end— - 
 I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
 Can be so wrapp'd in thee ; thou art the friend 
 To whom the shadows of far years extend ; 
 Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
 My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
 And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold, 
 A token and a tone, even from thy father's mould. 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
 Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
 Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
 Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee ! 
 To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
 And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss, — 
 This, it should seem, was not reserved for me ; 
 Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
 2 know not what is there, yet something like to this. 
 
 cxvn. 
 
 Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be taught, 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 
 Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 
 With desolation, — and a broken claim : 
 Though the grave closed between us, — 'twere the same,. 
 I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
 My blood from out thy being were an aim, 
 And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
 Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than life retain, 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 The child of love, — though born in bitterness, 
 And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
 These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
 As yet such are around thee, — but thy lire 
 Shall bo more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
 Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
 And from the mountains where I now iespire, 
 Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
 As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to me ' 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 6&J 
 
 TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., A.M., F.R.S., &c. 
 
 Venice, January 2, 1818. 
 
 MY DEAR HOBHOUSE, 
 
 After an interval of eight years between the composition of the 
 first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the conclusion of the poem is about 
 to be submitted to the public. In parting- with so old a friend, it is nol 
 extraordinary that I should recur to one still older and better, — to one 
 who has beheld the birth and death of the other, and to whom I am far 
 more indebted for the social advantages of an enlightened friendship, 
 than — though not ungrateful — I can, or could be, to Childe Harold, 
 for any public favour reflected through the poem on the poet, — to one, 
 whom I have known long and accompanied far, whom I have found 
 wakeful over my sickness and kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity 
 and firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty in peril,— to a friend 
 often tried and never found wanting"; — to yourself. 
 
 In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth; and in dedicating to y ^u, in 
 its complete or at least concluded state, a poetical work which is the 
 r longest, the most thoughtful and comprehensive of my compositions, I 
 wish to do honour to myself by the record of many years' intimacy with a 
 man of learning, of talent, of steadiness, and of honour. It is not for 
 minds like ours to give or to receive flattery ; yet the praises of sincerity 
 have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship j and it is not for you, 
 nor even for others, but to relieve a heart which has not elsewhere, or 
 lately, been so much accustomed to the encounter of good-will as to 
 withstand the shock firmly, that I thus attempt to commemorate your 
 good qualities, or rather the advantages which I have derived from their 
 exertion. Even the recurrence of the date of this letter, the anniversary 
 of the most unfortunate day of my past existence,* but which cannot 
 poison my future while I retain the resource of your friendship, and of 
 my own faculties, will henceforth have a more agreeable recollection for 
 both, inasmuch as it will remind us of this my attempt to thank you for 
 an indefatigable regard, such as few men have experienced, and no one 
 could experience without thinking better of his species and of himself. 
 
 It has been our fortune to traverse together, at various periods, the 
 countries of chivalry, history, and fable — Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, and 
 Italy; and what Athens and Constantinople were to us a few years ago, 
 Venice and Rome have been more recently. The poem also, or the 
 pilgrim, or both, have accompanied me from first to last ; and perhaps it 
 may be a pardonable vanity which induces me to reflect with complacency 
 on a composition which in some degree connects me with the spot where 
 it was produced, and the objects it would fain describe j and however 
 unworthy it may be deemed of those magical and memorable abodes, 
 however short it may fall of our distant conceptions and immediate 
 impressions, yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, and of feeling 
 for what is glorious, it has been to me a source of pleasure in the produc- 
 tion, and I part with it with a kind of regret, which I hardly suspected 
 that events could have left me for imaginary objects. 
 
 With regard to the conduct of the last canto, there will be found less of 
 the pilgrim than in any of the preceding-, and that little slightly, if at all, 
 separated from the author speaking in his own person. The fact is, that 
 I had become weary of drawing a line which everyone seemed determined 
 not to perceive: like the Chinese in Goldsmith's "Citizen of the World," 
 whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it was in vain that I asserted, 
 and imagined that I had drawn, a distinction between the author and the 
 pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to preserve this difference, and disappoint- 
 ment at finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts in the composition, 
 that I determined to abandon it altogether— and have done so. The 
 opinions which have been, or may be, formed on that subject are now 
 a matter of indifference ; the work is to depend on itself, and not on tha 
 
 * His marriage. 
 
Sd4 
 
 syron's poems. 
 
 writer ; and the author who has no resources in his own mind beyond the 
 reputation, transient or permanent, which is to arise from his literary 
 efforts, deserves the fate of authors. 
 
 In the course of the following canto it was my intention, either in the 
 text or in the notes, to have touched upon the present state of Italian 
 literature, and perhaps of manners. But the text, within the limits 1 
 proposed, I soon found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of external 
 ©bjects, and the consequent reflections ; and for the whole of the notes, 
 excepting a few of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and these were 
 necessarily limited to the elucidation of the text. 
 
 It is also a delicate, and no very grateful task, to dissert upon the 
 literature and manners of a nation so dissimilar ; and requires an atten- 
 tion and impartiality which would induce us— though perhaps no inat- 
 tentive observers, nor ignorant of the language or customs of the people 
 amongst whom we have recently abode — to distrust, or at least deter our 
 judgment, and more narrowly examine our information. The state of 
 literary, as well as political party, appears to run, or to have run, so high, 
 that for a stranger to steer impartially between them is next to impossible. 
 It may be enough, then, at least for my purpose, to quote from their own 
 beautiful language : — " Mi pare che in un paese tutto poetico, che vanta \ 
 la lingua la piu nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, tutte tutte le vie diverse si 
 possono tentare, e che sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha perduto 
 P antico valore, in tutte essa dovrebbe essere la prima." Italy has great 
 names still — Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, Visconti, Morelli, 
 Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzophanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, 
 will secure to the present generation an honourable place in most of the 
 departments of Art, Science, and Belles Lettres ; and in some the very 
 highest — Europe — the World — has but one Canova. 
 
 It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that " La pianta uomo nasce piu 
 robusta in Italia che in qualunque altra terra — e che gli stessi atroci delitti 
 che vi si commettono ne sono una prova." Without subscribing to the 
 latter part of his proposition, a dangerous doctrine, the truth of which 
 may be disputed on better grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no 
 respect more ferocious than their neighbours, that man must be wilfully 
 blind, or ignorantly heedless, who is not struck with the extraordinary 
 capacity of this people, or, if such a word be admissible, their capabilities, 
 the facility of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their conceptions, the fire 
 of their genius, their sense of beauty, and, amidst all the disadvantages of 
 repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, and the despair of ages, 
 their still unquenched "longing after immortality," — the immortality of 
 independence. And when we ourselves, in riding round the walls of 
 Rome, heard the simple lament of the labourers' chorus, " Roma ! Roma ! 
 Roma ! Roma non e piu come era prima," it was difficult not to contrast 
 this melancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the songs of exultation 
 still yelled from the London taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. Jean, 
 and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of France, and of the world, by men 
 whose conduct you yourself have exposed in a work worthy of the better 
 days of our history. For me, — 
 
 Non movero mai corda 
 
 Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda. 
 
 What Italy has gained by the late transfer of nations, it were useless for 
 Englishmen to inquire, till it becomes ascertained that England has 
 acquired something more than a permanent army and a suspended 
 Habeas Corpus ; it is enough for them to look at home. For what they 
 have done abroad, and especially in the South, *' Verily they will have 
 their reward," and at no very distant period. 
 
 Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and agreeable return to that 
 country whose real welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, I 
 dedicate to you this poem in its completed state ; and repeat once more 
 how truly I am ever, 
 
 Your obliged and affectionate friend, 
 
 BYRON- 
 
ckildk hakold's pilgrimage. 
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH. 
 L 
 
 I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
 A palace and a prison on each hand : 
 I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
 As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand : 
 A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
 Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
 O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
 Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
 Where Venice sat in state, throned on her hundred islci ! 
 
 II. 
 
 She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
 Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
 At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
 A ruler of the waters and their powers : 
 And such she was ; — her daughters had their dowers 
 From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East 
 Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers. 
 In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
 Monarchy partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 
 
 III. 
 
 In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more, 
 And silent rows the songless gondolier ; 
 Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
 And music meets not always now the ear : 
 Those days are gone — but Beauty still is here. 
 States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not rtio, 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivity, 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 But unto us she hath a spell beyond 
 Her name in story, and her long array 
 Of mighty shadows, whose dim forms despond 
 Above the dogeless city's vanish'd sway ; 
 Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
 With the Rialto ; Shylock and the Moor, 
 And Pierre, can not be swept or worn away — 
 The keystones of the arch ! though all were o*<wr,. 
 For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 
 
 V. 
 
 The beings of the mind are not of clay ; 
 Essentially immortal, they create 
 And multiply in us a brighter ray 
 
535 
 
 BYRON'S POEUC: 
 
 And more beloved existence : that which Fate* 
 Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
 Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied, 
 First exiles, then replaces what we hate ; 
 Watering the heart whose early flowers have die :.. 
 And with a fresher growth replenishing the void. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Such is the refuge of our youth and ago, 
 The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy 5 
 And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
 And, may be, that which grows beneath mine eye ; 
 Yet there are things whose strong reality 
 Outshines our fairy-land ; in shape and hues 
 More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
 And the strange constellations which the Muse 
 O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse : 
 
 VII. 
 
 I saw or dream' d of such, — but let them go, — 
 They came like truth, and disappear'd like dream s 
 And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so : 
 I could replace them if I would ; still teems 
 My mind with many a form which aptly seems 
 Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
 Let these too go — for waking Keason deems 
 Such over-weening phantasies unsound, 
 And other voices speak, and other sights surround, 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I've taught me other tongues — and in strange ey^: 
 Have made me not a stranger ; to the mind 
 Which is itself, no changes bring surprise ; 
 Nor is it harsh to make, nor hard to find 
 A country with — ay, or without mankind ; 
 Yet was I born where men are proud to be, — 
 Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
 The inviolate island of the sage and free, 
 And seek me out a home by a remoter sea, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Perhaps I loved it well : and should I lay 
 My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
 My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
 Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
 My hopes of being remember'd in my line 
 With my land's language : if too fond and far 
 These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
 If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
 Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar 
 
 X. 
 
 My name from out the temple where the dead 
 Are honoured by the nations — let it be — 
 
OHILDB HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 587 
 
 A.nd light the laurels on a loftier head ! 
 And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
 " Sparta hath many a worthier son than he."* 
 Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need ; 
 The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree 
 I planted, — they have torn me, — and I bleed : 
 I should have known what fruit would spring from such r- iced. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord ; 
 And, annual marriage now no more renewed, 
 The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
 Neglected garment of her widowhood ! 
 St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
 Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, 
 Over the proud Place where an Emperor sued, 
 And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
 When Venice was a queen with an unequall'd dower. 
 
 XII. 
 
 The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian reigns — 
 An Emperor tramples where an Emperor knelt ; 
 Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and chains 
 Clank over sceptred cities ; nations melt 
 From power's high pinnacle, when they have felt 
 The sunshine for a while, and downward go 
 Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt ; 
 Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo ! 
 Tli' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of brass, 
 Their gilded collars glittering in the sun ; 
 But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 
 Are they not bridled ? — Venice, lost and won, 
 Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
 Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence sho rose ! 
 Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and slrun, 
 Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous report. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre ; 
 Her very by-word sprung from victory, 
 The "Planter of the Lion/'f' which through fire 
 And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea ; 
 Though making many slaves, herself still free, 
 And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite ; 
 Witness Troy's rival, Candia ! Vouch it, yo 
 Immortal waves that caw Lepanto's fight ! 
 For ye are names no timo nor tyranny can bb'ght. 
 
 * The answer of the mother of Brasidaa, tfca Lacedaemonian general, to tao ttiungac? 
 »ho pi u <■ d the memory of her Bon. 
 
 t That is, the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the republic, which is the origin of the 
 word Pantaloon— Piantaleono, Pantaleon, PantaLton. 
 
t 
 
 5S3 
 
 BYF.OS'H FOEM3. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
 Of her dead doges are declined to dust ; 
 But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous p:!U 
 Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust ; 
 Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
 Have yielded to the stranger : empty halls, 
 Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must 
 Too oft remind her who and what inthrals, 
 Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
 And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke cf war, 
 Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse,* 
 Her voice their only ransom from afar : 
 See ! as they chant the tragic hymn, the car 
 Of the o'ermaster'd victor stops, the reins 
 Fall from his hands — his idle scimitar 
 Starts from its belt — he rends his captive's chains, 
 And bids him thank the bard for freedom and his strain .1 
 
 xvn. 
 
 Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were thine, 
 Were all thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
 Thy choral memory of the Bard divine, 
 Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
 Which ties thee to thy tyrants ; and thy lot 
 Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
 Albion ! to thee : the Ocean queen should not 
 Abandon Ocean's children ; in the fall 
 Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery wall. 
 
 xvm. 
 
 I loved her from my boyhood ; she to me 
 Was as a fairy city of the heart, 
 Rising like water-columns from the sea, 
 Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart ; 
 And Otway, Radchffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's art,+ 
 Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
 Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
 Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 
 
 XIX, 
 
 I can repeople with the past — and of 
 
 The present there is still for eye and thought, 
 
 And meditation chasten'd down, enough ; 
 
 And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought ; 
 
 And of the happiest moments which were wrought 
 
 Within the web of my existence, some 
 
 • The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Ntcias. 
 
 t Venice Preserved ; Mysteries of Udolpho : the Ghost-Seer, or Armenian ; the Mtrifc arc* 
 •X Venice ; Othello, 
 
CfllLDE HABOLD'S PILGRIMAGE 
 
 From thee, fair Venice ! have their colours caught : 
 There are some feelings Time cannot benumb, 
 Nor Torture shake, or mine would now be cold and dumb. 
 
 XX. 
 
 But from their nature will the tannen grow* 
 Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter' d rocks, 
 Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
 Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine shocks 
 Of eddying storms ; yet springs the trunk, and mocVa 
 The howling tempest, till its height and frame 
 Are worthy of the mountains from whose blocks 
 Of bleak, gray granite into life it came, . 
 And grow a giant tree ; — the mind may grow the s&nio. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Existence may bo borne, and the deep root 
 Of life and sufferance make its firm abode 
 In bare and desolated bosoms : mute 
 The camel labours with the heaviest load, 
 And the wolf dies in silence, — not bestow'd 
 In vain should such example be ; if they, 
 Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
 Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
 May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
 Even by the sufferer ; and, in each event, 
 Ends : — Some, with hope replenish'd and rebuoy'd, 
 Return to whence they came — with like intent, 
 And weave their web again ; some, bow'd and bent, 
 Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their time, 
 And perish with the reed on which they leant ; 
 Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
 According as their souls were form'd to sink or climb. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
 There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
 Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
 Aud slight withal may be the things which bring 
 Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
 Aside for ever : it may be a sound — 
 A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 
 A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall wound, 
 Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound , 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 And how and why we know not, nor can trace 
 Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 
 
 • Tannen Is the plural of tanne, a species of flr peculiar to the Alps, which only thrl^w 
 tii very rocky parte, where scarcely soil sufficient, for its nourishmeut can be fouud. On 
 spota it grows to a greater height than auy other mountain tree. 
 
690 
 
 BTUOIi'S 
 
 But feel the shock renew'd, nor can eiijiCD 
 The blight and blackening which it leaves behind. 
 Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
 When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
 The spectres whom no exorcisms can bind, 
 The cold — the changed — perchance the dead — anew, 
 The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many !— yet how fow ! 
 
 XXV. 
 
 But my soul wanders ; I demand it back 
 To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
 A ruin amidst ruins ; there to track 
 Fall'n states and buried greatness, o'er a land 
 Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
 And is the loveliest, and must ever be 
 The master-mould of Nature's heavenly hand, 
 Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
 The beautiful, the brave— the lords of earth and sea, 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 The commonwealth of kings, the men ol Rome ! 
 And even sinee, and now, fair Italy ! 
 Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
 Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree ; 
 Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
 Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
 More rich than other climes' fertility ; 
 Thy wreck a glory, and thy rain graced 
 With an immaculate charm which cannot be defa-ced. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
 Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
 Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
 Of blue Friuli's mountain ; Heaven is free 
 From clouds, but of all colours seems to be, — 
 Melted to one vast Iris of the West, — 
 Where the Day joins the past Eternity ; 
 While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
 Floats through the azure air — an island of the blest I 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 A single star is at her side, and reigns 
 With her o'er half the lovely heaven ; but still 
 Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
 Koll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhsetian hill, 
 As Day and Night contending were, until 
 Nature reclaim'd her order ; — gently flows 
 The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
 The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
 Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glovr,» 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 
 Comes down upon the waters ; all its hues, 
 From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
 Their magical variety diffuse : 
 And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
 Its mantle o'er the mountains ; parting day 
 Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues 
 "With a new colour as it gasps away, 
 The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all is gray, 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There is a tomb in Arqua ; — rear'd in air, 
 Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
 The bones of Laura's lover : here repair 
 Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
 The pilgrims of his genius. He aros» 
 To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
 From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes : 
 Watering the tree whish bears his lady's name 
 With his melodious tears, he gave himself to fame. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died ; 
 The mountain village where his latter days 
 Went down the vale of years ; and 'tis their pride- ~ 
 An honest pride — and let it be their praise, 
 To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
 His mansion and his sepulchre ; both plain 
 And venerably simple, such as raise 
 A feeling more accordant with his strain 
 Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 
 
 XXXIL 
 
 And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
 Is one of that complexion which seems made 
 For those who their mortality have felt, 
 And sought a refuge from their hopes decay'd 
 In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade, 
 Which shows a distant prospect far away 
 Of busy cities, now in vain display'd, 
 For they can lure no further ; and the ray 
 Of a bright sun can make sufficient holiday. 
 
 XXXHI. 
 
 Developing the mountains, leaves, and flowers, 
 And shining in the brawling brook, where-by, 
 Clear as its current, glide the sauntering hours 
 With a calm languor, which, though to the eyo 
 Idlesse it seem, hath its morality. 
 If from society we learn to live, 
 'Tis solitude should teach us how to die ; 
 It hath no flatterers ; vanity can give 
 No hollow aid ; alone — man with his God must strive : 
 
BYRON'S POEMfl. 
 
 xxxrv. 
 
 Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
 The strength of better thoughts, and seek their pi*ry 
 In melancholy bosoms, such as were 
 Of moody texture from their earliest day, 
 And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 
 Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
 Which is not of the pangs that pass away ; 
 Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb, 
 The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier gloom. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 Ferrara ! in thy wide and grass-grown streets, 
 Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
 There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
 Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
 Of Este, which for manj'- an age made good 
 Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
 Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
 Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
 The wreath which Dante's brow alone had worn before 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
 Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell ! 
 And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
 And where Alfonso bade the poet dwell : 
 The miserable despot could not quell 
 The insulted mind he sought to quench, and blenO. 
 With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
 Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 
 Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The tears and praises of all time ; while thine 
 Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
 Of worthless dust, which from thy boasted line 
 Is shaken into nothing ; but the link 
 Thou formest in his fortunes bids us think 
 Of thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
 Alfonso ! how thy ducal pageants shrink 
 From thee ! if in another station born, 
 Scarce lit to be the slave of him thou mad'st to mourn 5 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Thou ! f orm*d to eat, and be despised, and die, 
 Even as the beasts that perish, save that thou 
 Hadst a more splendid trough and wider sty : 
 Me ! with a glory round his f urrow'd brow, 
 Which emanated then, and dazzles now, 
 In face of all his foes, the Cruscan quire, 
 And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 
 No strain which shamed his country's creaking lyr^ 
 That whetstone of the teeth — monotony in wire ! 
 
CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIM AC ft. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Peace to Torquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
 In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
 Aim'd with her poison'd arrows ; but to miss. 
 Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song ! 
 Each year brings forth its millions ; but how long 
 The tide of generations shall roll on, 
 And not the whole combined and countless throng 
 Compose a mind like thine ? though all in one 
 Condensed their scatter'd rays, they would not form a sun. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Great as thou art, yet parallcl'd by those, 
 Thy countrymen, before thee born to sbino, 
 The Bards of Hell and Chivary : first rose 
 The Tuscan father's comedy divine ; 
 Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
 The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd forth 
 A new creation with his magic lino, 
 And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
 Hang ladye-love and war, romance and knightly worth. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The lightning: rent from Ariosto's bust 
 The iron crown of laurel's mimic'd leaves ; 
 Nor was the ominous element unjust, 
 For the true laurel-wreath which glory weaves 
 Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
 And the false semblance but disgraced his brow ; 
 Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves, 
 Know, that the lightning sanctifies below 
 Whate'er it strikes ; — yon head is doubly sacred now. 
 
 XLH. 
 
 Italia ! oh Italia ! thou who hast 
 The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
 A funeral dower of present woes and past 
 On thy sweet brow is sorrow plough'd by shamo, 
 And annals graved in characters of flame. 
 Oh, God ! that thou wert in thy nakednost 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who pres3 
 To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distresr ; 
 
 xliii. 
 
 Then mightst thou more appal ; or, less desired, 
 Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
 For thy destructive charms ; then, still untired, 
 Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
 Down the deep Alps ; nor would the hostile horvio 
 Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
 Quaff blood and water ; nor the stranger's swonl 
 Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
 Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend or foa. 
 
 2 Q 
 
594 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Wandering in youth, I traced the path of him, 
 The Roman friend of Rome's least-mortal mind, 
 The friend of Tully : as my bark did skim 
 The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
 Came Megara before me, and behind 
 iEgina lay, Pirseus on the right, 
 And Corinth on the left ; I lay reclined 
 Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
 In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 
 
 XLV. 
 
 For Time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
 Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
 Which only make more mourn'd and more endearN 
 The few last rays of their far- scattered light 
 And the crush' d relics of their vanish'd might. 
 The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
 These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
 Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
 The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pilgrimage. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 That page is now before me, and on mine 
 His country's ruin added to the mass 
 Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their decline, 
 And I in desolation : all that was 
 Of then destruction is ; and now, alas ! 
 Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
 In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
 The skeleton of her Titanic form,* 
 Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are warm. 
 
 XLVIL 
 
 Yet, Italy ! through every other land 
 Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side to side : 
 Mother of Arts ! as once of arms ; thy hand 
 Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
 Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
 Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven ! 
 Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
 Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward driven, 
 Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Bat Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
 Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keepo 
 A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
 Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
 Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leapn 
 
 • It I* Poggio, who, looking from the Capitoline hill upon ruined Rome, brsaTci foi th isj 
 the exclamation, " Ut nunc omni decore nudata, prostrata jacet, instar gi^unt*! cadaverU 
 •orrupti atque undique exesi." 
 
CtllLDE UAliOLl/cJ EiLQBiHAGl. 
 
 To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
 Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps 
 Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
 And buried Learning rose, redeem'd to a new morn. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and fills 
 The air around with beauty ; we inhale 
 The ambrosial aspect, which, beheld, instils 
 Part of its immortality ; the veil 
 Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
 We stand, and in that form and face behold 
 What Mind can make, when Nature's self would fail ; 
 And to the fond idolaters of old 
 Envy the innate flash which such a soul could mould • 
 
 L. 
 
 We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
 Dazzled and drunk with beauty, till the heart 
 Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
 Chain' d to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
 We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
 Away ! — there need no words, nor terms precise, 
 The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
 Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes : 
 Blood — pulse — and breast, confirm the Dardan shepherd'*) p 
 
 LI. 
 
 Appear' dst thou not to Paris in this guise ? 
 Or to more deeply blest Anchises ? or, 
 In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
 Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of War ? 
 And gazing in thy faco as toward a star, 
 Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
 Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! while thy lips are 
 With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
 Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as from an ur:> 
 
 LII. 
 
 Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
 Their full divinity inadequate 
 That feeling to express, or to improve, 
 The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
 Has moments like their brightest ; but the weight 
 Of earth recoils upon us ; — let it go ! 
 We can recall such visions, and create, 
 From what has been, or might be, things which grow 
 Into thy statue's form, and look like gods below. 
 
 Lin. 
 
 I leave to learned fingers and wise hands, 
 The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
 How well his connoisseurship understands 
 The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell : 
 
 2*2 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Let these describe the undescribable : 
 I would not their vile breath should crisp the strops) 
 Wherein that image shall for ever dwell ; 
 The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
 That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 
 Ashes which make it holier, dust which is 
 Even in itself an immortality, 
 
 Though there were nothing save the past, and thia, 
 The particle of those sublimities 
 Which have relapsed to chaos : — here repose 
 Angelo's, Alfieri's bones, and his, 
 The starry Galileo, with his woes ; 
 Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it rose. 
 
 LV. 
 
 These are four minds, which, like the elements, 
 Might furnish forth creation : — Italy ! 
 Time, which hath wrong' d thee with ten thousand rent* 
 Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
 And hath denied, to every other sky, 
 Spirits which soar from ruin : thy decay 
 Is still impregnate with divinity, 
 Which gilds it with revivifying ray ; 
 Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 But where repose the all Etruscan three — 
 Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than they, 
 The Bard of Prose, creative spirit ! he 
 Of the Hundred Tales of love — where did they lay 
 Their bones, distinguish' d from our common clay 
 In death as life ? Are they resolved to dust, 
 And have their country's marbles nought to say ? 
 Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust ? 
 Did they not to her breast their filial earth entrust ? 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 
 Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore : 
 Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
 Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
 Their children's children would in vain adore 
 With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 
 Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely wore, 
 Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
 Kis life, his fame, his grave, though rifled — not thino < :ra 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeath'd 
 His dust, — and lies it not her great among, 
 With many a sweet and solemn requiem breathed 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 O'er him who f orm'd the Tuscan's siren tongue ? 
 That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
 The poetry of speech ? No ; — even his tomb 
 Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigot's wrong, 
 No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
 Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for wlvom / 
 
 LIX. 
 
 And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust ; 
 Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
 The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
 Did but of Rome's best Son remind her more. 
 Happier Ravenna ! on thy hoary shore, 
 Fortress of falling empire ! honour' d sleeps 
 The immortal exile ; — Arqua, too, her store 
 Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
 While Florence vainly begs her banish'd dead and weep.". 
 
 LX. 
 
 What is her pyramid of precious stones? 
 Of porphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
 Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
 Of merchant-dukes ? the momentary dews 
 Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
 Freshness in the green turf that wraps the dead, 
 Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
 Are gently prest with far more reverent tread 
 Than ever paced the slab which paves the princely head, 
 
 LXI. 
 
 There be more things to greet the heart and eyes 
 In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
 Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister vies ; 
 There be more marvels yet — but not for mine ; 
 For I have been accustom'd to entwine 
 My thoughts with Nature rather in the fields, 
 Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
 Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
 Less than it feels, because the weapon which it wields 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Is of another temper, and I roam 
 By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
 Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home ; 
 For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
 Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
 The host between the mountains and the shore, 
 Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
 And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their gore, 
 Reek through the sultry plains, with legions scattered o"» 
 
 lxiii. 
 
 Like to a forest fell'd by mountain winds ; 
 And such the storm of battle on this day, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
 To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
 An earthquake reel'd unheededly away ! 
 None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
 And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
 Upon their bucklers for a winding sheet ; 
 Such is the absorbing hate when warring nations meel I 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
 Which bore them to Eternity ; they saw 
 The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
 The motions of their vessel ; Nature's law, 
 Tn them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
 Which reigns when mountains tremble, and the birds 
 Plunge in the clouds for refuge and withdraw 
 From their down-toppling nests ; and bellowing herda 
 Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread hath no wo 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
 Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
 Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough ; 
 Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
 Lay where their roots are ; but a brook hath ta'en — 
 A little rill of scanty stream and bed — 
 A name of blood from that day's sanguine rain ; 
 And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
 Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling waters red. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 But thou, Clitumnus ! in thy sweetest wave 
 Of the most living crystal that was e'er 
 The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
 Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear 
 Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer 
 Grazes ; the purest god of gentle waters ! 
 And most serene of aspect, and most clear ; 
 Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters — 
 A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters I 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
 Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
 Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
 Its memory of thee ; beneath it sweeps 
 Thy current's calmness ; oft from out it leapi 
 The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
 Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps ; 
 While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
 Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tal 
 
OHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 LXVIII. 
 
 Pass not unblest the Genius of the place ! 
 Tf through the air a zephyr more serene 
 Win to the brow, 'tis his ; and if ye trace 
 Along his margin a more eloquent green, 
 If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
 Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
 Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
 With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
 Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 The roar of waters ! — from the headlong height 
 Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
 The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
 The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss ; 
 The hell of waters ! where they howl and hiss, 
 And boil in endless torture ; while the sweat 
 Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
 Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet 
 That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set* 
 
 LXX. 
 
 And mounts in spray the skies, and thence again 
 Returns in an unceasing shower, which round, 
 With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
 Is an eternal April to the ground, 
 Making it all one emerald : — how profound 
 The gulf ! and how the giant element 
 From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound, 
 Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent 
 With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 Tc tho broad column which rolls on, and shows 
 More like the fountain of an infant sea 
 Torn from the womb of mountains by the throes 
 Of a new world, than only thus to be 
 Parent of rivers, which How gushingly, 
 With many windings, through the vale : — Look back ! 
 Lo ! where it comes like an eternity, 
 As if to sweep down all tilings in its track, 
 IJJharming the eye with dread, — a matchless cataract, 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Horribly beautiful ! but on the verge, 
 From side to side, beneath the glittering morn, 
 An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
 Like Hope upon a death-bed, and, unworn 
 Its steady dyes, while ail around is torn 
 By the distracted waters, bears serene 
 Its brilliant hues with all their beams unshorn : 
 Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
 Love watching Madness with unalterable mien. 
 
RON'S POEMS. 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
 The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
 Gazed on their mightier parents, where the pino 
 Sits on more shaggy summits, and where roar 
 The thundering lauwine — might be worshipp'd more ; 
 But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
 Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
 Glaciers of bleak Mont Blanc both far and near, 
 And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear, 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 Th' Acroceraunian mountains of old name ; 
 And on Parnassus seen the- eagles fly 
 Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
 For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
 I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye ; 
 Athos, Olympus, JStna, Atlas, made 
 These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 
 All, save the lone Soracte's height, display'd 
 Not novo in snow, which asks the lyric Roman's aid 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 For our remembrance, and from out the plain 
 Heaves like a long-swept wave about to break, 
 And on the curl hangs pausing : not in vain 
 May he, who will, his recollections rake, 
 And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
 The hills with Latian echoes ; I abhorr'd 
 Too much, to conquer for the poet's sake, 
 The drill' d dull lesson, forced down word by word 
 In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to record 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Aught that recalls the daily drug which turn'd 
 My sickening memory ; and, though Time hath taught 
 My mind to meditate what then it learn' d, 
 Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
 By the impatience of my early thought, 
 That, with the freshness wearing out before 
 My mind could relish what it might have sought, 
 If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
 Its health ; but what it then detested, still abhor, 
 
 LXXVII. 
 
 Then farewell, Horace ; whom I hated so, 
 Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
 To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
 To comprehend, but never love thy verse ; 
 Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
 Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
 Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
 Awakening without wounding the touch'd heart. 
 Yet fare thee well — upon Soracte's ridge we part. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 Oh Rome ! my country ! city of tho soul ! 
 The orphans of tho heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferanco ? Come and tso 
 The cypres*?, hear the owl, and plod your way 
 O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, Ye ! 
 Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
 A World is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stands, 
 Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; 
 An empty vxn within her withcr'd hands, 
 Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago ; 
 The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now ; 
 The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
 Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow, 
 Old Tiber ! through a marble wilderness ? 
 Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantlo her distress. 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood, and Fire, 
 Have dealt upon tho seven-hill'd city's pride ; 
 She saw her glories star by star expire, 
 And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride, 
 Where the car climb'd the Capitol ; far and wide 
 Temple and tower went down, nor left a site : 
 Chaos of ruins ! who shall trace the void, 
 O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
 And say, "here was, or is," where all is doubly night ? 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 The double night of ages, and of her, 
 Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt and wrap 
 All round us ; we but feol our way to err : 
 The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map, 
 And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap ; 
 But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 
 Stumbling o'er rocollections ; now we clap 
 Our hands, and cry " Eureka ! " it is clear — 
 When but some false mirage of ruin rises near. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Alas ! the lofty city ! and alas ! 
 
 The trebly hundred triumphs !* and the day 
 
 When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
 
 The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away ! 
 
 Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
 
 And Livy's pictured page ! — but these shall be 
 
 Or>Mun (elves 320 for the number of triumphs, lie is followed by PAnvlnlce. tnJ 
 
 tviuliil hy Mr. Gibbon aud tho uioilem writers. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 Her resurrection ; all beside — decay. 
 Alas for Earth, for never shall we see 
 That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was f rw { 
 
 Lxxxni. 
 
 Oh thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's wheel, 
 Triumphant Sylla ! Thou, who didst subdue 
 Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to feel 
 The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the due 
 Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
 O'er prostrate Asia ; — thou, who with thy frown 
 Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
 With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
 With an atoning smile a more than earthly crown — 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
 To what would one day dwindle that which made 
 Thee more than mortal ? and that so supine 
 By aught than Romans Rome should thus oe laid ? 
 She who was named Eternal, and array'd 
 Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
 Earth with her haughty shadow, and display* d 
 Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 
 Her rushing wings — Oh ! she who was Almighty kail'd ! 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Sylla was first of victors ; but our own 
 The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell ; he 
 Too swept off senates while he hew'd the throne 
 T>own to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
 What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
 And famous through all ages ! but beneath 
 His fate the moral lurks of destiny ; 
 His day of double victory and death 
 Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, yield his breathi 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 The third of the same moon whose former course 
 Had all but crown'd him, on the self -same day 
 Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
 And laid him with the earth's preceding clay. 
 And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and sway, 
 And all we deem delightful, and consume 
 Our souls to compass through each arduous way, 
 Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb ? 
 Were they but so in man's, how different were his doon ! 
 
 lxxxvu. 
 
 And thou, dread statue ! yet existent in 
 The austerest form of naked majesty, 
 Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
 At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar 
 Folding his robe in dying dignity; 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 An offering to thine. altar from the queen 
 Of gods and men, great Nemesis ! did he die, 
 And thou, too, perish, Pompey ? have ye been 
 Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a scene ? 
 
 Lxxxvin. 
 
 And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of Rome ! 
 She-wolf ! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
 The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
 Where, as a monument of antique art, 
 Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 
 Which the great founder suck'd from thy wild teat, 
 Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, 
 And thy limbs black with lightning — dost thou yet 
 Guard thine immortal cubs, nor thy fond charge forget ? 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Thou dost ; — but all thy foster-babes are dead — 
 The men of iron : and the world hath rear'd 
 Cities from out their sepulchres : men bled 
 In imitation of the things they fear'd, 
 And fought and conquer'd, and the same coui . ar'd, 
 At apish distance ; but as yet none have, 
 Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
 Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
 But, vanquish' d by himself, to his own slaves a 3lavo — 
 
 xc. 
 
 The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
 Of bastard Caasar, following him of old 
 With steps unequal ; for the Roman's mind 
 Was modell'd in a less terrestrial mould, 
 With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
 And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
 The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
 Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
 At Cleopatra's feet, — and now himself he beamM, 
 
 xci. 
 
 And came — and saw — and conquer'd ! But the maa 
 Who would have tamed his eagles down to flee, 
 Like a train'd falcon, in the Gallic van, 
 Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
 With a deaf heart which never seem'd to be 
 A listener to itself, was strangely framed ; 
 With but one weakest weakness — vanity, 
 Coquettish in ambition — still he aim'd — 
 It what ? can he avouch — or answer what he claim'd 8 
 
 xcn. 
 
 And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
 For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
 Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
 On whom we frond : For tin's tho conqueror ream 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The arch of triumph ! and for this the tears 
 And blood of earth flow on as they have flow'd, 
 An universal deluge, which appears 
 Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
 And ebbs but to reflow ! — Renew thy rainbow, God ! 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 What from this barren being do we reap ? 
 Our eenses narrow, and our reason frail, 
 Life short, and truth a gem which loves the deep, 
 And all things weigh'd in custom's falsest scale ; 
 Opinion an omnipotence, — whose veil 
 Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
 And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale 
 Lest their own judgments should become too bright, 
 And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too muci 
 light. 
 
 xcrv. 
 
 And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
 Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
 Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
 Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
 To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
 War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
 Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
 Within the same arena where they see 
 Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
 Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
 Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hourly seen — 
 The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 
 And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
 The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
 The apes of him who humbled once the proud, 
 And shook them from their slumbers on the throne : 
 Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done. 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 
 And Freedom find no champion and no child 
 Such as Columbia saw arise when she 
 Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefiled ? 
 Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, 
 Deep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
 Of cataracts, where nursing Nature smiled 
 On infant Washington ? Has Earth no more 
 Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shoro ! 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 But France got drunk with blood to vomit crime, 
 And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 60S 
 
 To Freedom's causo, in every age and clime ; 
 Because the deadly days which we have seen, 
 And vile Ambition, that built up between 
 Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
 And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
 Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
 Which nips life's tree, and dooms man's worst — his secern 1 fall 
 
 XCVIII. 
 
 Yet, Freedom ! yet thy banner, torn, but flying, 
 Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind ; 
 Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying, 
 The loudest still the tempest leaves behind ; 
 Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 
 Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth, 
 But the sap lasts, — and still the seed wo find 
 Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
 So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth 
 
 XCTX. 
 
 There is a stern round tower of other days, 
 Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
 Such as an army's baffled strength delays, 
 Standing with half its battlements alone, 
 And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
 The garland of eternity, where wave 
 The green leaves over all by time o'erthrown ; — 
 What was this tower of strength ? within its cave 
 What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid? — A woman's gravo. 
 
 0. 
 
 But who was she, the lady of the dead, 
 Tomb'd in a palace ? Was she chaste and fair ? 
 Worthy a king's, or more — a Roman's bed ? 
 What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear ? 
 What daughter of her beauties was tho heir ? 
 How lived — how loved — how died she ? Was she not 
 So honoured — and conspicuously there, 
 Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
 Placed to commemorate a more than mortal lot ? 
 
 CI. 
 
 Was she as those who love their lords, or they 
 Who love the lords of others ? such have been 
 Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say. 
 Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien, 
 Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
 Profuse of joy — or 'gainst it did she war 
 Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
 To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
 Love from amongst her griefs ? — for such the affections &ro. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 on. 
 
 Perchance she died in youth : it may be, bow'd 
 With woes far heavier than the ponderous tomb 
 That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
 Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
 In her dark eye, prophetic of the doom 
 Heaven gives its favourites — early death ; yet shed 
 A sunset charm around her, and illume 
 With hectic light the Hesperus of the dead, 
 Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf -like red. 
 
 CHX. 
 
 Perchance she died in age — surviving all, 
 Charms, kindred, children — with the silver grey 
 On her long tresses, which might yet recall, 
 It may be, still a something of the day 
 When they were braided, and her proud array 
 And lovely form were envied, praised, and eyed 
 By Rome — But whither would Conjecture stray ? 
 Thus much alone we know — Metella died, 
 The wealthiest Roman's wife : Behold his love or pride ! 
 
 CIV. 
 
 I know not why — but standing thus by thee 
 It seems as if I had thine inmate known, 
 Thou Tomb ! and other days come back on me 
 With recollected music, though the tone 
 Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan 
 Of dying thunder on the distant wind ; 
 Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
 Till I had bodied forth the heated mind 
 Forms from the floating wreck which Ruin leaves behind , 
 
 OV. 
 
 And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the rocks, 
 Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
 To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
 Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
 Which rushes on the solitary shore 
 Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear : 
 But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
 Enough for my rude boat, where should I steer ? 
 There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save what is here, 
 
 OVI. 
 
 Then let the winds howl on ! their harmony 
 Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
 The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
 As I now hear them, in the fading light 
 Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
 Answering each other on the Palatine, 
 With their large eyes, all glistening grey and bright, 
 And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
 What are our petty griefs ? — let me not number mine. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 <>07 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
 Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
 On what were chambers, arch crush'd, column strown 
 In fragments, choked up vaults, and frescos steep'd 
 In subterranean damps, where the owl peep'd, 
 Deeming it midnight : — Temples, baths, or halls ? 
 Pronounce who can ; for all that Learning reap'd 
 From her research hath been, that these are walls — 
 Behold the Imperial Mount ! 'tis thus the mighty falls. 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 There is the moral of all human tales ; 
 'T is but the same rehearsal of the past, 
 First Freedom, a^d then Glory — when that fails, 
 Wealth, vice, corruption— barbarism at last. 
 And History, with all her volumes vast, 
 Hath but one page, — 't is better written here 
 Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass' d 
 All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 
 Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask — Away with word. ' dran 
 near, 
 
 cix. 
 
 Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep, — for here 
 There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
 Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
 This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
 The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
 Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
 Till the sun's rays with added flame were fill'd ! 
 Where are its golden roofs ? where those who dared to build ? 
 
 ex. 
 
 Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 
 Thou nameless column with the buried base ! 
 What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow ? 
 Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
 Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
 Titus or Trajan's ? No — 'tis that of Time : 
 Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace 
 Scoffing ; and apostolic statues climb 
 To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept subliro.r/* 
 
 CXI. 
 
 Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
 And looking to the stars : they had contain'd 
 A spirit which with these would find a home, 
 The last of those who o'er the whole earth r<~ : : . 
 The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd, 
 But yielded back his conquests : — he was rr.oro 
 
 • Tks column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter ; that of A awltal l>y St, Ftdl 
 
Than a mere Alexander, and, unstair/d 
 With household blood and wine, serenely wore 
 His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name adore. 
 
 cxn. 
 
 Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
 Where Rome embraced her heroes ? where the ateep 
 Tarpeian ? fittest goal of Treason's race, 
 The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
 Cured all ambition. Did the conquerors heap 
 Their spoils here ? Yes ; and in yon field below, 
 A thousand years of silenced factions sleep — ■ 
 The Forum, where the immortal accents glow. 
 And still the eloquent air breathes — burns with Cicezo 
 
 cxm. 
 
 The field of freedom, faction, fame, and blooa : 
 Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
 From the first hour of empire in the bud 
 To that when further worlds to conquer fail'd ; 
 But long before had Freedom's face been veil'd, 
 And Anarchy assumed her attributes ; 
 Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
 Trod on the trembling senate's slavish mutes, 
 Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 
 
 CXIV. 
 
 Then turn we to her latest tribune's name, 
 From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
 Redeemer of dark centuries of shame — 
 The friend of Petrarch — hope of Italy — 
 Rienzi ! last of Romans ! While the tree 
 Of freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a leaf, 
 Even for thy tomb a garland let it be — 
 The forum's champion, and the people's chief— 
 Her new-born Numa thou — with reign, alas ! too b/jof 
 
 cxv. 
 
 Egeria ! sweet creation of some heart 
 Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
 As thine ideal breast ; whate'er thou art 
 Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
 The nympholepsy of some fond despair ; 
 Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
 Who found a more than common votary there 
 Too much adoring ; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
 Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied for^ 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
 With thine Elysian water-drops ; the face 
 Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years unwrinkl;::'., 
 Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
 Whose green, wild margin now no more erase 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Art's works ; nor must the delicate waters sleep, 
 Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
 Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 
 The rill runs o'er, and round fern 4 flowers, and ivy creep. 
 
 CXVII. 
 
 Fantastically tangled : the green hills 
 Are clothed with early blossoms, through th? grass 
 The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the bills 
 Of summer-birds sing welcome as ye pass ; 
 Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
 Imploro the pausing step, and with their dyes 
 Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass ; 
 The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
 Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems colour'd by ita skin 
 
 C XVIII. 
 
 Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted cover, 
 Egeria ! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
 For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover ; 
 The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic meeting 
 With her most starry canopy, and seating 
 Thyself by thine adorer, what befel ? 
 This cave was surely shaped out for the greeting 
 Of an enamour'd Goddess, and the cell 
 Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle ! 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 And didst thou not, thy breast to his replying, 
 Blend a celestial with a human heart ; 
 And Love, which dies as it was born, in sighing, 
 Share with immortal transports ? could thine art 
 Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
 The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
 Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
 The dull satiety which all destroys — 
 And root from out the soul the deadly weed which cloya ? 
 
 cxx. 
 
 Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
 Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
 But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste, 
 Rank at the core, though tempting to the eyes, 
 Flowers whose wild odours breathe but agonies, 
 And trees whose gums are poisons ; such the plant* 
 Which spring beneath her steps as Passion flies 
 O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly pants 
 For some celestial fruit forbidden to our wants. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 Oh Love ! no habitant of earth thou art — 
 An unseen seraph, wo believe in thee, — 
 A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart,— 
 But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall sea 
 
 2 R 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
 The mind hath made thee, as it peopled heaven, 
 Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
 And to a thought such shape and image given, 
 /ls haunts the unquench'd soul — parch.' d — wearied — wrung 
 and riven. 
 
 cxxu. 
 
 Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
 And fevers into false creation : — where, 
 Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? 
 In him alone. Can Nature show so fair ? 
 Where are the charms and virtues which we dare 
 Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
 The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, 
 Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
 And overpowers the page where it would bloom again ? 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but the cui o 
 Is bitterer still, as charm by charm unwinds 
 Which robed our idols, and we see too sure 
 Nor worth, nor beauty dwells from out the mind's 
 Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
 The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
 .Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown winds ; 
 The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
 Beems ever near the prize, — wealthiest when most undone. 
 
 cxxiv. 
 
 We wither from oar youth, we gasp away — 
 Sick — sick ; unfound the boon — unslaked the thirst, 
 Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
 Some phantom lures, such as we sought at first — 
 But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
 Love, fame., ambition, avarice — 'tis the same, 
 Each, idle — tmd all ill — and none the worst — 
 For all are meteors with a different name, 
 And Death the sable smoke where vanishes the flame, 
 
 cxxv. 
 
 Few — nono — find what they love or could have loved, 
 Though accident, blind contact, and ^he strong 
 Necessity of loving, have removed 
 Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
 Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong ; 
 And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
 And miscroator, makes and helps along 
 Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
 Whoso touch turns Hope to dust, — the dust we all lave ivu\ 
 
 cxxvi. 
 
 Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
 
 The harmony of things,— -this hard decree, 
 
CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 This uneradicable taint of sin, 
 This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
 Whose root is earth, whose leaves and branches be 
 The skies which rain their plagues on men like dew — 
 Disease, death, bondage — all the woes we see, 
 And worse, the woes we see not — which throb through 
 The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever new. 
 
 cxxvn. 
 
 Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base 
 Abandonment of reason to resign 
 Our right of thought — our last and only place 
 Of refuge : this, at least, shall still be mine : 
 Though from our birth the faculty divine 
 Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, confined-. 
 And bred in darkness, lest the truth should shine 
 Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
 The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch the bl)H 
 
 CXXVIII. 
 
 Arches on arches ! as it were that Rome, 
 Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
 Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, 
 Her Coliseum stands : the moonbeams shino 
 As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
 Should be the light which streams here, to illumt? 
 This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
 Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 
 
 cxxix. 
 
 Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
 &nd shadows forth its glory. There is gi>cn 
 Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, 
 A* spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
 II is hand, but broke his scythe, there is a powe? 
 And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
 For which the palace of the present hour 
 Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower. 
 
 cxxx, 
 
 Oh Time ! the beautifier of the dead, 
 Adornor of the ruin, comforter 
 And only healer when the heart hath bled — 
 Time ! the corrector where our judgments en, 
 The test of truth, love, — sole philosopher, 
 For all beside are sophists, from thy thrift, 
 Which never loses though it doth defer — 
 Time, the avenger ! unto thee I lift 
 My hands, and eyes, and 1 eart, and crave of the* a |iit 
 
 'ill 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a shrinfc 
 And temple more divinely desolate, 
 Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
 Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate :— 
 If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
 Hear me not ; but if calmly I have borne 
 Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
 Which shall not whelm me, let me not have worn 
 This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not mourn ? 
 
 cxxxn. 
 
 And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
 Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis ! 
 Here, where the ancient paid thee homage long — 
 Thou who didst call the Furies from the abyss, 
 And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
 For that unnatural retribution — just, 
 Had it but been from hands less near — in this 
 Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust ! 
 Dost thou not hear my heart ? — Awake ! thou shalt, and mus$ 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
 
 For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
 
 I bleed withal, and, had it been conferr'd 
 
 With a just weapon, it had fiow'd unbound ; 
 
 But now my blood shall not sink in the ground ; 
 
 To thee I do devote it — thou shalt take 
 
 The vengeance, which shall yet be sought and found, 
 
 Which if /have not taken for the sake 
 
 But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet awake. 
 
 cxxxrv. 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
 I shrink from what is suffer'd : let him speak 
 Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
 Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak ; 
 But in this page a record will I seek. 
 Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
 Though I be ashes ; a far hour shall wreak 
 The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse I 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 That curse shall be Forgiveness. — Have I not — 
 Hear me, my mother Earth ! behold it, Heaven !— 
 Have I not had to wrestle with my lot ? 
 Have I not suffer'd things to be forgiven ? 
 Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied awr.y t 
 And only not to desperation driven, 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 A. a rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 
 
CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 613 
 
 CXXXVI. 
 
 From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
 Have I not seen what human things could do ? 
 From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
 To the small whisper of the as paltry few, 
 And subtler venom of the reptile crew, 
 The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
 Learning to lie with silence, would seem true, 
 And without utterance, save the shrug or sigh, 
 Deal round to happy fools its speechless obloquy. 
 
 CXXXVII. 
 
 But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
 My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
 And my frame perish even in conquering pain ; 
 But there is that within me which shall tire 
 Torture and Time, and breathe when I expire ; 
 Something unearthly, which they deem not of, 
 Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
 Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
 In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 
 
 CXXXVIIL 
 
 The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread power ! 
 Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
 Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
 With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear ; 
 Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear 
 Their ivy mantles, and the solemn sceae 
 Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 
 That we become a part of what has been, 
 And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
 In murmur'd pity, or loud-roar' u applause, 
 As man was slaughter'd by his fellow man. 
 And wherefore slaughter'd ? wherefore, but because 
 Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
 And the imperial pleasure. — Wherefore not? 
 What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
 Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot ? 
 Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. 
 
 CXL. 
 
 I see before mo the Gladiator lie : 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his droop'd head sinks gradually lo>v — 
 And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow 
 From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
 Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
 The arena swims around him — he is gone, 
 Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd the wrotch w"io woe 
 
BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 CXLI. 
 
 He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that was far away* ; 
 He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
 But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
 There were his young barbarians all at play, 
 There was their Dacian mother — he, their sire, 
 Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday ! — 
 All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he expire 
 And unavenged ?— Arise ! ye Goths and glut your iro ! 
 
 CXLII. 
 
 But here, where Murder breathed her bloody steam ; 
 And here, where buzzing nations choked the ways, 
 And roar'd or murmur' d like a mountain stream 
 Dashing or winding as the torrent strays ; 
 Here, where the Roman million's blame or praise 
 Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 
 My voice sounds much — and fall the stars' faint raya 
 On the arena void — seats crush' d — walls bow'd — 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely loud, 
 
 CXLIII. 
 
 A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
 Walls, pajaces, half-cities, have been rear'd 
 Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
 And marvel where the spoil could have appear'd. 
 Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd ? 
 Alas ! developed, opens the decay, 
 When the colossal fabric's form is near'd : 
 It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
 Which streams too much on all years, man, have reft away . 
 
 CXLIV. 
 
 But when the rising moon begins to climb 
 Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
 When the stars twinkle through the loops of time, 
 And the low night-breeze waves along the air 
 The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, 
 Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head ; 
 When the light shines serene but doth not glare, 
 Then in this magic circle raise the dead : 
 Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust ye tread, 
 
 CXLV. 
 
 " While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand ; 
 " When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
 " And when Rome falls — the World." From our own W 
 Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty wall 
 In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
 Ancient ; and these three mortal things are still 
 On their foundations, and unalter'd all ; 
 Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
 The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or what yo will. 
 
CHILDE HAROLBS PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 CXLVI. 
 
 Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
 Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
 From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by time ; 
 Looking tranquillity, while falls or nods 
 Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and man plods 
 His way through thorns to ashes — glorious dome ! 
 Shalt thou not last? Time's scythe and tyrants' rod& 
 Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
 Of art and piety — Pantheon ! — pride of Rome ! 
 
 cxLvn. 
 
 Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts ! 
 Despoil'd yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
 A holiness appealing to all hearts — , 
 To art a model, and to him who treads 
 Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
 Her light through thy solo aperture ; to thoso 
 Who worship, here are altars for their beads ; 
 And they who feel for genius may repose 
 Their eyes on honour'd forms, whose busts around them cloee 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 
 Thore is a dungeon in whoso dim drear light 
 What do I gaze on ? Nothing : look again ! 
 Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my sight — 
 Two insulated phantoms of the brain : 
 It is not so ; I see them full and plain — 
 An old man and a female young and fair, 
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
 The blood is nectar : but what doth she thore, 
 With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, 
 Where on the heart and from the heart wo took 
 Our first and sweetest nurture, when tho wife, 
 Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
 Or even the piping cry of lips that brook. 
 No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
 Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook 
 She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
 What may tho fruit be yet ? I know not — Cain was Eve's. 
 
 CL. 
 
 But here youth offers to old age the food, 
 The milk of his own gift : it is her sire 
 To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
 Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
 While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
 Of health and holy feeling can provide 
 Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher 
 Than Egypt's river : — from that gentle side 
 LMnk, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds no such 
 ti«ie. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 CLT. 
 
 The starry fable of the milky way 
 Has not thy story's purity ; it is 
 A constellation of a sweeter ray, 
 And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 
 Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 
 Where sparkle distant worlds : — Oh, holiest nun:? ! 
 No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss 
 To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source 
 With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 
 
 CLII. 
 
 Turn to the mole which Hadrian rear'd on high,* 
 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, — 
 Colossal copyist of deformity 
 Whose travell'd phantasy from the far Nile's 
 Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
 To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
 His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How smiles 
 The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 
 To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth \ 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 But lo ! the dome — the vast and wondrous dome, 
 To which Diana's marvel was a cell — 
 Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's tomb ! 
 I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
 Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
 The hysena and the jackal in their shade ; 
 I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
 Their glittering mass i' the sun, and have survey'd 
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem pray'd ; 
 
 CLIV. 
 
 But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
 Standest alone — with nothing like to thee— 
 Worthiest of God, the holy and the true. 
 Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
 Forsook his former city, what could be, 
 Of earthly structures, in his honour piled, 
 Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
 Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty all are ftis!*! 
 In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 Enter : its grandeur overwhelms thee not ; 
 And why ? it is not lessen'd ; but thy mipd* 
 Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
 Has grown colossal, and can only find 
 A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
 Thy hopes of immortality ; and thou 
 
 « The Castle of St. Angelo, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 617 
 
 Shalt one day, if found worthy, so denned, 
 See thy God face to face as thou dost now 
 His Holy of Holies, nor be blasted by his brow. 
 
 CLVI. 
 
 Thou mo vest ; but increasing with the advance, 
 Like climbing some great Alp which still doth rise, 
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance ; 
 Vastness which grows — but grows to harmonise — 
 All musical in its immensities ; 
 Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines where flame 
 The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which vies 
 In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame 
 Sits on the firm -set ground — and this the clouds must claim 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 r rhou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must broak, 
 To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
 And as the ocean many bays will make 
 That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
 To more immediate objects, and control 
 Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart 
 Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
 In mighty graduations, part by part, 
 The glory which at once upon theo did not dart, 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Not by its fault — but thine : Our outward sense 
 Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
 That what wo have of feeling most intense 
 Outstrips our faint expression ; even so thifr 
 Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
 Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
 Defies at first our Nature's littleness, 
 Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
 Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 
 
 CLIX. 
 
 Then pause and be enlighten'd ; there is moro 
 In such a survey than the sating gaze 
 Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
 The worship of the place, or the more praise 
 Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
 What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plai> ; 
 The fountain of sublimity displays 
 Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of man 
 Its golden sands, and learn what great conceptions Q%% 
 
 CLX. 
 
 Or, turning to the Vatican, go sco 
 
 Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 
 
 A father's love and mortal's agony 
 
 With an immortal's patience blending Vain 
 
813 
 
 BifRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The struggle ; vain, against the coiling strain 
 And gripe^ and deepening of the dragon's grasp 9 
 The old man's clench ; the long envenom' d chais 
 Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
 Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 
 The God of life, and poesy, and light — 
 The Sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
 All radiant from his triumph in the light ; 
 The shaft hath just been shot — the arrow bright 
 With an immortal's vengeance ; in his eye 
 And nostril beautiful disdain, and might 
 And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
 Developing in that one glance the Deity. 
 
 clxii. 
 
 But in his delicate form — a dream of Love, 
 Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose breast 
 Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
 And madden'd in that vision — are exprest 
 All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
 The mind with in its most unearthly mood, 
 When each conception was a heavenly guest-— 
 A ray of immortality — and stood 
 Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god 1 
 
 CLXIII. 
 
 And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven 
 The fire which we endure, it was repaid 
 By him to whom the energy was given 
 Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
 With an eternal glory — which, if made 
 By human hands, is not of human thought ; 
 And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
 One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
 A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'fcwau 
 wrought. 
 
 CLXIV. 
 
 But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
 The being who upheld it through the past? 
 Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
 He is no more — these breathings are his last ; 
 His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
 And he himself as nothing : — if he was 
 Aught but a phantasy, and coold be class'd 
 With forms which live and suffer — let that pas?-- • 
 His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, 
 
 CLXV. 
 
 Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all 
 i^hat we inherit in its mortal shroud, 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. £19 
 
 And spreads the dim and universal pall 
 Through which all things grow phantoms : and tho clou ! 
 Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd. 
 Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
 A melancholy halo scarce allow'd 
 To hover on the verge of darkness ; rays 
 Sadder than saddest night, for they distract tho gaze, 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 And send us prying into the abyss, 
 To gather what we shall be when the frame 
 Shall be resolved to something less than this 
 Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
 And wipe the dust from off tho idle name 
 We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
 Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the same : 
 It is enough in sooth that once we bore 
 These fardels of the heart — the heart whose sweat was got* 
 
 CLSvn. 
 
 Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
 A long low distant murmur of dread sound, 
 Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
 With some deep and immedicablo wound ; 
 Through storm and darkness yawns tho rending ground, 
 Tho gulf is thick with phantoms, but tho chief 
 Seems royal still, though with her head discrown' d, 
 And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
 She clasps a babe to whom her breast yields no relief. 
 
 CLXVHI. 
 
 Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ? 
 Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? 
 Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
 Some less majestic, less beloved head ? 
 In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, 
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
 Death hush'd that pang for ever : with thee fled 
 The present happiness and promised joy 
 Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. 
 
 CLXIX. 
 
 Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
 Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
 Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, 
 And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard 
 Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
 Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
 And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
 The husband of a year ! the father of tho dead ) 
 
620 
 
 Byron's poems. 
 
 clxx. 
 
 Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made ; 
 Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust 
 The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
 The love of millions ! How he did entrust 
 Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
 Barken above her bones, yet fondly deem'd 
 Our children should obey her child, and bless' d 
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd 
 Mke stars to shepherds' eyes : — 'twas but a meteor beam'd 
 
 CLXXI. 
 
 Woe unto us, not her ; for she sleeps well : 
 The fickle reek of popular breath, the tonguo 
 Of hollow counsel, the falso oracle, 
 Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung 
 Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung 
 Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate* 
 Which tumbles mighty sovereigns, and hath flung 
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late, — 
 
 CLXXII. 
 
 These might have been her destiny ; but no, 
 Our hearts deny it : and so young, so fair, 
 Good without effort, great without a foe ; 
 But now a bride and mother — and now there! — 
 How many ties did that stern moment tear J 
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast 
 Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
 Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest 
 The land which loved thee so that none could love thee ber * 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Lo, Nemi ! navell'd in the woody hills 
 So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 
 The oak from his foundation, and which spills 
 The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
 Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
 The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
 And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears 
 A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
 All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the snake. 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
 Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
 The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
 The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
 "Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star 
 
 • Maiy died on the scaffold ; Elizabeth of a broken heart ; Charles V. a hermit ; Loot 
 XIV. a bankrupt iu means and glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and "the greatest i 
 Dehind," Napoleon lives a prisoner. To these sovereigns i long but super flumis li,jt ungb 
 be added of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 
 
childe Harold's pilgrimage 
 
 Rose o'er an empire : — but beneath thy right 
 Tully reposed from Rome ; — and where yon bar 
 Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight 
 The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight 
 
 CLXXV. 
 
 But I forget. — My Pilgrim's shrine is won, 
 And he and I must part, — so, let it be, — 
 His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
 Yet once more let us look upon the sea : 
 The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
 And from the Alban Mount we now behold 
 Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which when we 
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rocks unfold 
 Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 
 Upon the blue Symplegades : long years — 
 Long, though not very many, — since have done 
 Their work on both ; some suffering and some tea; i 
 Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run ; 
 We have had our reward — and it is here, — 
 That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, 
 And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
 As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 
 Oh ! that the desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one fair spirit for my minister, 
 That I might all forget the human race, 
 And, hating no one, love but only her ! 
 Ye elements ! — in whose ennobling stir 
 I feel myself exalted — Can ye not 
 Accord me such a being ? Do I err 
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot ? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely bo our 1st, 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
 There is society, where none intrudes, 
 By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : 
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more, 
 From these our interviews, in which I steal 
 From all I may be, or have been before, 
 To mingle with the Universe, and feel 
 What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceaL 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — ron ? 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
 Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
 Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown, 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
 Are not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
 And shake him from thee ; the vile strength he wioL 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies 
 His petty hope in some near port or bay, 
 And dashest him again to earth : — there let him lay. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake, 
 And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
 The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
 Their clay creator the vain title take 
 Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war ; 
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 
 Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee — 
 Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they ? 
 Thy waters wash'd them power while they were free, 
 And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 
 The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
 Has dried up realms to deserts : — not so thou ; — 
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
 Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow — 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 
 
 CLXXxm. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
 Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; — boundless, endless, and sublime-" 
 The image of Eternity — the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made : each zont 
 Obeys thee : thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, aionr 
 
 olxxxiv. 
 
 And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy 
 I wanton'd with thy "breakers — they to me 
 
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
 Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
 For I was as it were a child of thee, 
 And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
 And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 My task is done — my song hath ceased — my theme 
 Has died into an echo ; it is fit 
 The spell should break of this protracted dream. 
 The torch shall be extinguish' d which hath lit 
 My midnight lamp — and what is writ, is writ, — 
 "Would it were worthier ! but I am not now 
 That which I have been — and my visions tiit 
 Less palpably before me — and the glow 
 Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low. 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 Farewell ! a word that must be, and hath been- - 
 A sound which makes us linger ; — yet — farewell ! 
 Ye ! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
 Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
 A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
 A single recollection, not in vain 
 Ho wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
 Farewell ! with him alone may rest the pain, 
 U 13 ch there were — with you, tho moral of his z*;Jr.: 
 
B EPP 0. 
 
 I. 
 
 Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout 
 All countries of the Catholic persuasion, 
 
 Some weeks before Shrove Tuesday comes about, 
 The people take their fill of recreation, 
 
 And buy repentance, ere they grow devout, 
 However high their rank, or low their station, 
 
 With fiddling, feasting, dancing, drinking, maskiu~v 
 
 And other things which may be had for asking. 
 
 II. 
 
 The moment night with dusky mantle covers 
 The skies (and the more duskily the better), 
 
 The time less liked by husbands than by lovers 
 Begins, and Prudery flings aside her fetter ; 
 
 And Gaiety on restless tiptoe hovers, 
 
 Giggling with all the gallants who beset her : 
 
 And there are songs and quavers, roaring, humming 
 
 Guitars, and every other sort of strumming. 
 
 III. 
 
 And there are dresses splendid, but fantastical, 
 Masks of all times and nations, Turks and Jews, 
 
 And harlequins and clowns, with feats gymnastieal, 
 Greeks, Eomans, Yanfcee-aoodles, and Hindoos ; 
 
 All kinds of dress, except tue ecclesiastical, 
 All people, as their fancies hit, may choose, 
 
 But no one in these parts may quiz the clergy, — 
 
 Therefore take heed, ye Freethinkers ! I charge ye, 
 
 IV. 
 
 You'd better walk about begirt with briar3, 
 Instead of coat and smallclothes, than put on 
 
 A single stitch reflecting upon friars, 
 Although you swore it only was in fun ; 
 
 They'd haul you o'er the coals, and stir the fire* 
 Of Phlegethon with every mother's son, 
 
 Nor say one mass to cool the caldron's bubble 
 
 That boil'd your bones, unless you paid them doubts* 
 
BEPfO. 
 
 V. 
 
 But saving this, you may put on whale'er 
 You like by way of doublet, cape, or cloak, 
 
 Such as in Monmouth Street, or in Rag Fair, 
 Would rig you out in seriousness or joke ; 
 
 And even in Italy such places are, 
 
 With prettier name in softer accents spoke, 
 
 For, bating Covent Garden, I can hit on 
 
 Noplace that's call'd "Piazza" in Great Britain. 
 
 VI. 
 
 This feast is named the Carnival, which being 
 Interpreted, implies "farewell to flesh :" 
 
 So call'd, because the name and thing agreeing. 
 Through Lent they live on fish both salt and fresfc 
 
 But why they usher Lent with so much glee in, 
 Is more than I can tell, although I guess 
 
 'Tis as we take a glass with friends at parting, 
 
 In the stage-coach or packet, just at starting. 
 
 vir. 
 
 And thus they bid farewell to carnal dishes, 
 And solid meats, and highly-spiced ragouts, 
 
 To live for forty days onill-dress'd fishes, 
 Because they havo no sauces to their stews, 
 
 A thing which causes many "poohs" and n pishes/* 
 And several oaths (which would not suit the Muso) 8 
 
 From travellers accustom'd from a boy 
 
 To eat their salmon, at the least, with soy ; 
 
 Yin. 
 
 And therefore humbly I would recommend 
 " The curious in fish-sauce," before they cross 
 
 The sea, to bid their cook, or wife, or friend, 
 Walk or rido to the Strand, and buy in gross 
 
 (Or if set out beforehand, these may send 
 By any means least liable to loss) 
 
 Ketchup, Soy, Chili-vinegar, and Harvey, 
 
 Or, by the Lord ! a Lent will well nigh starve y* 
 
 IX. 
 
 That is to say, if your religion's Roman, 
 And you at Rome would do as Romans do, 
 
 According to the proverb, — although no man, 
 If foreign, is obliged to fast ; and you, 
 
 If Protestant, or sickly, or a woman, 
 Would rather dine in sin on a ragout — 
 
 Dine and be d — d ! I don't mean to be coarse, 
 
 But that's the penalty, to say no worse. 
 
 Of all the places where the Carnival 
 Was most, facetious in the days ot yore- 
 
 2 8 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 For dance, and song, and serenade, and ball, 
 And masque, and mime, and mystery, and mor 
 
 Than I have time to tell now, or at all, 
 Venice the bell from every city bore, — 
 
 And at the moment when I fix my story, 
 
 That sea-born city was in all her glory. 
 
 XI. 
 
 They've pretty faces yet, those same Venetians, 
 
 Black eyes, arch'd brows, and sweet expressions still , 
 
 Such as of old were copied from the Grecians, 
 In ancient arts by moderns mimick'd ill ; 
 
 And like so many Venuses of Titian's 
 (The best's at Florence — see it, if ye will,) 
 
 They look when leaning over the balcony, 
 
 Or stepped from out a picture by Giorgione, 
 
 XII. 
 
 Whose tints are truth and beauty at their best ; 
 
 And when you to Manfrini's palace go, 
 That picture (howsoever fine the rest) 
 
 Is loveliest to my mind of all the show ; 
 It may perhaps be also to your zest, 
 
 And that's the cause I rhyme upon it so : 
 "Tis but a portait of his son, and wife, 
 And self ; but such a woman ! love in life ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Love in full life and length, not love ideal, 
 
 No, nor ideal beauty, that fine name, 
 But something better still, so very real, 
 
 That the sweet model must have been the samo | 
 A thing that you would purchase, beg, or steal, 
 
 Were't not impossible, besides a shame : 
 The face recalls some face, as 'twere with pain, 
 You once have seen, but ne'er will see again. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 One of those forms which flit by us, when wo 
 Are young, and fix our eyes on every face ; 
 
 And, oh ! the loveliness at times we see 
 In momentary gliding, the soft grace, 
 
 The youth, the bloom, the beauty which agree, 
 In many a nameless being we retrace, 
 
 Whose course and home we knew not, nor shall kno: 
 
 Like the lost Pleiad seen no more below. 
 
 XV. 
 
 I sard that like a picture by Giorgione 
 Venetian women were, and so they are. 
 
 Particularly seen from a balcony 
 
 (For beauty's sometimes best set off afar), 
 
 And there, just like a heroine of Goldoni, 
 
They peep from out the blind, or o'er the bar j 
 And truth to say, they're mostly very pretty, 
 And rather like to show it, more's the pity ! 
 
 XVI. 
 
 For glances beget ogles, ogles sighs, 
 
 Sighs wishes, wishes words, and words a letter, 
 Which flies on wings of light-heel'd Mercuries, 
 
 Who do such things because they know no better 
 >lnd then, God knows what mischief may arise, 
 
 When love links two young people in one tetter, 
 V ilo assignations, and adulterous beds, 
 Elopements, broken vows, and hearts, and heads. 
 
 XVii. 
 
 Shakspeare described the sex in Desdemona 
 As very fair, but yet suspect in fame. 
 
 And to this day from Venice to Verona 
 Such matters may be probably the same ; 
 
 Except that since those times was never known a 
 Husband whom mere suspicion could inflame 
 
 To suffocate a wife no more than twenty, 
 
 Because she had a "cavalier servente." 
 
 XVIH. 
 
 Their jealousy (if they are ever jealous) 
 
 Is of a fair complexion altogether, 
 Not like that sooty devil of Othello's 
 
 Which smothers women in a bed of feather, 
 But worthier of these much more jolly fellows* 
 
 When weary of the matrimonial tether 
 His head for such a wife no mortal bothers, 
 But takes at once another, or another's. 
 
 • 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Didst ever see a Gondola ? For fear 
 
 You should not, I'll describe it you exactly : 
 
 'Tis a long covered boat that's common here, 
 
 Carved at the prow, built lightly, but compactly; 
 
 Row'd by two rowers, each call'd " Gondolier," 
 It glides along the water looking blackly, 
 
 Just like a coffin clapt in a canoe, 
 
 Where none can make out what you say or da. 
 
 XX. 
 
 And up and down the long canals they 
 
 And under the Rialto shoot along, 
 By night and day, all paces, swift or slow, 
 
 And round the theatres, a sable throng, 
 They wait in their dusk livery of woe, — 
 
 But not to them do woeful things belong, 
 For sometimes they contain a deal of fun, 
 Like mourning coaches when the funeral's dona, 
 
 1*9, 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 xxi. 
 
 But to my story. — 'Twas some years ago, 
 It may be thirty, forty, more or less, 
 
 The Carnival was at its height, and so 
 Were all kinds of buffoonery and dress ; 
 
 A certain lady went to see the show, 
 
 Her real name I know not, nor can guess, 
 
 And so we'll call her Laura, if you please, 
 
 Because it slips into my verse with ease, 
 
 XXII. 
 
 She was not old, nor young, nor at the yews 
 Which certain people call a u certain age," 
 
 Which yet the most uncertain age appears. 
 Because I never heard, nor could engage 
 
 A person yet by prayers, or bribes, or tears, 
 To name, define by speech, or write on page, 
 
 The period meant precisely by that word, — 
 
 Which surely is exceedingly absurd. 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
 Of time, and time return'd the compliment, 
 
 And treated her genteelly, so that, dress'd, 
 She look'd extremely well where'er she went ; 
 
 A pretty woman is a welcome guest, 
 
 And Laura's brow a frown had rarely bent ; 
 
 Indeed she shone all smiles, and seem'd to flatten 
 
 Mankind with her black eyes for looking at her. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 She was a married woman ; 'tis convenient, 
 Because in Christian countries 'tis a rule 
 
 To view their little slips with eyes more lenient ; 
 Whereas, if single ladies play the fool 
 
 (Unless within the period intervenient 
 A well-timed wedding makes the scandal cool), 
 
 I don't know how they can get over it, 
 
 Except they manage never to discover it. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Her husband sail'd upon the Adriatic, 
 And made some voyages, too, in other seas, 
 
 And when he lay in quarantine for pratique 
 (A forty days' precaution 'gainst disease), 
 
 His wife would mount at times her highest attic, 
 For thence she could discern the ship with easts , 
 
 He was a merchant, trading to Aleppo, 
 
 His name Giuseppe, call'd more briefly, Beppo. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 He was a man as dusky as a Spaniard, 
 
 Sunburnt with travel, yet a portly figure ; 
 Though colour'd, as it were, within a tanyard. 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 He was a person both of sense and vigour — 
 A better seaman never yet did man yard ; 
 
 And she, although her manners show'd no rigour, 
 Was deem'd a woman of the strictest principle, 
 So much as to be thought almost invincible. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 But several years elapsed since they had met ; 
 
 Some people thought the ship was lost, and some 
 That he had somehow blundered into debt, 
 
 And did not like the thoughts of steering homo ; 
 And there were several offer'd any bet, 
 
 Or that he would, or that he would not come ; 
 For most men (till by losing render'd eager) 
 Will back their own opinions with a wager. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 'Tis said that their last parting was pathetic, 
 As partings often are, or ought to be, 
 
 And their presentiment was quite prophetic 
 That they should never more each oilier seo 
 
 (A sort of morbid feeling half poetic 
 
 Which I have known occur in two or three), 
 
 When kneeling on the shore upon her sad knee, 
 
 He left this Adriatic Ariadne. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 And Laura waited long and wept a little, 
 
 And thought of wearing weeds as well she might ; 
 
 She almost lost all appetite for victual, 
 
 And could not sleep with ease alone at night ; 
 
 She deem'd the window-frames and shutters brittle 
 Against a daring housebreaker or sprite, 
 
 And so she thought it prudent to connect her 
 
 With a vice-husband, chiefly to protect her, 
 
 XXX. 
 
 She chose (and what is there they will not chooeo, 
 If only you will but oppose their choice ?) 
 
 Till Beppo should return from his long cruise, 
 And bid once more her faithful heart rejoice, 
 
 A man some women like, and yet abuse — 
 A coxcomb was he by the public voice ; 
 
 A Count of wealth, they said, as well as quality, 
 
 And in his pleasures of great liberality. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 And then he was a Count, and then he knew 
 Music and dancing, fiddling, French, and TuiCP.u 
 
 The last not easy, be it known to you, 
 
 For few Italians speak the right Etruscan. 
 
 He was a critic upon operas, too, 
 And knew all niceties of the sock and buskin. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And no Venetian audience could endure a 
 Song, scene, or air, when he cried " seccatura 
 
 xxxir. 
 
 His " bravo " was decisive, for that sound 
 Hush'd " Academie" sigh'd in silent awe ; 
 
 The fiddlers trembled as he look'd around, 
 For fear of some false note's detected flaw. 
 
 The "prima donna's" tuneful heart would bourn; 
 Dreading the deep damnation of his " bah !" 
 
 Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, 
 
 Wish'd him five fathom under the Rialto. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 He patronized the Improvisatori, 
 
 Nay, could himself extemporise some stanzas, 
 Wrote rhymes, sang songs, could also tell a story, 
 
 Sold pictures, and was skilful in the dance as 
 Italians can be, though in this their glory 
 
 Must surely yield the palm to that which France h 
 In short he was a perfect cavaliero, 
 And to his very valet seem'd a hero. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 Then he was faithful too, as well as amorous ; 
 
 So that no sort of female could complain, 
 Although they're now and then a little clamorous, 
 
 He never put the pretty souls in pain ; 
 His heart was one of those which most enamour U3j 
 
 Wax to receive, and marble to retain : 
 He was a lover of the good old school, 
 Who still become more constant as they cool. 
 
 xxxv. 
 
 No wonder such accomplishments shouid turn 
 A female head, however sage and steady — 
 
 With scarce a hope that JBeppo could return, 
 In law he was almost as good as dead, he 
 
 Nor sent nor wrote, nor show'dthe least concern, 
 And she had waited several years already ; 
 
 And really if a man won't let us know 
 
 That he's alive, he's dead, or should be so. 
 
 XXXVL 
 
 Besides, within the Alps, to every woman 
 (Although, God knows, it is a grievous sin), 
 
 *Tis, I may say, permitted to have two men ; 
 I can't tell who first brought the custom in, 
 
 But "Cavalier Serventes" are quite common^ 
 And no one notices, nor cares a pin ; 
 
 And we may call this (not to say the worst) 
 
 A second marriage which corrupts the JirsU 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 631 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The word was formerly a u Cicisbeo," 
 
 But that is now grown vulgar and indecent ; 
 
 The Spaniards call the person a " Cortejo,"* 
 
 For the same mode subsists in Spain, though recent ; 
 
 In short, it reaches from the Po to Teio, 
 
 And may perhaps at last be o'er the sea sent : 
 
 But Heaven preserve Old England from such courses ! 
 
 Or what becomes of damage and divorces 1 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 However, I still think, with all duo deference 
 
 To the fair single part of the creation, 
 That married ladies should preserve the preference 
 
 In tete~d-t$te or general conversation — 
 And this I say without peculiar reference 
 
 To England, France, or any other nation — 
 Because they know the world, and are at ease, 
 And being natural, naturally please. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 'Tis true, your budding Miss is very charming, 
 But shy and awkward at first coming out, 
 
 So much alarm'd, that she is quite alarming, 
 
 All Giggle, Blush ; half Pertness, and half Pout ; 
 
 And glancing at Mamma, for fear there's harm in 
 What you, she, it, or they may be about, 
 
 The nursery still lisps out in all they utter — 
 
 Besides, they always smell of bread and butter. 
 
 XL. 
 
 But u Cavalier Servente " is the phrase 
 
 Used in politest circles to express 
 This supernumerary slave, who stays 
 
 Close to the lady as a part of dress, 
 Tver word the only law which he obeys. 
 
 His is no sinecure, as you may guess 
 Coach, servants, gondola, he goes to call, 
 And carries fan and tippet, gloves and sham. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 With all its sinful doings, I must say, 
 
 That Italy's a pleasant place to me, 
 Who love to see the Sun shine every day, 
 
 And vines (not nail'd to walls) from tree to tree 
 Festoon'd, much like the back scone of a play, 
 
 Or melodrame, which people Hock to see, 
 When the first act is ended by a dance 
 In vineyards copied from the south of France. 
 
 * Cortejo is pronounced CorteAo, with an aspirate, according to the Arabesque guttural.. 
 It means what there is as yet no precise name for La England, though Vhe practice is m 
 roinmon as iu any tramontane country whatever. 
 
B YKON'S ?OEM3. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 1 like on Autumn evenings to ride out, 
 
 Without being- forced to bid my groom be suro 
 
 My cloak is round his middle strapped about, 
 Because the skies are not the most secure ; 
 
 I know too that, if stopp'd upon my route, 
 Where the green alleys windingly allure, 
 
 Reeling with grapes red waggons choke the way,- - 
 
 In England 'twould be dung, dust, or a dray. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 I also like to dine on becaficas, 
 
 To see the Sun set, sure he'll rise to-morrow, 
 Not through a misty morning twinkling weak as 
 
 A drunken man's dead eye in maudlin sorrow, 
 But with all Heaven t' himself ; that day will break :*a 
 
 Beauteous as cloudless, nor be forced to borrow 
 That sork of farthing candlelight which glimmers 
 Where reeking London's smoky cauldron simmers. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, 
 Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, 
 
 And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, 
 
 With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, 
 
 And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, 
 That not a single accent seems uncouth, 
 
 Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, 
 
 Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all 
 
 XLV. 
 
 I like the women too (forgive my folly), 
 
 From the rich peasant- cheek of ruddy bronze, 
 
 And large black eyes that flash on you a volley 
 Of rays that say a thousand things at once, 
 
 To the high dama's brow, more melancholy, 
 But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance, 
 
 Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, 
 
 Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 Eve of the land which still is Paradise ! 
 
 Italian beauty ! didst thou not inspire 
 Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies 
 
 With all we know 01 Heaven, or can desire, 
 In what he hath bequeath'd us ? — in what guise, 
 
 Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, 
 Would tvords describe thy past and present glow. 
 While yet Canova can create below '{ 
 
 XLVIT. 
 
 "England! with all thy faults I love thee still/ 
 I said at Calais, and have not forgot it ; 
 
 I like to speak and lucubrate my fill ; 
 
 I like the government (but that is not it) ; 
 
I like the freedom of the press and quill ; 
 I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it) ; 
 
 1 like a parliamentary debate, 
 Particularly when 'tis not too late ; 
 
 xlviii. 
 
 2 like the taxes, when they're not too many ; 
 I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear ; 
 
 I like a beef -steak, too, as well as any ; 
 
 Have no objection to a pot of beer ; 
 I like the weather, when it is not rainy, 
 
 That is, I like two months of every year. 
 And so God save the Regent, Church, and King ! 
 Which means that I like all and everything. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Our standing army, and disbanded seamen, 
 
 Poor's rate, Reform, my own, tho nation's debt, 
 
 Our little riots just to show we are free men, 
 Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette, 
 
 Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women, 
 All these I can forgive, and thoso forget, 
 
 And greatly venerate our recent glories, 
 
 And wish they were not owing to the Tories. 
 
 L, 
 
 Rut to my talo of Laura, — for I find 
 
 Digression is a sin, that by degrees 
 Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind, 
 
 And, therefore, may tho reader too displo:^:) — 
 Tho gentle reader, who may wax unkind, 
 
 And caring little for the author's ease, 
 Insist on knowing what he means, a hard 
 And hapless situation for a bard. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Oh that I had the art of easy writing 
 What should be easy reading ! could I scald 
 
 Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing 
 Those pretty poems never known to fail, 
 
 How quickly would I print (the world delighting) 
 A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale ; 
 
 And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, 
 
 Some samples of the finest Orientalism ! 
 
 LH. 
 
 But I am but a nameless sort of person, 
 (A broken Dandy lately on my travels) 
 
 And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verae ca 
 The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels, 
 
 And when I can't find that, I put a worse on, 
 Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils ; 
 
 I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, 
 
 But verse is more in fashion — so here goes. 
 
iJYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 LIU. 
 
 The Count and Laura made their new arrangement, 
 Whichdasted as arrangements sometimes do, 
 
 For half a dozen years without estrangement ; 
 They had their little differences, too ; 
 
 Those jealous whiffs, which never any change meant ? 
 In such affairs there probably are few 
 
 Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, 
 
 From sinners of high station to the rabble. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 But, on the whole, they were a happy pair, 
 As happy as unlawful love could make them ; 
 
 The gentleman was fond, the lady fair, 
 
 Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to br 
 them : 
 
 The world beheld them with indulgent air ; 
 
 The pious only wished " the devil take them ! " 
 He took them not;, he very often waits, 
 And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits. 
 
 LV. 
 
 But they were young : Oh ! what without our youth 
 Would love be ! What would youth be without love 
 
 Youth lends it joy, and sweetness, vigour, truth, 
 Heart, soul, and all that seems as from above : 
 
 But, languishing with years, it grows uncouth — 
 One of few things experience don't improve, 
 
 Which is, perhaps, the reason why old fellows 
 
 Are always so preposterously jealous. 
 
 LVI. ■ 
 
 It was the Carnival, as I have said 
 
 Some six and thirty stanzas back, and so 
 
 Laura the usual preparations made, 
 
 Which you do when your mind's made up to go 
 
 To-night to Mrs. Boehm's masquerade, 
 Spectator, or partaker in the show ; 
 
 The only difference known between the cases 
 
 Is — here, we have six weeks of " varnish' d faces." 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Laura, when dress'd, was (as I sang before) 
 
 A pretty woman as was ever seen, 
 Fresh as the Angel o'er a new inn door, 
 
 Or frontispiece of a new Magazine, 
 With all the fashions which the last month wore, 
 
 Colour'd, and silver paper leaved between 
 That and the title-page, for fear the press 
 Should soil with parts of speech the parts of dress. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 They went to the Ridotto ;— 'tis a hall 
 
 Where people dance, and sup, and dance again ; 
 
BErro. 
 
 lis proper name, perhaps, were a masqued ball ; 
 
 But that's of no importance to my strain ; 
 f Tis (on a smaller scale) like our Vauxhall, 
 
 Excepting that it can't be spoilt by rain : 
 The company is " mix'd" (the phrase I quote is 
 As much as saying, they're below your notice) ; 
 
 LIX. 
 
 For a u mixed company " implies that, save 
 Yourself and friends, and half a hundred more, 
 
 Whom you may bow to without looking grave, 
 The rest are but a vulgar set, the bore 
 
 Of public places, where they basely brave 
 The fashionable stare of twenty score 
 
 Of well-bred persons, call'd " TJie World;" but I, 
 
 Although I know them, really don't know why. 
 
 LX. 
 
 This is the case in England ; at least was 
 
 During the dynasty of Dandies, now 
 Perchance succeeded by some other class 
 
 Of imitated imitators : — how 
 Irreparably soon decline, alas ! 
 
 The demagogues of fashion : all below 
 Is frail ; how easily the world is lost 
 By love, or war, and now and then by frost ! 
 
 LXL 
 
 Crushed was Napoleon by the northern Thor, 
 Who knock'd his army down with icy hammer, 
 
 Stopp'd by the elements, like a whaler, or 
 
 A blundering novice in his new French grammar ; 
 
 Good cause had he to doubt the chance of war, 
 And as for Fortune — but I dare not d — n her, 
 
 Because, were I to ponder to mtinity, 
 
 The more I should believe in her divinity. 
 
 lxh. 
 
 She rules the present, past, and all to be yet, 
 
 She gives us luck iu lotteries, love, and marriage ; 
 
 I cannot say that she's clone much for mo yet ; 
 Not that I mean her bounties to disparage, 
 
 We've not yet closed accounts, and we shall see yet 
 How much she'll make amends for past miscarriap; 
 
 Meantime the goddess I'll no more importune, 
 
 Unless to thank her when she's made my fortune, 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 To turn, — and to return ; — the devil take it ! 
 
 This story slips for ever through my fingers, 
 Because, just as the stanza likes to make it, 
 
 It needs must be — and so it rather lingers ; 
 This form of verse begun, I can't well break it, 
 
 But must keep time and tune like public singers ; 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 But if I once get through my present measure, 
 I'll take another when I'm next at leisure. 
 
 lxiv. 
 
 They went to the Kidotto ('tis a place 
 To which I mean to go myself to-morrow, 
 
 Just to divert my thoughts a little space, 
 Because I'm rather hippish, and may borrow 
 
 Some spirits, guessing at what kind of face 
 May lurk beneath each mask ; and as my sorrow 
 
 Slackens its pace sometimes, I'll make, or find, 
 
 Something shall leave it half an hour behind). 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd, 
 Smiles in her eyes, and simpers on her lips ; 
 
 To some she whispers, others speaks aloud ; 
 To some she curtsies, and to some she dips, 
 
 Complains of warmth, and this complaint avowM, 
 Her lover brings the lemonade, she sips ; 
 
 She then surveys, condemns, but pities still 
 
 Her dearest friends for being dress'd so ilJ. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 One has false curls, another too much paint, 
 A third — where did she buy that frightful turban \ 
 
 A fourth's so pale she fears she's going to faint, 
 A fifth's look's vulgar, dowdyish, and suburban, 
 
 A sixth's white silk has got a yellow taint, 
 
 A seventh's thin muslin surely will be her bane, 
 
 And lo ! an eighth appears, — I'll see no more ! " 
 
 For fear, like Banquo's kings, they reach a score, 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Meantime, while she was thus at others gazing, 
 Others were levelling their looks at her ; 
 
 She heard the men's half - whisper' d mode of praising, 
 And, till 'twas done, determined not to stir ; 
 
 The women only thought it quite amazing 
 That, at her time of life, so many were 
 
 Admirers still, — but men are so debased, 
 
 Those brazen creatures always suit their taste. 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 For my part, now, I ne'er could understand 
 Why naughty women — but I won't discuss 
 
 A thing which is a scandal to the land, 
 I only don't see why it should be thus ; 
 
 And if I were but in a gown and band, 
 Just to entitle me to make a fuss, 
 
 I'd preach on this till Wilberforce and Komilly 
 
 Should quote in their next speeches from my horn:!? 
 
 LXIX. 
 
 While Laura thus was seen, and seeing, smiling, 
 Talking, she knew not why, and cared not what 
 
BEPPO 
 
 So that her female friends, with envy broiling. 
 Beheld her airs and triumph, and all that ; 
 
 And well-dress'd males still kept before her filing, 
 And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat ; 
 
 More than the rest one person seem'd to star© 
 
 With pertinacity that's rather rare. 
 
 LXX. 
 
 He was a Turk, the colour of mahogany ; 
 
 And Laura saw him, and at first was glad, 
 Because the Turks so much admire philogyny, 
 
 Although their usage of their wives is sad ; 
 'Tis said they use no better than a dog any 
 
 Poor woman, whom they purchase like a pad ; 
 They have a number, though they ne'er exhibit 'era, 
 Four wives by law, and concubines " ad libitum." 
 
 LXXI. 
 
 They lock them up, and veil, and guard them daily, 
 They scarcely can behold their male relations, 
 
 So that their moments do not pass so gaily 
 As is supposed the case with northern nations ; 
 
 Confinement, too, must make them look quite palely ; 
 And as the Turks abhor long conversations, 
 
 Their days are either pass'd in doing nothing, 
 
 Or bathing, nursing, making love, and clothing. 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 They cannot read, and so don't lisp in criticism ; 
 
 Nor write, and so they don't affect the muse ; 
 Were never caught 4 n epigram or witticism, 
 
 Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews, — 
 In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism 
 
 But luckily these beauties are no " Blues," 
 No bustling Botherbys have they to show 'em 
 " That charming passage in the last new poem 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme, 
 Who having angled all his life for fame, 
 
 And getting but a nibble at a time, 
 Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same 
 
 Small " Triton of the minnows," the sublime 
 Of mediocrity, the furious tame, 
 
 The echo's echo, usher of the school 
 
 Of female wits, boy bards — in short, a fool ! 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 A stalking oracle of awful phrase, 
 
 The approving " Good/" (by no means GOOD in la^ 
 Humming like flies around the newest blaze, 
 
 The bluest of bluebottles you e'er saw, 
 Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise, 
 
 Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, 
 Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, 
 And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 LXXV. 
 
 One hates an author that's all author, fellows 
 In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink, 
 
 So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous, 
 
 One don't know what to say to them, or think, 
 
 Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows ; 
 Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink 
 
 Are preferable to these shreds of paper, 
 
 These unquench'd snufiings of the midnight taper. 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 Of these same we see several, and of others, 
 
 Men of the world, who know the world like mer - 
 
 Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, 
 Who think of something else besides the pen ; 
 
 But for the children of the " mighty mother's," 
 The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, 
 
 I leave them to their daily " tea is ready," 
 
 Smug coterie, and literary dady. 
 
 lxxvii. 
 
 The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention 
 Have none of these instructive pleasant people, 
 
 And one would seem to them a new invention, 
 Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple ; 
 
 I think 'twould almost be worth while to pension 
 (Though best-sown projects very often reap ill) 
 
 A missionary author, just to preach 
 
 Our Christian usage of the parts of speech. 
 
 LXXVIII. 
 
 No chemistry for them unfolds her gases, 
 No metaphysics are let loose in lectures, 
 
 No circulating library amasses 
 Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures 
 
 Upon the living manners, as they pass us ; 
 No exhibition glares with annual pictures ; 
 
 They stare not on the stars from out their attics, 
 
 Nor deal (thank God for that !) in mathematics* 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 Why I thank God for that is no great matter, 
 I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose, 
 
 And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter, 
 I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose ; 
 
 \ fear I have a little turn for satire, 
 And yet methinks the older that one grows 
 
 Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughtS 
 
 Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after. 
 
 LXXX, 
 
 Oh, Mirth and Innocence ! Oh, Milk and Water • 
 Ye happy mixtures of more happy days ! 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 In these sad centuries of sin and slaughter, 
 
 Abominable Man no more allays 
 His thirst with such pure beverage. No matter, 
 
 I love you both, and both shall have my praise : 
 Oh, for old Saturn's reign of sugar-candy ! — 
 Meantime I drinJc to your return in brandy. 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon her, 
 Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 
 
 Which seems to say, " Madam, I do you honour, 
 And while I please to stare, you'll please to sizy" 
 
 Could staring win a woman, this had won her, 
 But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 
 
 She had stood fire too long and well, to boggle 
 
 Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 The morning now was on the point of breaking, 
 A turn of time at which I would adviso 
 
 Ladies who have been dancing, or partaking 
 In any other kind of exercise, 
 
 To make their preparations for forsaking 
 The ball-room ere the sun begins to riso, 
 
 Because when once the lamps and candles fail, 
 
 His blushes make them look a little pale. 
 
 LXXXIII. 
 
 I've seen some balls and revels in my time, 
 And stay'd them over for some silly reason, 
 
 And then I look'd (I hope it was no crime) 
 To see what lady best stood out the season ; 
 
 And though I've seen some thousands in their prime, 
 Lovely and pleasing, and who still may please on, 
 
 I never saw but one (the stars withdrawn) 
 
 Whose bloom could after dancing dare the dawn. 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 
 The name of this Aurora I'll not mention, 
 Although I might, for she was nought to me 
 
 More than that patent work of God's invention, 
 A charming woman, whom we like to see ; 
 
 But writing names would merit reprehension, 
 Yet if you like to find out this fair she, 
 
 At the next London or Parisian ball, 
 
 You still may mark her cheek, out-blooming ail. 
 
 LXXXV. 
 
 Laura, who knew it would not do at all 
 To meet the daylight after seven hours' sitting 
 
 Among three thousand people at a ball, 
 To make her curtsy thought it right and fitting; : 
 
 Tho Count was at her elbow with her shawl, 
 
(MO 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And they the room were on the point of quitting, 
 When lo ! those cursed gondoliers had got 
 Just in the very place where they should not. 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 In this they're like our coachmen, and the cause 
 Is much the same — the crowd, and pulling, hauling,. 
 
 With blasphemies enough to break their jaws, 
 They make a never intermitted bawling. 
 
 At home, our Bow-street gemmen keep the laws, 
 And here a sentry stands within your calling ; 
 
 But for all that, there is a deal of swearing, 
 
 And nauseous words past mentioning or bearing. 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 The Count and Laura found their boat at last, 
 And homeward floated o'er the silent tide, 
 
 Discussing all the dances gone and past ; 
 The dancers and their dresses, too, beside ; 
 
 Some little scandals eke : but all aghast 
 (As to their palace stairs the rowers glide) 
 
 Sate Laura by the side of her Adorer, 
 
 When lo ! the Mussulman was there before her. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 
 u Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding gravo, 
 " Your unexpected presence here will make 
 
 It necessary for myself to crave 
 
 Its import ? But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 
 
 I hope it is so ; and at once to waive 
 All compliment, I hope so for your sake : 
 
 You understand my meaning, or you shall." 
 
 " Sir/' (quoth the Turk) " 'tis no mistake at all : 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 u That lady is my wife I " Much wonder paints 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well as it might ; 
 
 But where an Englishwoman sometimes faints, 
 Italian females don't do so outright ; 
 
 They only call a little on their saints, 
 
 And then come to themselves, almost or quite ; 
 
 Which saves much hartshorn, salts, and sprinkling faces 
 
 And cutting stays, as usual in such cases. 
 
 xc. 
 
 She said — what could she say ? Why, not a word : 
 
 But the Count courteously invited in 
 The stranger, much appeased by what he heard : 
 
 " Such things, perhaps, we ; d best discuss within," 
 Said he ; " don't let us make ourselves absurd 
 
 In public, by a scene, nor raise a din, 
 For then the chief and only satisfaction 
 Will be much quizzing on the whole transaction." 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 XCI. 
 
 They enter' d, and for coffee cail'd — it came, 
 A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 
 
 Although the way they make it's not the same. 
 Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
 
 To speak, cries " Beppo ! what's your pagan namo ! 
 Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
 
 A nd how came you to keep away so long ? 
 
 Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong ? 
 
 XCII. 
 
 M And are you really, truly, now a Turk ? ; 
 
 With any other women did you wivo ? 
 I n't true they use their fingers for a fork ? 
 
 Well, that's the prettiest shawl — as I'm alive ! 
 You'll give it me ? They say you cat no pork. 
 
 And how so many years did you contrive 
 To — Bless me ! Did I ever ? No, I never 
 Saw a man grown so yellow ! How's your liver ? 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 u Beppo, that beard of yours becomes you not ; 
 
 It shall be shaved before you're a day older : 
 Why do you wear it ? Oh ! I had forgot — 
 
 Pray don't you think the weather here is colder ? 
 How do I look ? You shan't stir from this spot 
 
 In that queer dress, for fear that some beholder 
 Should find you out, and make the story known. 
 How short your hair is ! Lord ! how grey it's grown I" 
 
 xciv. 
 
 What answer Beppo made to these demands 
 Is more than I know. Ho was cast away 
 
 About where Troy stood once, and nothing stands ; 
 Became a slave of course, and for his pay 
 
 Had bread and bastinadoes, till some bands 
 Of pirates landing in a neighbouring bay, 
 
 He joined the rogues and prosper'd, and be«amo 
 
 A renegado of indifferent fame. 
 
 xcv. 
 
 But he grew rich, and with his riches grew so 
 
 Keen the desire to see his home again, 
 He thought himself in duty bound to do so, 
 
 And not be always thieving on the main ; 
 Lonely he felt, at times, as Robin Crusoe, 
 
 And so he hired a vessel come from Spain, 
 Bound for Corfu : she was a fine polacca, 
 Mann'd with twelve hands, and laden with tobacco. 
 
 xcvi. 
 
 Himself, and much (Heaven knows how gotten !) caah, 
 He then embark'd, with risk of life and limh, 
 
 2 T 
 
642 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And got clear off, although the attempt was rash ; 
 
 He said that Providmce protected him — 
 For my part, I say nothing, lest we clash 
 
 In our opinions : — well, the ship was trim, 
 Set sail, and kept her reckoning fairly on, 
 Except three days of calm when off Cape Bonn. 
 
 xcvn. 
 
 They reacted the island, he transferr'd his lading, 
 And self and live stock, to another bottom, 
 
 And pass'd for a true Turkey-merchant, trading 
 With goods of various names, but I've forgot 'em, 
 
 However, he got off by this evading, 
 
 Or else the people would perhaps have shot him ; 
 
 And thus at Venice landed to reclaim 
 
 His wife, religion, house and Christian name. 
 
 xcvm. 
 
 His wife received, the patriarch re-baptized him 
 (He made the church a present, by the way) ; 
 
 He then threw off the garments which disguised him, 
 And borrow'd the Count's smallclothes for a day : 
 
 His friends the more for his long absence prized him, 
 Finding he'd wherewithal to make them gay, 
 
 With dinners, where he oft became the laugh of them, 
 
 For stories — but / don't believe the half of them. 
 
 xcix. 
 
 Whate'er his youth had suffer' d, his old age 
 With wealth and talking make him some amends ; 
 
 Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
 
 I've heard the Count and he were always friends. 
 
 My pen is at the bottom of a page, 
 
 Which being finish' d, here the story ends ; 
 
 *Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done, 
 
 But stories somehow lengthen when begun. 
 
M AZEPPA. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 " Cklui qui remplissait alors cette place etait un pcntilhomme Polonais, 
 nomine* Mazeppa, ne dans le palatinat de Podolie : il avait 6te eleve* page 
 de Jean Casimir, et avait pris a sa cour quelque teinturedes belles-lettres 
 Une intrigue qu'il eut dans Ba jeunesse avec la fcmme d'un gentilhomme 
 Polonais ayant 6t6 ddcouverte, le mari le fit lier tout nu sur un cheval 
 farouche, et le laissa aller en cet etat. Le cheval, qui <Stait dn pays de 
 l'Ukraine, y retourna, et y porta Mazeppa, demi-mort de fatigue et de 
 faim. Quelques paysans le secoururent : il resta long-tems parmi eux, 
 et se signala dans plusieurs courses contre les Tartares. La superiority 
 de ses lumieres lui donna une grande consideration parmi les Cosaques : 
 sa reputation s'augmentant de jour en jour obligea le Czar a le faire 
 Prince de l'Ukraine." — Voltaire, Hist, de Charles XII. p. 196. 
 
 n Le roi fuyant, et poursuivi, eut son cheval tue sous lui ; le Colonel 
 Gieta, blesse, et perdant tout son sang, lui donna le sien. Ainsi on remit 
 deux fois a cheval, dans sa fuite, ce conquerant qui n'avait pu y monter 
 pendant la bataille." — 74,, p. 216. 
 
 "Leroi alia par un autre chemin avec quelques cavaliers. Le carrosse 
 ou il etait rompit dans la marche ; on le remit a cheval. Pour comble de 
 disgrace, il s'egara pendant la nuit dans un bois j la, son courage ne 
 pouvant plus suppleer a ses forces £puisees, les douleurs dc sc blessurc 
 devenues plus insupportables par la fatigue, son cheval etant tomb^ de 
 lassitude, il se coucha quelques heures au pied d'un arbre, en danger 
 d'etre surpris a tout moment par les vainqueurs, qui le cherchaient de 
 tous c6tes." — lb., p. 218. 
 
 I. 
 
 'Twas after dread Pultowa's day, 
 
 When fortune left the royal Swede, 
 Around a slaughter'd army lay, 
 
 No more to combat and to bleed. 
 The power and glory of the war, 
 
 Faithless as their vain votaries, men, 
 Had pass'd to the triumphant Czar. 
 
 And Moscow's walls were safe again, 
 Until a day more dark and drear, 
 And a more memorable year. 
 Should give to slaughter and to shame 
 A mightier host and haughtier name ; 
 A greater wreck, a deeper fa 1 ' 
 A shock to one — a thunderbolt to aJL. 
 
 2 T T 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Such was the hazard of the die ; 
 
 The wounded Charles was taught to fly 
 
 By day and night through field and flood, 
 
 Stain'd with his own and subjects' blood ; 
 
 For thousands fell that flight to aid : 
 
 And not a voice was heard t' upbraid 
 
 Ambition in his humbled hour, 
 
 When truth had nought to dread from power. 
 
 His horse was slain, and Gieta gave 
 
 His own — and died the Russians' slave. 
 
 This too sinks after many a league 
 
 Of well sustain'd but vain fatigue ; 
 
 And in the depth of forests, darkling 
 
 The watch-fires in the distance sparkling — 
 
 The beacons of surrounding foes — 
 A king must lay his limbs at length. 
 
 Are these the laurels and repose . 
 For which the nations strain their strength? 
 They laid him by a savage tree, 
 In outworn nature's agony ; 
 His wounds were stiff — his limbs were stark~» 
 The heavy hour was chill and dark ; 
 The fever in his blood forbade 
 A transient slumber's fitful aid : 
 And thus it was ; but yet through all, 
 Kinglike the monarch bore his fall, 
 And made, in this extreme of ill, 
 His pangs the vassals of his will : 
 All silent and subdued were they, 
 As once the nations round him lay. 
 
 ill. 
 
 A band of chiefs ! — alas ! how few, 
 
 Since but the fleeting of a day 
 Had thinn'd it ; but this wreck was true 
 
 And chivalrous : upon the clay 
 Each sat him down, all sad and mute, 
 
 Beside his monarch and his steed, 
 For danger levels man and brute, 
 
 And all are fellows in their need. 
 Among the rest, Mazeppa made 
 His pillow in an old oak's shade — 
 Himself as rough, and scarce less old, 
 The Ukraine 7 s Hetman, calm and bold ; 
 But first, out spent with this long course, 
 The Cossack pri-nce rubb'd down his horse. 
 And made for him a leafy bed, 
 
 And smooth'd his fetlocks and his mane, 
 
 And slack' d his girth, and stripp'd his rei'% 
 And joy'd to see how well he fed ; 
 For until now he had the dread 
 His wearied courser might refuse 
 To browse beneath the midnight dew» : 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 But he was hardy as his lord, 
 
 And little cared for bed and board ; 
 
 But spirited and docile too, 
 
 Whate'er was to be done, would do. 
 
 Shaggy and swift, and strong of limb, 
 
 All Tartar-like he carried him ; 
 
 Obeyed his voice, and came to call, 
 
 And knew him in the midst of all : 
 
 Though thousands were around, — and Night, 
 
 Without a star, pursued her flight, — 
 
 That steed from sunset until dawn 
 
 His chief would follow like a fawn. 
 
 IV. 
 
 This done, Mazeppa spread his cloak, 
 And laid his lance beneath his oak, 
 Felt if his arms in order good 
 The long day's march had well withstood — 
 If still the powder fill'd the pan, 
 
 And flints unloosen'd kept their lock — 
 His sabre's hilt and scabbard felt, 
 And whether they had chafed his belt — 
 And next the venerable man, 
 From out his havresack and can, 
 
 Prepared and spread his slender stock ; 
 And to the monarch and his men 
 The whole or portion offer'd then 
 With far less of inquietude 
 Than courtiers at a banquet would. 
 And Charles of this his slender share 
 With smiles partook a moment there, 
 To force of cheer a greater show, 
 And seem above both wounds and woo ; 
 And then he said — u Of all our band, 
 Though firm of heart and strong of han'i, 
 In skirmish, march, or forage, none 
 Can less have said or more have done 
 Than thee, Mazeppa ! On the earth 
 So fit a pair had never birth, 
 Since Alexander's days till now, 
 As thy Bucephalus and thou : 
 All Scythia's fame to thine should yield 
 For pricking on o'er flood and field." 
 Mazeppa answer'd — "111 betide 
 The school wherein I learn'd to ride ! " 
 Quoth Charles — " Old Hetman, wherefore «q 
 Since thou hast learn'd the art so well '{ " 
 Mazeppa said — " 'Twere long to tell ; 
 And we have many a league to go, 
 With every now and then a blow, 
 And ten to one at least the foe, 
 Before our steeds may graze at ease, 
 Beyond the swift tforysthenes : 
 And, sire, your i.ibs have need of row-*. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And I will be the sentinel 
 Of this your troop." — " But I request," 
 Said Sweden's monarch, ' ' thou wilt tell 
 This tale of thine, and I may reap, 
 Perchance, from this the boon of sleep ; 
 For at this moment from my eyes 
 The hope of present slumber flies." 
 
 "Well, sire, with such a hope, I'll track 
 My seventy years of memory back : 
 I thick 'twas in my twentieth spring, — 
 Ay, 'twas, — when Casimir was king- — 
 John Casimir, — I was his page 
 Six summers, in my earlier age : 
 A learned monarch, faith ! was he, 
 And most unlike your majesty : 
 He made no wars, and did not gain 
 New realms to lose them back again ; 
 And (save debates in Warsaw's diet) 
 He reign' d in most unseemly quiet ; 
 Not that he had no cares to vex ; 
 He loved the muses and the sex ; 
 And sometimes these so froward are, 
 They made him wish himself at war ; 
 But soon his wrath being o'er, he took 
 Another mistress, or new book ; 
 And then he gave prodigious fetes — 
 All Warsaw gather'd round his gates 
 To gaze upon his splendid court, 
 And dames, and chiefs, of princely port ' 
 He was the Polish Solomon, 
 So sung his poets, all but one, 
 Who, being unpension'd, made a satire, 
 And boasted that he could not flatter. 
 It was a court of jousts and mimes, 
 Where every courtier tried at rhymes ; 
 Even I for once produced some verses, 
 And sign'd my odes ? Despairing Thyrsia..' 
 There was a certain Palatine, 
 
 A count of far and high descent, 
 Rich as a salt or silver mine ; 
 And he was proud, ye may divine, 
 
 As if from heaven he had been sent : 
 He had such wealth in blood and ore 
 
 As few could match beneath the throne 
 And he would gaze upon his store, 
 And o v er his pedigree would pore, 
 Until by some confusion led, 
 Which almost look'd like want of head, 
 
 He thought their merits were his own. 
 His wife was not of his opinion ; 
 
 His junior she by thirty years, 
 Grew daily tired of his dominion ; 
 
 And, after wishes, hop*** ond feara, 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 To virtue a few farewell tears, 
 A restless dream or two, some glances 
 At Warsaw's youth, some songs, and dances, 
 Awaited but the usual chances, 
 Those happy accidents which render 
 The coldest dames so very tender, 
 To deck her Count with titles given, 
 'Tis said, as passports into heaveu ; 
 But, strange to say, they rarely boast 
 Of these, who have deserved them most. 
 
 v. 
 
 " I was a goodly stripling then ; 
 
 At seventy years I so may say, 
 That there were few, or boys or men, 
 
 Who, in my dawning time of day, 
 Of vassal or of knight's degree, 
 Could vie in vanities with me ; 
 For I had strength, youth, gaiety, 
 A port, not like to this ye see, 
 But smooth, as all is rugged now ; 
 
 For time, and care, and war, have ploughM 
 My very soul from out my brow ; 
 
 And thus I should be disavow'd 
 By all my kind and kin, could they 
 Compare my day and yesterday ; 
 This change was wrought, too, long ere age 
 Had ta'en my features for his page : 
 With years, ye know, have not declined 
 My strength, my courage, or my mind, 
 Or at this hour I should not be 
 Telling old tales beneath a tree, 
 With starless skies my canopy. 
 
 But let me on : Theresa's form — 
 Methinks it glides before me now, 
 Between me and yon chestnut's bough, 
 
 The memory is so quick and warm ; 
 And yet I find no words to tell 
 The shape of her I loved so well : 
 She had the Asiatic eye, 
 
 Such as our Turkish neighbourhood 
 
 Hath mingled with our Polish blood, 
 Dark as above us is the sky ; 
 But through it stole a tender light, 
 Like the first moonrise of midnight ; 
 Large, dark, and swimming in the stream. 
 Which seem'd to melt to its own beam ; 
 All love, half languor, and half fire, 
 Like saints that at the stake expire, 
 And lift their raptured looks on high, 
 As though it were a joy to die. 
 A brow like a midsummer lake, 
 
 Transparent with the sun therein, 
 When waves no murmur dare to make, 
 
byron's poems 
 
 And heaven beholds her face within. 
 A cheek and lip — bnt why proceed ? 
 
 I loved her then — I love her still ; 
 And such as I am, love indeed 
 
 In fierce extremes — in good and ill. 
 But still we love even in our rage, 
 And haunted to our very age 
 "With the vain shadow of the past, 
 As is Mazeppa to the last. 
 
 VI. 
 
 "We met — we gazed — T saw, and sigh'd, 
 
 She did not speak, and yet replied ; 
 
 There are ten thousand tones and signs 
 
 We hear and see, but none defines — 
 
 Involuntary sparks of thought, 
 
 Which strike from out the heart o'erwrougb^ 
 
 And form a strange intelligence, 
 
 Alike mysterious and intense, 
 
 Which link the burning chain that binds, 
 
 Without their will, young hearts and mmcte : 
 
 Conveying, as the electric wire, 
 
 We know not how, the absorbing firo. 
 
 I saw, and sigh'd — in silence wept, 
 
 And still reluctant distance kept, 
 
 Until I was made known to her, 
 
 And we might then and there confer 
 
 Without suspicion — then, even then, 
 
 I long'd, and was resolved to speak ; 
 But on my lips they died again, 
 
 The accents tremulous and weak, 
 Until one hour. — There is a game, 
 
 A frivolous and foolish play, 
 
 Wherewith we while away the day ; 
 It is — I have forgot the name — 
 And we to this, it seems, were set, 
 By some strange chance, which I forget : 
 I reck'd not if I won or lost, 
 
 It was enough for me to be 
 
 So near to hear, and oh ! to see 
 The being whom I loved the most. 
 I watch'd her as a sentinel, 
 (May ours this dark night watch as well \) 
 
 Until I saw, and thus it was, 
 That she was pensive, nor perceived 
 Her occupation, nor was grieved 
 Nor glad to lose or gain ; but still 
 Play'd on for hours, as if her will 
 Yet bound her to the place, though not 
 That hers might be the winning lot. 
 
 Then through my brain the thought did pA&3 
 Even as a flash of lightning there, 
 That there was something in her air 
 Which would not doom me to despair; 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 And on the thought my words broke forth. 
 
 All incoherent as they were ; 
 Their eloquence was little worth, 
 But yet she listen'd — 'tis enough — 
 
 Who listens once will listen twice ; 
 
 Her heart, be sure, is not of irw, 
 one refusal no rebuff. 
 
 VII. 
 
 u I loved, and was beloved again — 
 
 They tell me, sire, you never knew 
 
 Those gentle frailties ; if 'tis true, 
 I shorten all my joy or pain ; 
 To you 'twould seem absurd as vain ; 
 But all men are not born to reign, 
 Or o'er their passions, or as you 
 Thus o'er themselves and nations too. 
 I am — or rather was — a prince, 
 
 A chief of thousands, and could lead 
 
 Them on where each would foiemost Uofcd \ 
 But could not o'er myself evince 
 The like control. — But to resume : 
 
 I loved, and was beloved again ; 
 In sooth, it is a happy doom, 
 
 But yet where happiest ends in pain. 
 We met in secret, and the hour 
 Which led me to that lady's bower 
 Was fiery Expectation's dower. 
 My days and nights were nothing — ajl 
 Except that hour which doth recall 
 In the long lapse from youth to ago 
 
 No other like itself : I'd give 
 
 The Ukraine back again to live 
 It o'er once more, and be a page, 
 The happy page, who was the lord 
 Of one soft heart, and his own sword, 
 And had no other gem nor wealth 
 Save nature's gift of youth and health. 
 We met in secret — doubly sweet, 
 Some say, they find it so to meet ; 
 I know not that — I would have given 
 
 My life but to have call'd her mine 
 In the full view of earth and heaven ; 
 
 For I did oft and long repine 
 That we could only rcoet by stealth. 
 
 vm. 
 
 " For lovers there are many eyes, 
 And such there were on us ; — the davJI 
 On such occasions should be civil — 
 
 The devil ! — I'm loth to do him wrong'. 
 It might be some untoward saint, 
 
 Who would not be at rest too long, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But to his pious bile gave vent — 
 But one fair night, some lurking spies 
 Surprised and seized us both. 
 The count was something more than wroth--* » 
 I was unarm'd ; but if in steel, 
 All cap-a-pie from head to heel, 
 What 'gainst their numbers could I do If 
 'Twas near his castle, far away 
 
 From city or from succour near, 
 And almost on the break of day ; 
 I did not think to see another, 
 
 My moments seem'd reduced to few ; 
 And with one prayer to Mary Mother, 
 
 And it may be, a saint or two, 
 As I resign' d me to my fate, 
 They led me to the castle gate : 
 
 Theresa's doom I never knew. 
 Our lot was henceforth separate. 
 An angry man, ye may opine, 
 Was he, the proud Count Palatine ; 
 And he had reason good to be, 
 
 But he was most enraged lest such 
 
 An accident should chance to touch 
 Upon his future pedigree ; 
 Nor less amazed that such a blot 
 His noble 'scutcheon should have got, 
 While he was highest of his line ; 
 
 Because unto himself he seem'd 
 
 The first of men, nor less he deem'd 
 In others' eyes, and most in mine. 
 'Sdeath with a page — perchance a king 
 Had reconciled him to the thing ; 
 But with a stripling of a page — 
 I felt, but cannot paint, his rage. 
 
 IX. 
 
 '"Bring forth the horse ! ' — the horse was brou 
 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
 
 Who look'd as though the speed of thought 
 Were in his limbs ; but he was wild, 
 
 Wild as the wild deer, and untaught, 
 With spur and bridle undefiled — 
 
 'Twas but a day he had been caught ; 
 And snorting, with erected mane, 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 In the full foam of wrath and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led : 
 They bound me on, that menial throng ; 
 Upon his back with many a thong ; 
 Then loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 ** Away ! — away ! — My breath was gone — 
 I saw not where he hurried on : 
 'Twas scarcely yet the break of day, 
 And on he foam'd — away ! — away ! — 
 The last of human sounds which rose, 
 Is I was darted from my foes, 
 Was the wild shout of savage laughter, 
 Which on the wind came roaring after 
 A moment from that rabble rout : 
 With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head, 
 
 And snapp'd the cord which to the mano 
 
 Had bound my neck in lieu of rein, 
 And, writhing half my form about, 
 Howl'd back my curse ; but 'midst the trcsU, 
 The thunder of my courser's speed, 
 Perchance they did not hear nor heed : 
 It vexes me — for I would fain 
 Have paid their insult back agateu 
 I paid it well in after days : 
 There is not of that castle-gate, 
 Its drawbridge and portcullis weight, 
 Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left ; 
 Nor of its fields a blade of grass, 
 
 Save what grows on a ridge of wall, 
 
 Where stood the hearth-stone of the hall ; 
 And many a time ye there might pass, 
 Nor dream that e'er that fortress was. 
 I saw its turrets in a blaze, 
 Their crackling battlements all cleft, 
 
 And the hot lead pour down like rain 
 From off the scorch' d and blackening roof, 
 Whose thickness was not vengeance-prooi. 
 
 They little thought that day of pain, 
 When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash, 
 They bade me to destruction dash, 
 
 That one day I should come again, 
 With twice five thousand horse, to thank 
 
 The Count for his uncourteous rides. 
 They play'd me then a bitter prank, 
 When, with the wild horse for my guido. 
 They bound me to his foaming flank : 
 At length I play'd them one as frank — 
 For time at last sets all things even— 
 
 And if we do but watch the hour, 
 
 There never yet was human power 
 Which could evade, if unforgiven, 
 The patient search and vigil long 
 Of him who treasures up a wrong* 
 
 XI. 
 
 N Away, away, my steed and I, 
 Upon the pinions of the wind, 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 All human dwellings left behind ; 
 We sped like meteors through the sky, 
 When with its crackling sound the night 
 Is chequer'd with the northern light : 
 Town — village — none were on our track* 
 
 But a wild plain of far extent, 
 And bounded by a forest black ; 
 
 And, save the scarce seen battlement 
 On distant heights of some strong hold, 
 Against the Tartars built of old, 
 No trace of man. The year before 
 A Turkish army had marched o'er ; 
 And where the Spahi's hoof hath trod, 
 The verdure flies the bloody sod : 
 The sky was dull, and dim, and grey, 
 
 And a low breeze crept moaning by — 
 
 I could have answered with a sigh — 
 But fast we fled, away, away, 
 And I could neither sigh nor pray ; 
 And my cold sweat-drops fell like rain 
 Upon the courser's bristling mane ; 
 But, snorting still with rage and fear, 
 He flew upon his far career : 
 At times I almost thought, indeed, 
 He must have slacken' d in his speed ; 
 But no — my bound and slender frame 
 
 Was nothing to his angry might, 
 And merely like a spur became : 
 Each motion which I made to free 
 My swoln limbs from their agony 
 
 Increas'd his fury and affright : 
 I tried my voice, — 'twas faint and low, 
 But yet he swerv'd as from a blow ; 
 And, starting to each accent, sprang 
 As from a sudden trumpet's clan^ : 
 Meantime my cords were wet with gore, 
 Which, oozing through my limbs, ran o'er ; 
 And in my tongue the thirst became 
 A something fierier far than flame. 
 
 XII. 
 
 "We near'd the wild wood — 'twas so wida* 
 
 I saw no bounds on either side ; 
 
 'Twas studded with old sturdy trees, 
 
 That bent not to the roughest breeze 
 
 Which howls down from Siberia's waste, 
 
 And strips the forest in its haste,— 
 
 But these were few and far between, 
 
 Set thick with shrubs more young and gresa, 
 
 Luxuriant with their annual leaves, 
 
 Ere strown by those autumnal eves 
 
 That nip the forest's foliage dead, 
 
 Discolour' d with a lifeless red, 
 
 Which stands thereon like stiffen'd gore, 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 Upon the slain when battle's o'er, 
 And some long -winter's night hath shed 
 Its frosts o'er every tombless head, 
 So cold and stark the raven's beak 
 May peck unpierced each frozen cheek : 
 'Twas a wild waste of underwood, 
 And here and there a chestnut stood, 
 The strong oak, and the hardy pine ; 
 
 But far apart — and well it were, 
 Or else a different lot were mine — 
 
 The boughs gave way, and did not tear 
 My limbs ; and I found strength to bear 
 My wounds, already scarr'd with cold — 
 My bonds forbade to loose my hold. 
 We rustled through the leaves like wind, 
 Left shrubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
 By night I heard them on the track, 
 Their troop came hard upon our back, 
 With their long gallop, which can tire 
 The hound's deep hate, and hunter's fire: 
 Where'er we flew they follow'd on, 
 Nor left us with the morning sun ; 
 Behind I saw them, scarce a rood, 
 At daybreak winding through the wood, 
 And through the night had heard their feet 
 Their stealing, rustling step repeat. 
 Oh ! how I wish'd for spear or sword, 
 At least to die amidst the horde, 
 And perish — if it must be so — 
 At bay, destroying many a foe ! 
 When first my courser's race begun, 
 I wish'd the goal already won ; 
 But now I doubted strength and speed. 
 Vain doubt ! his swift and savage breed 
 Had nerved him like the mountain-roe ; 
 Nor faster falls the blinding snow 
 Which whelms the peasant near the door 
 Whose threshold he shall cross no more, 
 Bewilder'd with the dazzling blast, 
 Than through the forest-paths he pass'd — 
 Untired, untamed, and worse than wild ; 
 All furious as a favour'd child 
 Balk'd of its wish ; or fiercer still — 
 A woman piqued — who has her will. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 " The wood was pass'd ; 'twas more than noctt, 
 But chill the air, although in June; 
 Or it might be my veins ran cold — 
 Prolong'd endurance tames the bold ; 
 And 1 was then not what I seem, 
 But headlong as a wintry stream, 
 And wore my feelings out before 
 I well could count their causes o'er : 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And what with fury, fear and wrath,, 
 
 The tortures which beset my path, 
 
 Cold, hunger, sorrow, shame, distress, 
 
 Thus bound in nature's nakedness ; 
 
 Sprung from a race whose rising blood 
 
 When stirred beyond its calmer mood, 
 
 And trodden hard upon, is like 
 
 The rattle-snake's, in act to strike, 
 
 What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk ? 
 
 The earth gave way, the skies roll'd rounvJ^ 
 
 I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
 
 But err'd, for I was fastly bound. 
 
 My heart turn'd sick, my brain grew sprejj 
 
 And throbb'd awhile, then beat no mor e : 
 
 The skies spun like a mighty wheel ; 
 
 I saw the trees like drunkards reel, 
 
 And a slight flash sprang o'er my eyes, 
 
 Which saw no farther : he who dies 
 
 Can die no more than then I died. 
 
 O'ertortured by that ghastly ride, 
 
 I felt the blackness come and go, 
 And strove to wake ; but could not make 
 
 My senses climb up from below : 
 
 I felt as on a plank at sea, 
 
 When all the waves that dash o'er thee, 
 
 At the same time upheave and whelm, 
 
 And hurl thee towards a desert realm. 
 
 My undulating life was as 
 
 The fancied lights that flitting pass 
 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 
 Fever begins upon the brain ; 
 
 But soon it pass'd, with little pain, 
 But a confusion worse than such : 
 I own that I should deem it much, 
 
 Dying, to feel the same again ; 
 
 And yet I do suppose we must 
 
 Feel far more ere we turn to dust : 
 
 No matter ; I have bared my brow 
 
 Full in Death's face — before — and now. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 u My thoughts came back ; where was I ? OoJti 4 
 And numb and giddy : pulse by pulse 
 
 Life reassumed its lingering hold, 
 
 And throb by throb, — till grown a pang 
 Which for a moment would convulse, 
 My blood reflow'd, though thick and chill ; 
 
 My ear with uncouth noises rang, 
 My heart began once more to thrill 
 
 My sight return'd, though dim ; alas ! 
 
 And thicken'd, as it were, with glass. 
 
 Methought the dash of waves was nigh ; 
 
 There was a gleam too of the sky. 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 Btudded with stars ; — it is no dream ; 
 The wild horse swims the wilder stream ! 
 The bright, broad river's gushing tide 
 Sweeps, winding onward, far and wide, 
 And we are half-way, struggling o'er 
 To yon unknown and silent shore. 
 The waters broke my hollow trance, 
 And with a temporary strength 
 
 My stiffen'd limbs were rebaptized. 
 My courser's broad breast proudly braver, 
 And dashes off the ascending waves, 
 And onward we advance ! 
 We reach the slippery shore at length, 
 
 A haven I but little prized, 
 For all behind was dark and drear, 
 And all before was night and fear, 
 How many hours of night or day 
 In those suspended pangs I lay, 
 I could not tell ; I scarcely knew 
 If this were human breath I drew. 
 
 XV. 
 
 "With glossy skin, and dripping mano, 
 
 And reeling limbs, and reeking flank, 
 The wild steed's sinewy nerves still strain 
 
 Up the repelling bank. 
 We gain the top ; a boundless plain 
 Spreads through the shadow of the nigh*, 
 
 And onward, onward, onward, seems, 
 
 Like precipices in our dreams, 
 To stretch beyond the sight ; 
 And here and there a speck of white, 
 
 Or scatter' d spot of dusky green, 
 In masses broke into the light, 
 As rose the moon upon my right ; 
 
 But nought distinctly seen 
 In the dim waste woultf indicate 
 The omen of a cottage gate ; 
 No twinkling taper from afar 
 Stood like a hospitable star ; 
 Not even an ignis-fatuus rose 
 To make him merry with my woes : 
 
 That very cheat had cheer'd me then S 
 Although detected, welcome still, 
 Reminding me, through every ill, 
 
 Of the abodes of men. 
 
 XVI. 
 
 u Onward we went — but slack and slo^P • 
 His savage force at length o'erspent, 
 
 The drooping courser, faint and low, 
 All feebly foaming went. 
 
 A sickly infant had had power 
 
 To guide him forward in that hour • 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But useless all to me : 
 His new-born tameness nought avail'd — 
 My limbs were bound ; my force had f ail'4, 
 
 Perchance, had they been free. 
 With feeble effort still I tried 
 To rend the bonds so starkly tied, 
 
 But still it was in vain ; 
 My limbs were only wrung the more, 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 
 
 Which but proiong'd their pain : 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
 Although no goal was nearly won : 
 &ome streaks announced the coming sun—* 
 
 How slow, alas ! he came ! 
 Methought that mist of dawning grey 
 Would never dapple into day ; 
 How heavily it roll'd away — 
 
 Before the eastern flame 
 Rose crimson, and deposed the stars, 
 And call'd the radiance from their cars, 
 And fill'd the earth, from his deep thron*., 
 With lonely lustre, all his own. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 " Up rose the sun ; the mists were curi'd 
 Back from the solitary world 
 Which lay around — behind — before. 
 What booted it to traverse o'er 
 Plain, forest, river ? Man nor brute, 
 Nor dint of hoof, nor print of foot, 
 Lay in the wild luxuriant soil ; 
 No sign of travel — none of toil ; 
 The very air was mute ; 
 And not an insect's shrill small horn, 
 Nor matin bird's new voice was borno 
 .b'rom herb nor thicket. Many a werst> 
 Panting as if his heart would burst, 
 The weary brute still stagger'd on ; 
 And still we were — or seem'd — alone. 
 At length, while reeling on our way, 
 Methought I heard a courser neigh, 
 From out yon tuft of blackening firs. 
 Is it the wind those branches stirs ? 
 No, no ! from out the forest prance 
 
 A trampling troop ; I see them com© ! 
 In one vast squadron they advance ! 
 
 I strove to cry — my lips were dumb. 
 The steeds rush on in plunging pride ; 
 But where are they the reins to guide ? 
 A thousand horse — and none to ride ! 
 With flowing tail, and flying mane, 
 Wide nostrils — never stretch'd by pain, 
 Mouths bloodless to the bit or rein, 
 A fad £«<vt that iron never shod, 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, tho wild, the free, 
 liike waves that follow o'er the sea, 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 As if our faint approach to meet ; 
 The sight re-nerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly fleet, 
 A moment, with a faint low neigh, 
 
 He answer' d and then fell ; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking limbs immoveable, 
 His first and last career is done ! 
 On came the troop— they saw him stoop, 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody thong : 
 They stop — they start — they snuft* the air, 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 
 Then plunging back with sudden bound, 
 Headed by one black mighty steed, 
 Who seem'd the patriarch of his breed, 
 
 Without a single speck or hair 
 Of white upon his shaggy hide ; 
 They snort — they foam — neigh — swerve aside 
 And backward to the forest fly, 
 By instinct, from a human eye. 
 
 They left me there to my despair, 
 Link'd to the dead and stiffening wretch, 
 Whose lifeless limbs beneath mo stretch, 
 Relieved from that unwonted weight, 
 From whence I could not extricate 
 Nor him nor me — and there wo lay, 
 
 The dying on the dead ! 
 I little deem'd another day 
 
 Would see my houseless, helpless head. 
 
 "And there from morn till twilight bound, 
 
 I felt the heavy hours toil round, 
 
 With just enough of life to see 
 
 My last of suns go down on me, 
 
 In hopeless certainty of mind, 
 
 That makes us feel at length resign'd 
 
 To that which our foreboding years 
 
 Present the worst and last of fears : 
 
 Inevitable — even a boon, 
 
 Nor more unkind for coming soon, 
 
 Yet shunn'd and dreaded with such care, 
 
 As if it only were a snare 
 
 That prudence might escape : 
 At times both wish'd for and implored, 
 At times sought with self -pointed sword 
 Yet still a dark and hideous close 
 To even intolerable woes, 
 
 And welcome in no shape. 
 
 2 u 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 And, strange to say, the sons w pleasure, 
 They who have revell'd beyond measure 
 In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, 
 Die calm, or calmer, oft than he 
 Whose heritage was misery : 
 For he who hath in turn run through 
 All that was beautiful and new, 
 
 Hath nought to hope, and nought to leava ; 
 And, save the future (which is view'd 
 Not quite as men are base or good, 
 But as their nerves may be endued,) 
 
 With nought perhaps to grieve : 
 The wretch still hopes his woes must end, 
 And Death, whom he should deem his friend, 
 Appears, to his distemper' d eyes, 
 Arrived to rob him of his prize, 
 The tree of his new Paradise. 
 To-morrow would have given him all, 
 Kepaid his pangs, repair'd his fall ; 
 To-morrow would have been the first 
 Of days no more deplored or curst, 
 But bright, and long, and beckoning years, 
 Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, 
 Guerdon of many a painful hour ; 
 To-morrow would have given him power 
 To rule, to shine, to smite, to save — 
 And must it dawn upon his grave ? 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " The sun was sinking — still I lay 
 
 Chain' d to the chill and stiffening steed ; 
 I thought to mingle there our clay ; 
 
 And my dim eyes of death had need, 
 
 No hope arose of being freed : 
 I cast my last looks up the sky, 
 
 And there between me and the sun 
 I saw the expecting raven fly, 
 Who scarce would wait till both should die, 
 
 Ere hir, repast begun ; 
 He flew, and perch'd, then flew once more, 
 And each time nearer than before ; 
 I saw his wing through twilight flit, 
 And once so near me he alit, 
 
 I could have smote, but lack'd the strength § 
 But the slight motion of my hand, 
 And feeble scratching of the sand, 
 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
 Which scarcely could be call'd a voice, 
 
 Together scared him off at length, 
 I know no more — my latest dream 
 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 
 Which fix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
 And went and came with wandering beam, 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dens© 
 
MAZEPPA. 
 
 Sensation of recurring sense, 
 
 And then subsiding back to death, 
 
 And then again a little breath, 
 A little thrill, a short suspense, 
 
 An icy sickness curdling o'er 
 My heart, and sparks that cross'd my braifi 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. 
 
 XIX 
 
 " I woke — Where was I ? — Do I see 
 A human face look down on me ? 
 And doth a roof above mo close ? 
 Do these limbs on a couch repose ? 
 Is this a chamber where I lio '/ 
 And is it mortal yon bright eye, 
 That watches me with gentle glance ? 
 
 I closed my own again once more, 
 As doubtful that my former trance 
 
 Could not as yet be o'er. 
 A slender girl, long-hairM, and tall, 
 Sate watching by the cottage wall ; 
 The sparkle of her eye I caught, 
 Even with my first return of thought ; 
 For ever and anon she threw 
 
 A prying, pitying glance on me 
 
 With her black eyes so wild and free : 
 I gazed, and gazed, until I knew 
 
 No vision it could be, — 
 But that I lived and was released 
 From adding to the vulture's feast : 
 And when the Cossack maid beheld 
 My heavy eyes at length unseal'd, 
 She smiled — and I essay'd to speak, 
 
 But fail'd — and she approach'd, and made 
 
 With lip and finger signs that said, 
 T must not strive as yet to break 
 The silence, till my strength should be 
 Enough to leave my accents free ; 
 And then her hand on mine she laid, 
 And smooth' d the pillow for my head, 
 And stole along on tiptoe tread, 
 
 And gently oped the door, and spake 
 In whispers — ne'er was voice so sweet ! 
 F-ven music follow'd her light feet ; 
 
 "£ut those she call'd were not awake, 
 And she went forth ; but, ere she passed, 
 Another look on me she cast, 
 
 Another sign she made, to say, 
 That I had nought to fear, that all 
 Were near, at my command or call, 
 
 And she would not delay 
 Her duo return : — while she was gon^ 
 Methought I felt too much alone. 
 
 2 u 2 
 
MO BYRON'S 
 
 XX. 
 
 u She came with mother and with gar©*** 
 What need of more ? — I will not tiro 
 With long recital of the rest, 
 Since I became the Cossack's guest. 
 They found me senseless on the plain — 
 
 They bore me to the nearest hut — 
 They brought me into life again — 
 Me — one day o'er their realm to reign ! 
 
 Thus the vain fool who strove to glut 
 His rage, refining on my pain, 
 
 Sent me forth to the wilderness, 
 Bound, naked, bleeding, and alone, 
 To pass the desert to a throne, — 
 
 What mortal his own doom may guess ? 
 
 Let none despond, let none despair i 
 To-morrow the Borysthenes 
 May see our coursers graze at ease 
 Upon his Turkish bank, — and never 
 Had I such welcome for a river 
 
 As I shall yield when safely thero. 
 Comrades, good night ! " — The Hetman thrsJ? 
 
 His length beneath the oak-tree shade, 
 
 With leafy couch already made, 
 A bed nor comfortless nor new 
 To him, who took his rest whene'er 
 The hour arrived, no matter where : 
 
 His eyes the hastening slumbers stdep. 
 And if ye marvel Charles forgot 
 To thank his tale, he wondered not, — 
 
 The king had been an hour asleep. 
 
 m « Hi if JhB litii n 
 
MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 EPITAPH ON JOHN ADAMS, OF SOUTHWELL, 
 
 A CARRIER, WHO DIED OF DRUNKENNESS. 
 
 John Adams lies here, of the parish of Southwell, 
 A Carrier who carried his can to his mouth well ; 
 He carried so much, and ho carried so fast, 
 He could carry no more — so was carried at last ; 
 For, the liquor ho drank, being too much for ono, 
 He could not carry off, — so he's now carri-on. 
 
 FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST PRAYER. 
 
 Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 
 
 For other's weal avail'd on high, 
 Mine will not all be lost in air, 
 
 But waft thy name beyond the sky 
 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh : 
 
 Oh ! more than toars of blood can tell, 
 When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 
 
 Are in that word — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 
 
 These lips are mute, these eyes are dry ; 
 
 But in my breast and in my brain, 
 Awake the pangs that pass not by, 
 
 The thought that ne'er shall sleep again, 
 My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 
 
 Though grief and passion there rebel : 
 I only know wo loved in vain — 
 
 I only feel — Farewell ! — Farewell ! 
 
 WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 
 
 When we two parted 
 In silence and tears. 
 
 Half broken-hearted 
 To sever for years. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 P&le grew thy cheek and colds 
 
 Colder thy kiss ; 
 Truly that hour foretold 
 
 Sorrow to this. 
 
 The dew of the morning 
 
 Sank chill on my brow — 
 It felt like the warning 
 
 Of what I feel now. 
 Thy vows are all broken, 
 
 And light is thy fame ; 
 I hear thy name spoken, 
 
 And share in its shame. 
 
 They name thee before me, 
 
 A knell to mine ear ; 
 A shudder comes o'er me — 
 
 Why wert thou so dear ? 
 They know not I knew thee, 
 
 Who knew thee too well 
 Long, long shall I rue thee, 
 
 Too deeply to tell. 
 
 In secret we met — 
 
 In silence I grieve, 
 That thy heart could forget, 
 
 Thy spirit deceive. 
 If I should meet thee 
 
 After long years, 
 How should I greet thee ? — 
 
 With silence and tears. 
 
 TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND, 
 
 Few years have pass'd since thou ana I 
 Were firmest friends, at least in nam% 
 
 And childhood's gay sincerity 
 Preserved oar feelings long the same. 
 
 But now, like me, too well thou know'ct, 
 What trifles oft the heart recall ; 
 
 And those who once have loved the nios£ 
 Too soon forget they loved at all. 
 
 And such the change the heart display^ 
 So frail is early friendship's reign, 
 
 A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day's, 
 Will view thy mind estranged again. 
 
 If so, it never shall be mine 
 To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 
 
 The fault was Nature's fault, not thin®, 
 Which made thee fickle as thoa art. 
 
MISCELL ANEuOS. 
 
 As rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
 So human feelings ebb and flow ; 
 
 And who would in a breast confide, 
 Where stormy passions ever glow ? 
 
 It boots not that, together bred. 
 Our childish days were days of joy : 
 
 My spring of life has quickly fled ; 
 Thou, too hast ceased to be a boy. 
 
 And when we bid adieu to youth, 
 Slaves to the specious world's control. 
 
 We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
 That world corrupts the noblest soul. 
 
 Ah, joyous season ! wheD the mind 
 Dares all things boldly but to lie ; 
 When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
 
 And pparkles in the pfcnid eye. 
 
 Not so in Man's maturer years, 
 When Man himself is but a tool ; 
 
 When interest sways our hopes and fears, 
 And all must love and hate by rule. 
 
 With fools in kindred vice the same, 
 We learn at length our faults to blend ; 
 
 And those, and those alone may claim 
 The prostituted name of friend. 
 
 Such is the common lot of man : 
 Can we then 'scape from folly free ? 
 
 Can we reverse the general plan, 
 Nor be what all in turn must be ? 
 
 No ; for myself, so dark my fate 
 
 Through every turn of life hath been ; 
 
 Man and the world so much I hate, 
 I care not when I quit the scene. 
 
 But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
 Wilt shine awhile and pass away ; 
 
 As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
 But dare not stand the test of day. 
 
 Alas ! whenever folly calls 
 
 Where parasites and princes meet, 
 
 (For cherished first in royal halls, 
 The welcome vices kindly greet), 
 
 Ev'n now thou'rt nightly seen to add 
 One insect to the fluttering crowd ; 
 
 And still thy trifling heart is glad 
 
 To join the vain, and court the proud. 
 
 There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
 Still simpering on with eager haste, 
 
 As flies along the gay parterre, 
 That taint the flowers they scarcely taste* 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But say, what nymph will prize the flam© 
 Which seems, as marshy vapours move, 
 
 To flit along from dame to dame, 
 An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 
 
 What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, 
 Will deign to own a kindred care ? 
 
 Who will debase his manly mind, 
 For friendship every fool may share ? 
 
 In time forbear ; amidst the throng 
 No more so base a thing be seen ; 
 
 No more so idly pass along ; 
 
 Be something, anything, but — mean, 
 
 WELL ! THOU AET HAPPY. 
 
 Well ! thou art happy, and I feel 
 That I should thus be happy too ; 
 
 For still my heart regards thy weal 
 Warmly, at it was wont to do. 
 
 Thy husband's blest — and 'twill impart 
 Some pangs to view his happier lot : 
 
 But let them pass — Oh ! how my heart 
 Would hate him, if he loved thee not ! 
 
 When late I saw thy favourite child, 
 I thought my jealous heart would break 
 
 But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
 I kissed it for its mother's sake. 
 
 I kissed it — and repressed my sighs, 
 
 Its father in its face to see ; 
 But then it had its mother's eyes, 
 
 And they were all to love and me. 
 
 Mary, adieu ! I must away : 
 
 While thou art blest I'll not repine ; 
 But near thee I can never stav ; 
 
 My heart would soon again be thine. 
 
 I deem'd tbat time, I deemed that prid« 
 Had quench'd at length my boyish flams 
 
 Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 
 
 My heart in all, — save hope, — the same. 
 
 Yet was I calm : I knew the time 
 
 My breast would thrill before thy look ; 
 
 But now to tremble were a crime — 
 We met, — and not a nerve was shook. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 665 
 
 I saw thee gaze upon my face, 
 
 Yet meet with no confusion there : 
 
 One only feeling couldst thou trace ; 
 The sullen calmness of despair. 
 
 Away ! away ! my early dream 
 Remembrance never must awako : 
 
 Oh ! where is Lethe's fabled stream V 
 My foolish heart, be still, or break. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.* 
 
 WHEN some proud son of man returns to earth, 
 
 Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 
 
 The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 
 
 And storied urns record who rest below ; 
 
 When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
 
 Not what ho was, but what he should have been 
 
 But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
 
 The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 
 
 Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
 
 Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, 
 
 Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
 
 Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth : 
 
 While man, vain insect ! hopes to be forgiven, 
 
 And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
 
 Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
 
 Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 
 
 Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, 
 
 Degraded mass of animated dust ! 
 
 Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
 
 Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
 
 By nature vile, ennobled but by name, 
 
 Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. 
 
 Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 
 
 Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn : 
 
 To mark a friend's remains these stones arise ; 
 
 I never know but one — and here he lies. 
 
 * This monument is still a conspicuous ornament in the garden of Ne wsit.nl <o> 
 folk) .Ting ifl the inscription by which the verses are preceded : — 
 
 Near this spot 
 Are deposited the Remains of one 
 Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 
 Strength without Insolence, 
 Courage without Ferocity, 
 And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices, 
 This Praiso, which would be unmeaning Flattery 
 If inscribed over human ashes, 
 Is but a just tribute to the Memory of 
 BOATSWAIN, A Doo, 
 Who was born at Newfoundland, May, 1803, 
 And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1801 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 TO A LADY, 
 
 BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QUITTING ENGLAND III 
 
 THE SPRING. 
 
 When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
 
 A moment linger 'd near the gate, 
 Each scene recall' d the vanish'd hours, 
 
 And bade him curse his future fate. 
 
 But, wandering on through distant climes, 
 
 He learnt to bear his load of grief ; 
 Just gave a sigh to other times, 
 
 And found in busier scenes relief. 
 
 Thus, lady ! will it be with me, 
 
 And I must view thy charms no more ; 
 
 For, while I linger near to thee, 
 I sigh for all I knew before. 
 
 In flight I shall be surely wise, 
 
 Escaping from temptation's snare ; 
 I cannot view my paradise 
 
 Without the wish of dwelling there. 
 
 KEMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT. 
 
 Remind me not, remind me not, 
 
 Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, 
 When all my soul was given to thee ; 
 Hours that may never be forgot, 
 Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
 And thou and I shall cease to be. 
 
 Can I forget — canst thou forget, 
 When playing with thy golden hair, 
 How quick thy fluttering heart did movo f 
 Oh ! by my soul, I see thee yet, 
 With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
 And lips, though silent, breathing love. 
 
 When thus reclining on my breast, 
 Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet* 
 As half reproached yet raised desire, 
 And still we near and nearer prest, 
 And still our glowing lips would meet, 
 As if in kisses to expire. 
 
 And then those pensive eyes would close, 
 And bid their lids each other seek, 
 Veiling the azure orbs below ; 
 While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
 Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
 Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snow- 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 I dreamt iast night our love return'd, 
 And, sooth to say, that very dream 
 Was sweeter in its phantasy, 
 Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 
 
 For eyes that ne'er liko thine could beam 
 In rapture's wild reality. 
 
 Then tell me not, remind me not, 
 
 Of hours which, though for ever gone. 
 Can still a pleasing dream restore, 
 Till thou and I shall be forgot, 
 
 And senseless as the mouldering stone 
 Which tells that we shall bo no more. 
 
 THERE WAS A TIME, I NEED NOT NAME. 
 
 There was a time, I need not name, 
 
 Since it will ne'er forgotten be, 
 When all our feelings were the same 
 
 As still my soul hath been to thee. 
 
 And from that hour when first thy tongue 
 Confess'd a love which equall'd mine, 
 
 Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
 Unknown and thus unfelt by thine. 
 
 None, none hath sunk so deep as this — 
 To think how all that love hath flown ; 
 
 Transient as every faithless kiss, 
 But transient in thy breast alone. 
 
 And yet my heart some solace knew, 
 When late I heard thy lips declare, 
 
 In accents once imagined true, 
 
 Remembrance of the days that were. 
 
 Yes ; my adored, yet most unkind ! 
 
 Though thou wilt never love again, 
 To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 
 
 Remembrance of that love remain. 
 
 Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me, 
 Nor longer shall my soul repine, 
 
 Whate'er thou art or e'er shall be, 
 Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 
 
 AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN I AM LOW? 
 
 And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
 Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 
 
 I would not give thn,t bosom pain. 
 
BYRON S POEMS. 
 
 My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 
 My blood runs coldly through my breast ; 
 
 And when I perish, thou alone 
 Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 
 
 And yet, methinks, a gleam of peac6 
 
 Doth through my cloud of auguish shine : 
 
 And for awhile my sorrows cease, 
 To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 
 
 Oh lady ! blessed be that tear — 
 It falls for one who cannot weep ; 
 
 Such precious drops are doubly dear 
 To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 
 
 Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
 With every feeling soft as thine ; 
 
 But beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
 A wretch created to repine. 
 
 Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 
 
 Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
 Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 
 
 I would not give that bosom pain. 
 
 STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING ENGLAND, 
 
 'Tis done — and shivering in the gale 
 The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
 And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
 Loud smgs on high the fresh'ning blast ; 
 And I must from this land be gone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 But could I be what I have been, 
 And could I see what I have seen — 
 Could I repose upon the breast 
 Which once my warmest wishes blest— 
 I should not seek another zone 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
 Which gave me bliss or misery ; 
 And I have striven, but in vain, 
 Never to think of it again : 
 For though I fly from Albion, 
 I still can only love but one. 
 
 As some lone bird, without a mate, 
 My weary heart is desolate ; 
 I look around, and cannot trace 
 One friendly smile or welcome face, 
 And ev'n in crowds am still alone, 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 And I will cross the whitening foam, 
 And I will seek a foreign home ; 
 Till I forget a false fair face, 
 I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
 My own dark thoughts I cannot shun, 
 But ever love, and love but one. 
 
 The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
 Still finds some hospitable hearth, 
 Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
 May smile in joy or soothe in woe ; 
 But friend or leman I have none. 
 Because I cannot love but one. 
 
 I go — but whercsoe'er I flee 
 There's not an eye will weep for me ; 
 There's not a kind congenial heart, 
 Where I can claim the meanest part ; 
 Nor thou, who hast my hopes undono, 
 Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 
 
 To think of every early scene, 
 
 Of what we are, and what we've been, 
 
 Would whelm some softer hearts witli woo— 
 
 But mine, alas ! has stood the blow ; 
 
 Yet still beats on as it begun, 
 
 And never truly loves but one. 
 
 And who that dear loved one may be 
 Js not for vulgar eyes to see, 
 And why that early love was cross'd, 
 Thou know'st the best, I feel the most : 
 But few that dwell beneath the sun 
 Have loved so long, and loved but one. 
 
 I've tried another's fetters too, 
 With charms perchance as fair to view ; 
 And I would fain have loved as well, 
 But some unconquerable spell 
 Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
 A kindred care for aught but one. 
 
 'Twould soothe to tako one lingering view, 
 And bless thee in my last adieu ; * 
 Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
 For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
 His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
 Yet still ho loves, and loves but one. 
 
 KEMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S POWER, 
 
 Remember him, whom passion's power 
 
 Severely, deeply, vainly proved : 
 Rom ember thou that dangerous hour 
 
 When neither fell, though both were loved. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 That yielding breast, that melting eye, 
 
 Too much invited to be bless'd : 
 That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 
 
 The wilder wish reproved, repress'd. 
 
 Oh ! let me feel that all I lost 
 
 But saved thee all that conscience fears ; 
 And blush for every pang it cost 
 
 To spare the vain remorse of years. 
 
 Yet think of this when many a tongue, 
 Whose busy accents whisper blame, 
 
 Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
 And brand a nearly blighted name. 
 
 Think that, whate'er to others, thou 
 Hast seen each selfish thought subdued : 
 
 I bless thy purer soul even now, 
 Even now, in midnight solitude. 
 
 Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 
 Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free ; 
 
 When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
 And I been less unworthy thee ! 
 
 Far may thy days, as heretofore, 
 From this our gaudy world be past ! 
 
 And that too bitter moment o'er, 
 Oh ! may such trial be thy last. 
 
 This heart, alas ! perverted long, 
 Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; 
 
 To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
 Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 
 
 Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
 Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 
 
 That world resign — such scenes forego, 
 Where those who feel must surely fall. 
 
 Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
 Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 
 
 From what even here hath pass'd, may guess 
 What there thy bosom must endure. 
 
 Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
 Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 
 
 My frenzy drew from eyes so dear ; 
 For me they shall not weep again. 
 
 Though long and mournful must it be, 
 The thought that we no more may meet ; 
 
 Yet I deserve the stern decree, 
 And almost deem the sentence sweet. 
 
 Still, had I loved thee less, my heart 
 Had then less sacrificed to thine ; 
 
 It felt not half so much to part, 
 As if its guilt had made thee mind. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 671 
 
 A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD 
 
 ON THE SIEGE AND CONQUEST OP ALHAMA, 
 
 Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following purport 
 
 The Moorish King rides up and down 
 Through Granada's royal town ; 
 From Elvira's gates to those 
 Of Bivarambla on he goes. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Letters to the monarch tell 
 How Alhama's city fell : 
 In the fire the scroll he threw, 
 And the messenger he slew. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 He quits his mule, and mounts his horse, 
 And through the street directs his course; 
 Through the street of Zacatin 
 To the Alhambra spurring in. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 When the Alhambra walls he gain'd, 
 On the moment he ordain'd 
 That the trumpet straight should sound 
 With the silver clarion round. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And when the hollow drums of war 
 Beat the loud alarm afar, 
 That the Moors of town and plain 
 Might answer to the martial strain. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama! 
 
 Then the Moors, by this aware 
 That bloody Mars recall'd them there, 
 One by one, and two by two, 
 To a mighty squadron grew. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Out then spake an aged Moor 
 In these words the king before, 
 "Wherefore call on us, oh King? 
 What may mean this gathering ? " 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama • 
 
 •*' Friends ! ye have, alas ! to know 
 Of a most disastrous blow, 
 That the Christians, stern and bold, 
 Have obtain' d Alhama's hold." 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama i 
 
 Out then spake old Alfaqui, 
 With his beard so white to see. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 ** Good King ! thou art justly served, 
 Good King ! this thou hast deserved. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " By thee were slain, in evil hour, 
 The Abencerrage, Granada's flower ; 
 And strangers were received by thee 
 Of Cordova the Chivalry. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 u And for this, oh King ! is sent 
 On thee a double chastisement : 
 Thee and thine, thy crown and realm, 
 One last wreck shall overwhelm. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 u He who holds no laws in awe, 
 He must perish by the law ; 
 And Granada must be won, 
 And thyself with her undone." 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyss> 
 The Monarch's wrath began to rise, 
 Because he answered, and because 
 He spake exceeding well of laws. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 " There is no law to say such things 
 As may disgust the ear of kings : " — 
 Thus, snorting with his choler, said 
 The Moorish King, and doom'd him dead. 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 Moor Alfaqui ! Moor Alfaqui ! 
 Though thy beard so hoary be, 
 The King hath sent to have thee seized, 
 For Alhama's loss displeased. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And to fix thy head upon 
 High Alhambra's loftiest stone ; 
 That this for thee should be the law, 
 And others tremble when they saw. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 "Cavalier, and man of worth ! 
 Let these words of mine go forth ; 
 Let the Moorish Monarch know, 
 That to him I nothing owe. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama 1 
 
 u But on my soul Alhama weighs, 
 And on my inmost spirit preys ; 
 And if the King his land hath lost, 
 Yet others may have lost the most. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Sires have lost their children, wives 
 Their lords, and valiant men their Uvea 
 One what best his lovo might claim 
 Hath lost, another wealth, or fame. 
 
 Woe is mo, Alhama ! 
 
 ($ I lost a damsel in that hour, 
 Of all the land the loveliest flower ; 
 Doubloons a hundred I would pay, 
 And think her ransom cheap that day.'" 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 And as these things the old Moor said, 
 They severed from the trunk his head : 
 And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 
 Twas carried, as the King decreed. 
 
 Woo is mo, Alhama ! 
 
 And mon and infants therein weep 
 Their loss, so heavy and so deep : 
 Granada's ladies, all she rears 
 Within her walls, burst into tears. 
 
 Woe is mo, Alhama ! 
 
 And from the windows o'er the walls 
 The sable web of mourning falls ; 
 The King weeps as a woman o'er 
 His loss, for it is much and sore. 
 
 Woe is me, Alhama ! 
 
 TO THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 My boat is on the shore, 
 And my bark is on tho sea ; 
 
 But, before I go, Tom Moore, 
 Here's a double health to thee ! 
 
 Here's a sigh to those who lovo me, 
 And a smile to those who hate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky's above me, 
 Here's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around me, 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 
 Though a desert should surround ma, 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were't tho last drop in tho well, 
 As I gasped upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirit fell, 
 'Tis to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wino, 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be — peace with thine and mi no 
 
 And a health to thee, Ten: Mooro. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE SONG. 
 
 Ah ! Love was never yet without 
 The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
 Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
 While day and night roll darkling by. 
 
 Without one friend to hear my woe, 
 I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
 That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 
 Alas ! I find them poison'd too. 
 
 Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
 Which Love around your haunts hath set ; 
 Or, circled by his fatal fire, 
 Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 
 
 A bird of free and careless wing 
 Was I, through many a smiling spring ; 
 But caught within the subtle snare 
 I burn, and feebly flutter there. 
 
 Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain, 
 Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
 The cold repulse, the look askance, 
 The lightning of Love's angry glance. 
 
 In flattering dreams I deem'd thee mine ; 
 Now hope, and he who hoped, decline ; 
 Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
 I feel my passion, and thy power. 
 
 My light of life ! ah, tell me why 
 That pouting Hp, and alter'd eye ? 
 My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 
 And art thou changed, and canst thou hat© S 
 
 Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow : 
 What wretch with me would barter woe ? 
 My bird ! relent : one note could give 
 A charm to bid thy lover live. 
 
 My curdling blood, my madd'ning braiii, 
 In silent anguish I sustain ; 
 And still thy heart, without partaking 
 One pang, exults — while mine is breakings 
 
 Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
 Thou canst not murder more than now : 
 I've lived to curse my natal day, 
 And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 
 
 My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
 Can patience preach thee into rest ? 
 Alas ! too late, I dearly know 
 ' That joy is harbinger of woo. 
 
A king sate on the rocky brow 
 That o'erlooks sea- born S alarms. 
 
 Don Juan, canto iii., 86, v. 4. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 i , lit 
 
 THE ISLES OF GREECE * 
 
 The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 
 
 Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
 Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 
 
 Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung 1 
 Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
 But all, except their sun, is set. 
 
 The Scian and the Teian muse, 
 
 The hero's harp, tho lover's lute, 
 Have found the fame your shores refuse ; 
 
 Their place of birth alone is mute 
 To sounds which echo further west 
 Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest. "1" 
 
 The mountains look on Marathon — 
 
 And Marathon looks on the sea ; 
 And musing there an hour alone, 
 
 I dream' d that Greece might still be fre« ; 
 For standing on the Persians' grave, 
 I could not deem myself a slave. 
 
 A king sat on the rocky brow 
 
 Which looks o'er sea-bom Salamis ; 
 And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
 
 And men in nations ; — all were his ! 
 He counted them at break of day — 
 And when the sun set, where were they ?* 
 
 And where are they ? and where art thou, 
 My country ? On thy voiceless shore 
 
 Tho heroic lay is tuneless now — 
 The heroic bosom beats no more ! 
 
 And must thy lyre, so long divine, 
 
 Degenerate into hands liko mine ? 
 
 • The Heces following, to the end, are, from their great beauty and anot j«tlcakfeli 
 tL&iacter, extracted from Don Juan. 
 
 f The " /stands of the Blest," of the Greek poets were supposed to b*Yt» httu tut, 0^ c 
 Li V»id Ulauda or the Canaries. 
 
 X " Deep were the groans of Xerxes, when he saw 
 This havoc ; for his seat, a lofty mound 
 Commanding the wide sea, o'erlook'd the host:. 
 With rueful cries he rent his royal robes, 
 And through his troops embattled on the ihor* 
 Gave signal of retreat ; then started wild 
 And fled disorder'*! "— JSacHYUJS. 
 
BYRON'S P02KS. 
 
 'Tis something, in the dearth of fame, 
 Though link'd among a fetter 'd race, 
 
 To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
 Even as I sing, suffuse my face ; 
 
 For what is left the poet here ? 
 
 For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 
 
 Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 
 
 Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled* 
 Earth ! render back from out thy breast 
 
 A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
 Of the three hundred grant but three, 
 To make a new Thermopylae ! 
 
 What, silent still ? and silent all ? 
 
 Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
 Bound like a distant torrent's fall, 
 
 And answer, ' ' Let one living head, 
 But one arise, — we come, we come ! " 
 'Tis but the living who are dumb. 
 
 In vain — in vain ; strike other chords ; 
 
 Fill high the cup with Samian wine ! 
 Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 
 
 And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
 Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
 How answers each bold Bacchanal ! 
 
 You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
 Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx \ione 1 
 
 Of two such lessons, why forget 
 The nobler and the raanlicr one ? 
 
 You have the letters Cadmus gave — 
 
 Think ye he meant them for a slave ? 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 We will not think of themes like thes& 
 It made Anacreon's song divine : 
 
 He served — but served Polycrate3 — 
 A tyrant ; but our masters then 
 Were still, at least, our countrymen. 
 
 The tyrant of the Chersones« 
 
 Was freedom's best and bravest friend 
 That tyrant was Miltiades ! 
 
 Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
 Another despot of the kind ! 
 Such chains as his were sure to bind. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 On Suli's rock, and Parga's shore, 
 Exists the remnant of a line 
 
 Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 
 And there, perhaps, some seed is sowzx? 
 The Heracleidan blood might own. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
 They have a king who buys and sells : 
 
 In native swords, and native ranks, 
 The only hope of courage dwells ; 
 
 But Turkish force and Latin fraud 
 
 Would break your shield, however broad. 
 
 Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 
 
 Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- 
 I see their glorious black eyes shine ; 
 
 But gazing on each glowing maid, 
 My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
 To think such breasts must sucklo slave*. 
 
 Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
 Where nothing save the waves and I, 
 
 May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
 There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 
 
 A land of slaves shall no'er be mino — 
 
 Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 
 
 FAME. 
 
 •Vtiat is the end of Fame ! Tis but to fill 
 A certain portion of uncertain paper : 
 
 Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 
 Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour ; 
 
 For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill. 
 And bards burn what they call their " midnight ta 
 
 To have, when the original is dust, 
 
 A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 
 
 What are the hopes of man ? Old Egypt's King 
 
 Cheops erected the first pyramid 
 And largest, thinking it was just tha thing 
 
 To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid ; 
 B>it somebody or other rummaging 
 
 Burglariously broke his coffin's lid ; 
 hct not a monument give you or mo hopes, 
 Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 The wind 
 
 Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
 And though 'twas not much to a naval mind, 
 
 Some landsmen would have look'd a littlo 
 For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 
 
 At sunset they began to take in sail. 
 For the sky show'd it would come on to blo^, 
 And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 At one o r clock the wind with sudden shift 
 Threw the ship right into the trough of the sea, 
 
 Which struck her aft, and made an awkward rift. 
 Started the stern-post, also shatter' d the 
 
 Whole of her stern-frame, and, ere she could lift 
 Herself from out her present jeopardy, 
 
 The rudder tore away : 'twas time to sound 
 
 The pumps, and there were four feet water found. 
 
 One gang of people instantly was put 
 
 Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
 To get. up part of the cargo, and what not ; 
 
 But they could not come at the leak as yet ; 
 At last they did get at it really, but 
 
 Still their salvation was an even bet : 
 The water rush'd through in a way quite puzzling, 
 While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales of muslin, 
 
 Into the opening ; but all such ingredients 
 
 Would have been vain, and they must have gone dowi\ 
 Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 
 
 But for the pumps ; I'm glad to make them known 
 To all the brother tars who may have need hence ; 
 
 For fifty tons of water were upthrown 
 By them per hour, and they had all been undone, 
 But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London. 
 
 As day advanced, the weather seem'd to abate, 
 And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 
 
 And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yet 
 Kept two hand and one chain pump still in use. 
 
 The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
 A squall came on, and while some guns broke loot*, 
 
 A gust — which all descriptive power transcends— 
 
 Laid with one blast the ship on her beam ends. 
 
 There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset ; 
 
 The water left the hold, and wash'd the decks, 
 And made a scene men do not soon forget ; 
 
 For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 
 Or any other thing that brings regret, 
 
 Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, or neofei : 
 Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the divers, 
 And swimmers, who may chance to be survivors. 
 
 Immediately the masts were cut away, 
 
 Both main and mizen ; first the mizen went. 
 The main-mast follow'd : but the ship still lay 
 
 Like a mere log, and baffled our intent. 
 Foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and they 
 
 Eased her at last (although we never meant 
 To part with all till every hope was blighted), 
 
 And then with violence the old ship righted. 
 
 It may be easily supposed, while this 
 Was going on, some people were unquiet, 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON 3 (/AN. 
 
 That passengers would find it much amiss 
 To lose their lives as well as spoil their diet ; 
 
 That even the able seaman, deeming his 
 Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 
 
 As upon such occasions tars will ask 
 
 For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the cask. 
 
 There's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calma 
 
 As rum and true religion : thus it was, 
 Some plunder' d, some drank spirits, some sung psalma, 
 
 The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
 The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fright cured th 
 qualms 
 
 Of all the luckless landsm»3n's sea-sick maws : 
 Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
 Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 
 
 Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
 Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, 
 
 Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
 It with a pair of pistols ; and their fears, 
 
 As if Death were more dreadful by his door 
 Of fire than water, spite of oaths and team, 
 
 Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 
 
 Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 
 
 u Give us more grog," they cried, "for it will ba 
 All one an hour hence." Juan answer 'd, " No ! 
 
 'Tis true that death awaits both you and me, 
 But let us die like men, not sink below 
 
 Like brutes : " — and thus his dangerous post kept ha, 
 And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 
 
 A.nd even Pedrillo, his most reverend tutor, 
 
 ^as for some rum a disappointed suitor. 
 
 The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 
 And made a loud and pious lamentation, 
 
 Repented all his sins, and made a last 
 Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 
 
 Nothing should tempt him more (this peril past) 
 To quit his academic occupation, 
 
 In cloisters of the classic Salamanca, 
 
 To follow Juan's wake, like Sancho Panca. 
 
 But now there came a flash of hope once more ; 
 
 Day broke, and the wind lull'd : the masts were gonft, 
 The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no shoro, 
 
 The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 
 They tried the pumps again, and though before 
 
 Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless grown, 
 ±± glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 
 The stronger pump'd, the wc^fcer thrumm'd a sail. 
 
 Under the vessel's keel the sail was pass'd, 
 And for the moment it had some effect ; 
 
 But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, 
 Nor rag of canvas, what could they expect t 
 
BYRONS'S rOEMS. 
 
 But still 'tis best to struggle to the last, * 
 
 Tis never too late to be wholly wreck'd : 
 And though 'tis true that man can only die once, 
 'Tis not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 
 
 There winds and waves had hurl'd them, and from thence 
 Without their will, they carried them away ; 
 
 For they were forced with steering to dispense, 
 And never had as yet a quiet day 
 
 On which they might repose, or even commence 
 A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
 
 The ship would swim an hour, which, by good lucfe. 
 
 Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 
 
 The wind in fact, perhaps, was rather less, 
 
 But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could hop* 
 
 To weather out much longer ; the distress 
 Was also great with which they had to cope 
 
 For want of water, and their solid mess 
 Was scant enough : in vain the telescope 
 
 Was used — nor sail nor shore appear' d in sight, 
 
 Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 
 
 Again the weather threaten' d — again blew 
 
 A gale, and in the fore and after hold 
 Water appear'd ; yet, though the people knew 
 
 All this, the most were patient, and some bold, 
 Until the chains and leathers were worn through 
 
 Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she roll'd, 
 At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
 Like human beings during civil war. 
 
 Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
 In his rough eyes, and told the captain, ho 
 
 Could do no more : he was a man in years, 
 
 And long had voyaged through many a stormy sen, 
 
 And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
 That made his eyelids as a woman's be ; 
 
 But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children — 
 
 Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 
 
 The ship was evidently settling now 
 
 Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 
 
 Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 
 Of candles to their saints — but there were nono 
 
 To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 
 Some hoisted out the boats ; and there was on** 
 
 That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 
 
 Who told him to be damn'd — in his confusion. 
 
 Some lash'd them in their hammocks ; some put on 
 
 Their best clothes, as if going to a fair ; 
 Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 
 
 And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore their hair ; 
 And others went on as they had begun, 
 
 Getting the boats out, being well aware, 
 That a tight boat will live in a rough sea, 
 Unleaa with breakers close beneath her le*. 
 
EXTRACTS FHOM DON JUAN. 
 
 The worst o*f all was, that in their condition, 
 Having been several days in great distress, 
 
 Twas difficult to get out such provision 
 As now might render their long suffering less : 
 
 Men, even when dying, dislike inanition ; 
 
 Their stock was damaged by the weather's stress l 
 
 Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, 
 
 Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 
 
 But in the long-boat they contrived to stow 
 
 Some pounds of bread, though injured by the wet 
 
 Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 
 
 Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to get 
 
 A portion of their beef up from belcw, 
 And with a piece of pork, moreover, met, 
 
 But scarce enough to serve them for a luncheon — 
 
 Then there was rum, eight gallons in a puncheon. 
 
 The other boats, the yawl and pinnace, had 
 Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 
 
 And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
 As there were but two blankets for a sail, 
 
 And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
 Threw in by good luck, over the ship's rail ; 
 
 And two boats could not hold, far less bo stored, 
 
 To save one half the people then on board. 
 
 'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down 
 Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 
 
 »Vhich, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown 
 Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 
 
 Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown, 
 And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale, 
 
 And the dim desolate deep : twelve days had Fear 
 
 Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 
 
 Some trial had been making at a raft, 
 
 With little hope in such a rolling sea, 
 A sort of thing at which one would have laugh'd, 
 
 If any laughter at such times could be, 
 Unless with people who too much have quaff'd, 
 
 And have a kind of wild and horrid glee, 
 Half epileptical, and half hysterical : — 
 Their preservation would have been a miracle. 
 
 At half-post eight o'clock, booms, hencoops, spat s, 
 And all things, for a chance, had been cast loose, 
 
 That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
 For yet they strove, although of no groat use : 
 
 Thcro was no light in heaven but a few stars, 
 The boats put off, o'ercrowded with their cretrs ,* 
 
 She gave a heel, and then a lurch to port, 
 
 And, going down headforemost — sunk, in short. 
 
 Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 
 
 Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the bra7?,- 
 
 Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yoli, 
 As eager to anticipate their grave ; 
 
»YKON*S POEMS. 
 
 And the sea yawn'd around her like a hell, 
 
 And down she suck'd with her the whirling w&t^w 
 Like one who grapples with his enemy, 
 And strives to strangle him before he die. 
 
 Ai,d first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
 Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash 
 
 Of echoing thunder ; and then all was hush'd, 
 Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 
 
 Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
 
 . Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 
 
 A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 
 
 Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 
 
 The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
 And in them crowded several of the crew ; 
 
 And yet their present hope was hardly more 
 Than what it had been, for so strong it blew ? 
 
 There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; 
 And then there were too many, though so few-*™ 
 
 Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 
 
 Were counted in them when they got afloat. 
 
 Juan got into the long-boat, and there 
 Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 
 
 It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
 For Juan wore the magisterial face 
 
 Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo's pai* 
 Of eyes were crying for their owner's case : 
 
 Battista, though (a name call'd shortly Tita), 
 
 Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 
 
 Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save ; 
 
 But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 
 Left him so drunk, he jump'd into the wave, 
 
 As o'er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, 
 And so he found a wine-and- watery grave ; 
 
 They could not rescue him although so close, 
 Because the sea ran higher every minute, 
 And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 
 
 A small old spaniel, — which had been Don Jose'a, 
 His father's, whom he loved, as ye may think, 
 
 For on such things the memory reposes 
 With tenderness — stood howling on the brink ? 
 
 Knowing (dogs have such intellectual noses !), 
 No doubt, the vessel was about to sink ; 
 
 And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd 
 
 Off, threw him in, and after him he leap'd. 
 
 He also stuff'd his money where he could * 
 
 About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 
 Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
 
 Not knowing what himself to say or do, 
 As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 
 
 But Juan, trusting they might still get through 
 And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 
 Thug re-embark' d his tutor and his spaniel. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 Twas a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 
 That the sail was becalm' d between the seas, 
 
 Though on the wave's high top too much to set, 
 They dared not take it in for all the breeze : 
 
 Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them wet. 
 And made them bale without a moment's ease, 
 
 So that themselves as well as hopes were damp'd, 
 
 And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 
 
 Nine souls more went in her : the long-boat still 
 Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 
 
 Two blankets stitch'd together, answering ill 
 Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast ; 
 
 Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill, 
 And present peril all before surpass' d, 
 
 They grieved for those who perish'd with the cutter, 
 
 And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 
 
 The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
 Of the continuance of the gale : to run 
 
 Before the sea until it should grow fine, 
 Was all that for the present could be done : 
 
 A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
 Were served out to the people, who begun 
 
 To faint, and damaged bread wet through the bags, 
 
 And most of them had little clothes but rags. 
 
 They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
 
 Which left scarco room for motion or exertion ; 
 
 They did their best to modify their case, 
 
 One half sate up, though nuinVd with the immcrsi- n 
 
 While t'other half were laid down in their place, 
 
 At watch and watch ; thus, shivering like the tertian 
 
 Ague in its cold fit, they fill'd their boat, 
 
 With nothing but the sky for a great coat. 
 
 'Tis very certain the desire of life 
 
 Prolongs it : this is obvious to physicians, 
 
 When patients, neither plagued with friends nor wife, 
 Survive through very desperate conditions, 
 
 Because they still can hope, nor shines the knife 
 Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 
 
 Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 
 
 And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 
 
 'Tis thus with people in an open boat, 
 They live upon the love of life, and bear 
 
 More than can be believed, or even thought, 
 
 And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and toax ; 
 
 And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, 
 
 Since Noah's ark went cruising here and there ; 
 
 She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 
 
 Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 
 
 But man is a carnivorous production, 
 And must have meals, at least one meal a day; 
 
 He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, 
 But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey ; 
 
BTRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Although his anatomical construction 
 
 Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, 
 Your labouring people think beyond all question, 
 Beef, veal, and mutton better for digestion. 
 
 And thus it was with this our hapless crew ; 
 
 For on the third day there came on a calm, 
 And though at first their strength it might renew. 
 
 And, lying on their weariness like balm, 
 Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 
 
 Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm, 
 And fell all ravenously on their provision, 
 Instead of hoarding it with due precision. 
 
 The consequence was easily foreseen — 
 They ate up all they had, and drank their wine> 
 
 In spite of all remonstrances, and then 
 
 On what, in fact, next day were they to dine ? 
 
 They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish men \ 
 And carry them to shore ; these hopes were fine* 
 
 But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 
 
 It would have been more wise to save their victufi. 
 
 The fourth day came, but not a breath of air, 
 And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'd child : 
 
 The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there ; 
 The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and mild— - 
 
 With their one oar (I wish they had had a pair) 
 What could they do ? and hunger's rage grew wild 
 
 So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 
 
 Was kilFd, and portion'd out for present eating. 
 
 On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
 And Juan, who had still refused, because 
 
 The creature was his father's dog that died, 
 Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 
 
 With some remorse received (though first denied) 
 As a great favour one of the fore-paws, 
 
 Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 
 
 Devour' d it, longing for the other too. 
 
 The seventh day and no wind — the burning sun 
 Blister 'd and scorch 'd, and, stagnant on the eett, 
 
 They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none, 
 Save in the breeze that came not ; savagely 
 
 They glared upon each other : all was done, 
 Water, and wine, and food, — and you might sea 
 
 The longings of the cannibal arise 
 
 (Although they spoke not) in their wolfish eyes. 
 
 At length one whisper'd his companion, who 
 Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 
 
 And then into a hoarser murmur grew, 
 An ominous, and wild, and desperate sound ; 
 
 And when his comrade's thought each sufferer knoi?, 
 'Twas but his own, suppress'd till now, he found : 
 
 And out they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 
 
 And who should die to bo bi^, fellow's food. 
 
EXTRACTS Jb'UOAl DON' JJAX 
 
 And the same night there fell a shower of rain, 
 
 For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of oarti 
 
 When dried to summer dust ; till taught by pain, 
 Men really know not what good water 's worth ; 
 
 If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
 Or with a famish' d boat's-crew had your berth, 
 
 Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, 
 
 You'd wish yourself where Truth is —in a well. 
 
 It pour'd down torrents, but they were no richer 
 Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 
 
 Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 
 And when they deem'd its moisture was complete. 
 
 They rung it out ; and though a thirsty ditcher 
 
 Might not have thought the scanty draught so swe*»t 
 
 As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 
 
 They ne'er till now had known the joys of drinking. 
 
 There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
 
 And with them their two sons, of whom the one 
 
 Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
 But ho died early ; and when he was gone, 
 
 His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
 
 One glance at him, and said, "Heaven's will be d m* ! 
 
 I can do nothing," and ho saw him thrown 
 
 Into the deep without a tear or groan. 
 
 The other father had a weaklier child, 
 
 Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate ; 
 But tho boy bore up long, and with a mild 
 
 And patient spirit held aloof his fate ; 
 Little he said, and now and then ho smiled, 
 
 As if to win a part from off the weight, 
 He saw increasing on his father's heart, 
 With the deep deadly thought, that they must part. 
 
 And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
 His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 
 
 From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed, 
 And when the wish'd-for shower at length was com<% 
 
 And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, 
 Brighten'd, and for a moment seem'd to roam, 
 
 He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain 
 
 Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 
 
 The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
 And look'd upon it long, and when at Lap* 
 
 Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
 Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, 
 
 He watch'd it wistfully, until away 
 'Twos borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast , 
 
 Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shiveriug, 
 
 And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. 
 
 Now overhead a rainbow, bursting througn 
 The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the dark sta, 
 
 Resting its bright base on the quivering blue ; 
 And all within its arch appear' d to bo 
 
686 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
 
 Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free. 
 Then changed liko to a bow that's bent, and the© 
 Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck'd men. 
 
 It changed, of course ; a heavenly chameleon, 
 
 The airy child of vapour and the sun, 
 Li ought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 
 
 Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 
 Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 
 
 And blending every colour into one, 
 Just like a black eye in a recent scuffle 
 (For sometimes we must box without the muffle). 
 
 Our shipwreck'd seamen thought it a good omen—* 
 
 It is well to think so, now and then ; 
 'Twas an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 
 
 And may become of great advantage when 
 Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 
 
 Had greater need to nerve themselves again 
 Than these ; and so this rainbow look'd like hope—* 
 Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 
 
 About this time a beautiful white bird, 
 
 Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size 
 And plumage (probably it might have err'd 
 
 Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, 
 And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
 
 The men within the boat ; and in this guise 
 It came and went, and flutter' d round them till 
 Night fell : — this seem'd a better omen still. 
 
 But in this case I also must remark, 
 
 'Twas well this bird of promise did not perch, 
 
 Because the tackle of our shatter'd bark 
 Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 
 
 And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
 Returning there from hei successful search, 
 
 Which in their way that moment chanced to fall, 
 
 They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 
 
 With twilight it again came on to blow, 
 But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 
 
 The boat made way ; yet now they were so low, 
 They knew not where, nor what, they were about , 
 
 Somo fancied they saw land, and some said " No ! " 
 The frequent fog-banks gave them cause to doubtr— 
 
 fiome swore that they heard breakers, others guns, 
 
 And all mistook about the latter once. 
 
 As morning broke, the light wind died away, 
 When he who had the watch sung out and swort 
 
 If 'twas not land that rose with the sun's ray, 
 He wish'd that land he never might see more : 
 
 And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay, 
 
 Or thought they saw, and shaped their course for shor» ; 
 
 For shore it was, and gradually grew 
 
 Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JTJAH. 
 
 And then of these some part burst into tears, 
 And others, looking with a stupid stare, 
 
 Could not yet separate their hopes from fears, 
 And seem'd as if they had no further care ; 
 
 While a few pray'd — (the first time for some years)— 
 And at the bottom of the boat three were 
 
 Asleep : they shook them by the hand and head, 
 
 And tried to awaken them, but found them dead. 
 
 The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 
 They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind, 
 
 And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her, 
 Which yielded a day's life, and to their mind 
 
 Proved even still a more nutritious matter, 
 Because it left encouragement behind : 
 
 They thought that, in such perils, more than chanoe 
 
 Had sent them this for their deliverance. 
 
 The land appear' d a high and rocky coast, 
 And higher grew the mountains as they drew, 
 
 Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 
 In various conjectures, for none knew 
 
 To what part of the earth they had been toss'd, 
 So changeable had been the winds that blew ; 
 
 Some thought it was Mount -^Etna, some the highland* 
 
 Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 
 
 Meantime the current, with a rising gale, 
 Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 
 
 Like Charon's bark of spectres, dull and pale : 
 Their living freight was now reduced to four, 
 
 And three dead, whom their strength could not avail 
 To heave into the deep with those before, 
 
 Though the two sharks still follow'd them, and dash\i 
 
 The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 
 
 As they drew nigh the land, which now was seen 
 
 Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
 They felt the freshness of its growing green, 
 
 That waved in forest tops, and smoothed the air, 
 And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 
 
 From glistening waves, and skies so hot and bare- 
 Lovely seem'd any object that should sweep 
 Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 
 
 The shore look'd wild, without a trace of man, 
 And girt by formidable waves ; but they 
 
 Were mad for land, and thus their course they raa. 
 Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 
 
 A reef between them also now began 
 
 To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, 
 
 But finding no place for their landing better, 
 
 They ran the boat ashore, — and overset her. 
 
 But in his native stream, the Guadalquiver, 
 Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont ; 
 
 And having learnt to swim in that sweet river f 
 Had often turn'd the art to some account ! 
 
BY ROW "3 POEMS. 
 
 A better swimmer you could .scarce see ever, 
 
 He could, perhaps, have pass'd the Hellespont, 
 As once (a feat on which ourselves we prided) 
 Leander, Mr. Ekenhoad, and I did. 
 
 So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
 He buoy'd his boyish limbs, and strove to ply 
 
 With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
 The beach which lay before him, high and dry : 
 
 The greatest danger here was from a shark, 
 That carried off his neighbour by the thigh ; 
 
 As for the other two, they could not swim, 
 
 So nobody arrived on shore but him. 
 
 Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 
 Which providentially for him, was wash'd 
 
 Just as his feeble arms could strike go more, 
 
 And the hard wave o'erwhelm'd him as 'twas da/JiM 
 
 Within his grasp : he clung to it, and sore 
 The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 
 
 At last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, ho 
 
 Roll'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea • 
 
 There, breathless, with his digging nails he clung* 
 Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
 
 From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, 
 Should suck him back to her insatiate grave : 
 
 And there he lay, full length, where he was flun£, 
 Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 
 
 With just enough of life to feel its pain, 
 
 And deem that it was saved, perhaps, in vain. 
 
 With slow and staggering effort he arose, 
 
 But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
 And quivering hand ; and then he look'd for those 
 
 Who long had been his mates upon the sea ; 
 But none of them appear' d to share his woes, 
 
 Save one, a corpse, from out the famish'd three. 
 Who died two days before, and now had found 
 An unknown barren beach for burial-ground. 
 
 And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fast, 
 And down he sunk ! and as he sunk, the sand 
 
 Swam round and round, and all his senses pass'd (. 
 He fell upon his side, and his stretch' d hand 
 
 Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), 
 And, like a wither'd lily, on the land, 
 
 His slender frame and pallid aspect lay, 
 
 As fair a thing as e'er was form'd of clay. 
 
 How long in his damp trance young Juan lay 
 He knew not, for the earth was gone for him> 
 
 And Time had nothing more of night nor day 
 For his congealing blood, and senses dim ; 
 
 And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
 He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb. 
 
 And tingling vein, seem'd throbbing back to life, 
 
 For Death, though vanquished, still retired with strife- 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 
 For all was doubt and dizziness ; he thought 
 
 Ho still was in the boat, and had but dozed, 
 And felt again with his despair o'erwrought, 
 
 And wish'd it death in which he had reposed, 
 
 And then once more his feelings back were brought, 
 
 And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 
 
 A lovely female face of seventeen. 
 
 Twas bending close o'er his, and tke small mouth 
 Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 
 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 Recall'd his answering spirits back from death ; 
 
 And, bathing his chill temples, tried to soothe 
 Each pulse to animation, till beneath 
 
 Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
 
 To these kind efforts made a low reply. 
 
 Then was the cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 
 Around his scarce-clad limbs ; and the fair arm 
 
 Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 
 Pillow'd his death-like forehead ; then she wrung 
 His dewy curls, long drench'd by every storm ; 
 
 And watch'd with eagerness each throb that drew 
 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. 
 
 And lifting him with care into the cave, 
 The gentle girl, and her attendant — one 
 
 Young, yet her elder, and of brow less graved 
 And more robust of figure, — then begun 
 
 To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
 
 Light to the rocks that roof d them, which tho w.va 
 
 Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
 
 She was, appear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 
 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were roll'd 
 In braids behind ; and though her stature were 
 
 Even of the highest for a female mould, 
 They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her air 
 
 There was a something which bespoke command, 
 
 As one who was a lady in the land. 
 
 Her hair, I said was auburn ; but her eyes 
 Were black as death, their lashes the same buo, 
 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 
 Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 
 
 Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 
 Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew, 
 
 *Tis as the snake late coil'd, who pours his length, 
 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strength. 
 
 Her brow was white and low, her cheek's pure rtys 
 Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 
 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips ! that make as sigh 
 Ever to have soen such : for she was one 
 
 2 y 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Fit for the model of a statuary 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all's done— 
 I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 
 Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 
 
 And suoh was she, the lady of the cave : 
 
 Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 
 
 Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave ; 
 
 For, as you know, the Spanish women banish 
 
 Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wa<to 
 Around them (what I hope will never vanish) 
 
 The basquina and the mantilla, they 
 
 Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 
 
 But with our damsel this was not the case 
 Her dress was many-colour'd, finely spun ; 
 
 Her locks curl'd negligently round her face, 
 
 But through them gold and gems profusely sheno ; 
 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 
 Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious stone 
 
 Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was shocking, 
 
 Her small snow feet had slippers, but no stocking. 
 
 The other female's dress was not unlike, 
 
 But of inferior materials ; she 
 Had not so many ornaments to strike, 
 
 Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
 Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, 
 
 Was coarser ; and her air, though firm, less free • 
 Her hair was thicker, but less long ; her eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 
 And these two tended him, and cheer'd him both 
 With food and raiment, and those soft attentiona 
 
 Which are (as I must own) of female growth, 
 And have ten thousand delicate inventions : 
 
 They made a most superior mess of broth, 
 A thing which poesy but seldom mentions, 
 
 But the best dish that e'er was cook'd since Homar'ti 
 
 Achilles order' d dinner for new comers.* 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear 
 At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 
 ?v'he so/ig and oar of Adria's gondolier, 
 By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep ; 
 
 * " Patroclus o'er the blazing nre 
 Heaps in a brazen vase three chines entire : 
 The brazen vase Automedon sustains, 
 Wuich flesh of porket, sheep, and goat contains." 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 'Tis sweet to see the evening star appear : 
 
 'Tis sweet to listen as the night- winds creep 
 From leaf to leaf ; 'tis sweet to view on high 
 lUhe rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky. 
 • 
 
 Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark 
 
 Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
 Our coming, and look brighter when we come ; 
 
 'Tis sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 
 Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 
 
 Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds, 
 
 The lisp of children, and their earliest worda. 
 
 Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapeo 
 
 In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
 Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes 
 
 From afosg* revelry to rural mirth ; 
 Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, 
 
 Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 
 Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
 Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 
 
 Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 
 The unexpected death of some old lady, 
 
 Or gentleman of seventy years complete, 
 
 Who've made " us youth " wait too, too long already,, 
 
 For an estate, or cash, or country seat, 
 Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
 
 That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
 
 Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits. 
 
 'Tis sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels, 
 By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 
 
 To strife ; 'tis sometimes sweet to have our quarrer, 
 Particularly with a tiresome friend : 
 
 Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels ; 
 Dear is the helpless creature we defend 
 
 Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 
 
 We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 
 
 But sweeter still than this, than these, than all, 
 Is first and passionate love — it stands alone, 
 
 Like Adam's recollection of his fall ; 
 
 The tree of knowledge has been pluck' d — all's knowa- 
 
 And life yields nothing further to recall 
 Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 
 
 No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven 
 
 fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour, 
 The time, the clime, the spot, where I bo oft 
 
 Rave felt that moment in its fullest power 
 Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, 
 
 While swung the deep bell in the distant tower, 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
 
 And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with prayer. 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of prayer ! 
 
 Ave Maria ! 'tis the hour of love ! 
 Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare 
 
 Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
 Ave Maria ! oh that face so fair ! 
 
 Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty dove— 
 What though 'tis but a pictured image ? — strike — 
 That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like. 
 
 Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 
 In nameless print — that I have no devotion ; 
 
 But set those persons down with me to pray, 
 And you shall see who has the properest notion 
 
 Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 
 My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
 
 Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the great Whole, 
 
 Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 
 
 Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 
 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
 Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 
 
 Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'er, 
 To where the last Cesarean fortress stood, 
 
 Evergreen forest ! which Boccacio's lore 
 And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 
 
 The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 
 Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 
 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
 And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; 
 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 
 
 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng 
 
 Which learn' d from this example not to fly 
 
 From a true lover — shadow'd my mind's eye. 
 
 Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things* — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ; 
 
 • §M Frajpasnt of SappHo. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAU. 
 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
 
 Are gather' d round us by thy look of rest ; 
 Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breavt. 
 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn apart ; 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way, 
 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! * 
 
 When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
 
 Which ever the destroyer yet destroy* d, 
 Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 
 
 Of nations freed and the world overjoy'd, 
 Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his tomb : f 
 
 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when powor 
 
 Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 
 
 HAIDEE. 
 
 They carpeted their feet 
 On crimson satin, border'd with pale blue ; 
 
 Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
 Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new ; 
 
 The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) 
 Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre givw 
 
 A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 
 
 Meridian-like, were seen all light to issue. 
 
 Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 
 
 Had done their work of splendour ; Indian mata 
 And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to stain, 
 
 Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and cat3, 
 And dwarfs and blacks, and such like things, that gan. 
 
 Their bread as ministers and favourites — (that's 
 To say, by degradation) — mingled there 
 
 As plentiful as in a court, or fair. 
 
 There was no want of lofty mirrors, and 
 The tables, most of ebony inlaid 
 
 • " Era gia 1' ora che volge '1 desio, 
 
 A' navigaiiti, e 'utenerisce 11 cnore ; 
 Lo di eh' han detto a' dolcf amicl a dlo ; 
 
 E che lo nuovo peregrin' d' amore 
 Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, 
 Che paia ' giorno pianger che si niuore.* 
 
 Dantk's Purgatory , oanto viii 
 It last line U the first of Gray'* Elegy, taken by him without acknowledgment. 
 Suetouiu* for this fact 
 
094 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 With mother-of-pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 
 Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 
 
 Fretted with gold or silver : — by command, 
 The greater part of these were ready spread 
 
 With viands and sherbets in ice — and wine — 
 
 Kept for all comers, at all hours to dine. 
 
 Of all the dresses 1 select HaideVs : 
 She wore two jelicks — one was of pale yellow ; 
 
 Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 
 
 'Neath which her breast heaved like a little billow? * 
 
 With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, 
 All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, 
 
 And the striped white gauze baracan that bound her, 
 
 Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round her. 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
 
 Lockless — so pliable from the pure gold 
 That the hand stretch' d and shut it without harm, 
 
 The limb which it adorn' d its only mould ; 
 So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
 
 And clinging as if loath to lose its hold, 
 The purest ore inclosed the whitest skin 
 That e'er by precious metal was held in.* 
 
 Around, as princess of her father's land, 
 
 A like gold bar above her instep roird,"t 
 Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on her hand; 
 
 Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's fine fold 
 Below her breast was fasten' d with a band 
 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 
 Above the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
 Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the sun 
 
 Dyes with his morning light, — and would conceal 
 Her person if allow'd at large to run, J 
 
 And still they seem resentfully to feel 
 
 The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
 
 Their bonds whene'er some zephyr caught began 
 
 To offer his young pinion as her fan. 
 
 Round her she made an atmosphere of life, 
 The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 
 
 They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
 With all we can imagine of the skies, 
 
 v 
 
 * This dress is Moorish, and the bracelets and bar are worn in the manner described. 
 The reader -will perceive, hereafter, that §s the mother of Haidee was of Fez, her daughter 
 wore the garb of the country. 
 
 t The bar of gold above the instep is a mark of sovereign rank in the women of th» 
 families of the deys, and is worn as such by their female relatives. 
 
 X This is no exaggeration : there were four women whom I remember to have eeen, 
 who possessed their hair in this profusion ; of these, three were English, the other was a 
 Levantine. Their hair was of that length and quantity, that, when letdown, it almost 
 entirely shaded the person, so as nearly to render dress a superfluity. Of these, only one 
 had dark hair ; the Oriental's had, perhaps, the lightest colour of the four. 
 
EXTRACT3 FROM BON J UAH. 
 
 And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
 
 Too pure even for the purest human tiea ; 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were ti::-cju 
 (It is the country's custom), but in vain ; 
 
 For those large black eyes were so blackly friDgckl, 
 The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, 
 
 And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
 Her nails were touch' d with henna ; but agaLi 
 
 The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 
 
 They could not look more rosy than before. 
 
 The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
 The skin relieved appear more fairly fair ; 
 
 She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 
 On mountain-tops more heavenly white than her 
 
 The eye might doubt if it were well awake, 
 She was so like a vision ; I might err, 
 
 But Shakspeare also says, 'tis ^ry silly 
 
 "To gild refined gold, or paint the lily." 
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 
 
 But now at thirty years my hair is gray — 
 (I wonder what it will be like at forty ? 
 
 I thought of a peruke the other day — ) 
 
 My heart is not much greener ; and, in short, I 
 
 Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, 
 And feel no more the spirit to retort ; I 
 
 Have spent my life, both interest and principal, 
 
 And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible. 
 
 No more— no more — Oh ! never more on me 
 The freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
 
 Which out of all the lovely things wo see 
 Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 
 
 Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee, 
 Think' st thou the honey with those objects gretp ? 
 
 Alas ! 'twas not in them, but in thy power 
 
 To double even the sweetness of a flower. 
 
 No more — no more — Oh ! never more, my heart, 
 Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ! 
 
 Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 
 
 Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 
 
 The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art 
 Insensible, I trust, but none the worse, 
 
 And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, 
 
 Though Heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
 
 Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure ; 
 
 And the two last have left me many a token, 
 O'er which reflection may be made at leisure : 
 
 Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I've spoken, 
 
 " Time is, Time was, Time 's past : " — a chymic treasure 
 
 Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes— 
 
 My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 
 
 THE SLAVE-MARKET. 
 
 *Twas a raw day of Autumn's bleak beginning 1 , 
 When nights are equal, but not so the days ; 
 
 The Parea) then cut short the farther spinning 
 Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests raise 
 
 The waters, and repentance for past sinning 
 In all, who o'er the great deep take their ways : 
 
 They vow to amend their lives, and yet they don't ; 
 
 Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared, they won't. 
 
 A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation, 
 And age, and sex, were in the market ranged ; 
 
 Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 
 
 Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly changed. 
 
 All save the blacks seemed jaded with vexation, 
 
 From friends, and home, and freedom far estrangoa , 
 
 The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 
 
 Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 
 
 Like a backgammon-board the place was dotted 
 With whites and blacks, in groups on show for sale, 
 
 Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
 
 Some bought the jet, while others chose the pale. 
 
 It chanced amongst the other people lotted, 
 A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 
 
 With resolution in his dark grey eye, 
 
 Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 
 
 He had an English look ; that is, was square 
 In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, 
 
 Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown hair, 
 And, it might be from thought, or toil, or study, 
 
 An open brow, a little mark'd with care : 
 One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 
 
 And there he stood with such sangfroid, that greatsr 
 
 Could scare be shown even by a mere spectator. 
 
 Just now a black old neutral personage 
 Of the third sex stept up, and peering over 
 
 The captives, seem'd to mark their looks and age, 
 And capabilities, as to discover 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 If they were fitted for the purposed cage : 
 
 No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 
 Horse by a blackleg", broadcloth by a tailor, 
 Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 
 
 As is a slave by his intended bidder. 
 
 'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures ; 
 And all are to be sold if you consider 
 
 Their passions, and are dext'rous ; some by feature* 
 Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 
 
 Some by a place— as tend their years or natures ; 
 The most by ready cash — but all have prices, 
 From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 
 
 The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care, 
 
 Turn'd to the merchant, and began to bid 
 First but for one, and after for the pair ; 
 
 They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so they did I 
 As though they were in a mere Christian fair 
 
 Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid ; 
 So that their bargain sounded like a battle 
 
 For this superior yoke of human cattle. 
 
 At last they settled into simple grumbling, 
 
 And pulling out reluctant purses, and 
 Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
 
 Some down, and weighing others in their hand, 
 And by mistake sequins with paras jumbling, 
 
 Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 
 And then the merchant, giving change, and signing 
 Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 
 
 I wonder if his appetite was good ? 
 
 Or, if it were, if also his digestion ? 
 Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might intrude, 
 
 And conscience ask a curious sort of question 
 About the right divine, how far we should 
 
 Sell flesh and blood. When dinner has oppressed 0 
 I think it is, perhaps, the gloomiest hour 
 Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 The heart which may bo broken : happy they ? 
 
 Thrico fortunate ! who of that fragile mould, 
 The precious porcelain of human clay, 
 
 Break with the first fall : they can ne'er behold 
 The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 
 
 And all which must be borne, and never told ; 
 While life's strange principle will often lie 
 Deepest in those who long the most to die. 
 
698 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 H Whom the gods love dio young," was said of yore,* 
 And many deaths do they escape by this : 
 
 The death of friends, and that which slays even more — 
 The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
 
 Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
 Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
 
 The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
 
 Which men w«ep over may be meant to save. 
 
 The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
 The least glance better understood than words, 
 
 Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much ; 
 A language, too, but like to that of birds, 
 
 Known but to them, at least appearing such 
 As but to lovers a true sense affords ; 
 
 Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd 
 
 To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard : 
 
 All these were theirs, for they were children still, 
 And children still they should have ever been ; 
 
 They were not made in the real world to fill 
 A busy character in the dull scene, 
 
 But like two beings born from out a rill, 
 A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 
 
 To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 
 
 And never know the weight of human hours. 
 
 Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found 
 Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys 
 
 As rarely they beheld throughout their round ; 
 And these were not of the vain kind which cloyg, 
 
 For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
 By the mere senses ; and that which destroys 
 
 Most love — possession, unto them appear'd 
 
 A thing which each endearment more ende&r'd. 
 
 THE ASSASSINATION. 
 
 The other evening ('twas on Friday last) — 
 
 This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
 Just as my great coat was about me cast, 
 
 My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
 1 heard a shot — 'twas eight o'clock scarce past- - 
 
 And, running out as fast as I was able,i* 
 I found the military commandant 
 Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to paat. 
 
 * See Herodotus. 
 
 f The assassination alluded to took place on the 8th of December, 1820, in the efattft* o 
 Ravenna, not a hundred paces from the residence of the writer. The circumstwaee 
 were aa described. 
 
EST11ACTS FROM DON JUAJ*. 
 
 (599 
 
 Poor fellow ! for some reason, surety bad, 
 
 They had slain him with five slugs ; and left him there 
 
 To periah on the pavement : so I had 
 
 Him borne into the house and up the stair, 
 
 And stripp'd, and look'd to, — But why should I add 
 More circumstances ? vain was every care ; 
 
 The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 
 
 Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 
 
 I gazed upon him, for I knew him well ; 
 
 And though I have seen many corpses, never 
 Saw one, whom such an accident befell, 
 
 So calm ; though pierced through stomach, heart, und lire*, 
 He seem'd to sleep, — for you could scarcely tell 
 
 (As ho bled inwardly, no hideous river 
 Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead : 
 So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 
 
 " Can this be death ? then what is life or death ? 
 
 Speak ! " but he spoke not : 44 wake !" but still ho slept : — 
 44 But yesterday, and who had mightier breath '{ 
 
 A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
 In awe : ho said, as the centurion saith, 
 
 i Go,' and he goeth ; 4 come,' and forth he stepp'd. 
 The trump and bugle, till he spake, were dumb ; 
 And now, nought left him but the muffled drum." 
 
 And they who waited once and worshipp'd — they 
 With their rough faces throng'd about the bed 
 
 To gaze once more on the commanding clay, 
 
 Which for the last, though not the first, time bled : 
 
 And such an end ! that he who many a day 
 Had faced Napoleon's foes imtil they fled, — 
 
 The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 
 
 Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 
 
 AULD LANG SYNE. 
 
 AND all our little feuds, at least all mine, 
 Dear J effrey, once my most redoubted foe 
 
 (As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
 To make such puppets of us things below), 
 
 Are over : Here's a health to 44 Auld Lang Syns i 
 I do not know you, and may never know 
 
 Your face — but you have acted on the whole 
 
 Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. 
 
roo 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS 
 
 And when I use the phrase of " Auld Lang Syne [ n 
 'Tis not address'd to you — the more's the pity 
 
 For me, for I would rather take my wine 
 With you, than aught (save Scott) in your proud city. 
 
 But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's whine, 
 And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 
 
 But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred 
 
 A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, — 
 
 As u Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland, one and all, 
 Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear 
 streams, 
 
 The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black wall* 
 All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 
 
 Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall. 
 Like Banquo's offspring ; — floating past me seems 
 
 My childhood in this childishness of mine : 
 
 I care not — 'tis a glimpse of " Auld Lang Syne." 
 
 And though, as you remember, in a fit 
 
 Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 
 
 I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 
 Which must be own'd was sensitive and surly, 
 
 Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit, 
 
 They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early ; 
 
 I " scotch' d, not kill'd," the Scotchman in my blood, 
 
 And love the land of " mountain and of flood." 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 
 Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but stir 
 
 She could not from the spot, and the loud roar 
 Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her ; 
 
 And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, 
 
 Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were 
 
 Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high — 
 
 Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die. 
 
 Anon — she was released, and then she stray'd 
 O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet, 
 
 And stumbled almost every step she made : 
 And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 
 
 • The brig of Don, near the " auld tmin" of Aberdeen, with its one arch, and iti black 
 deep salmon stream below, is in my memory as yesterday. I still remember, though 
 perhaps I may misquote, the awful proverb which made me pause to cross it, and yet lean 
 over it with a childish delight, being an only son, at least by the mother's side. The 
 laying as recollected by me was this, but I have never heard or seen it since I was uiaj 
 fears of age *— 
 
 •* Brig of Balgounie, black's your wo', 
 Wi* a wife's ae son, and a mear'a aefoal, 
 ItoKn y© shall £a' J " 
 
BTXTRACT3 FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 701 
 
 Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid : 
 
 'Twas white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meot 
 Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and grasp'd, 
 And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 
 
 The dream changed : — in a cave she stood, its walls 
 
 Were hung with marble icicles ; the work 
 Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 
 
 Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and Itu k ; 
 Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 
 
 Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and rnirk 
 The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught, 
 Which froze to marble as it fell, — she thought. 
 
 And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet, 
 
 Vale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow, 
 
 Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet 
 Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now ! ), 
 
 Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
 Of his quench' d heart ; and the sea dirges low 
 
 Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 
 
 And that brief dream appear 'd a life too long. 
 
 FAME. 
 
 OF poets who come down to us through distance 
 Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame, 
 
 Life seems the smallest portion of existence ; 
 Where twenty ages gather o'er a name, 
 
 'Tis as a snowball which derives assistance 
 From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 
 
 Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow ; 
 
 But, after all, 'tis nothing but cold snow. 
 
 And so great names are nothing more than nominal, 
 
 And love of glory 's but an airy lust, 
 Too often in its fury overcoming all 
 
 Who would as 'twere identify their dust 
 From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all, 
 
 Leaves nothing till " the coming of the just " — 
 Save change : I've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
 And heard Troy doubted ; timo will doubt of Rom*. 
 
 The very generations of the dead 
 
 Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 
 
 Until the memory of an age is fled, 
 And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom : 
 
 Where are the epitaphs our fathers read ? 
 Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom 
 
 Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneatli, 
 
 And lose their own in universal death. 
 
702 
 
 BYRON'S POSMS. 
 
 I canter by the spot each afternoon 
 
 Where perish' d in his fame the hero-boy, 
 
 Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
 For human vanity, the young De Foix ! 
 
 A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, 
 But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 
 
 Records Kavenna's carnage on its face, 
 
 While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.* 
 
 I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid : 
 A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 
 
 Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 
 To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column : 
 
 The time must come, when both alike decayed, 
 The chieftain's trophy and the poet's volume, 
 
 Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth, 
 
 Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 
 
 Yet there will still be bards : though fame is smoko, 
 Its fumes are frankincense to human thought ; 
 
 And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
 Song in the world, will seek what then they sought ; 
 
 As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 
 Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought 
 
 Dash into poetry, which is but a passion, — 
 
 Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion. 
 
 If in the course of such a life as was 
 At once adventurous and contemplative, 
 
 Men who partake all passions as they pass, 
 Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 
 
 Their images again as in a glass, 
 
 And in such colours that they seem to live ; 
 
 You may do right forbidding them to show 'ej& 9 
 
 But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 
 
 LOVE AND GLORY. 
 
 0 LOVE ! 0 Glory ! what are ye who fly 
 
 Around us ever, rarely to alight ? 
 There's not a meteor in the polar sky 
 
 Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight* 
 Chill, and chain' d to cold earth, we lift on high 
 
 Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 
 A thousand and a thousand colours they 
 Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 
 
 * The pillai which records the battle of Ravenna is about two miles from the city, on 
 the opposite side of the river to the road towards Porll. Gaston de Foix, who gAinvd 
 the lattle. was killed in it : there fell on both sides twenty thousand men The preset 
 
 state ot the pillar and its site is described in the te:sfc. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DOW JUAN. 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 A VEIN had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes* 
 Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er ; 
 
 And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 
 
 O'ercharged with rain ; her summon'd handmaids bora 
 
 Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
 Of herbs and cordials they produced their store, 
 
 But she defied all means they could employ, 
 
 Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 
 
 Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill— 
 With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
 
 She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still ; 
 No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead ; 
 
 Corruption came not in each mind to kill 
 All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 
 
 New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul — 
 
 She had so much, earth could not claim the whole. 
 
 The ruling passion, such as marble shows 
 When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, 
 
 But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 
 O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair ; 
 
 O'er the Laocoon's all-eternal throes, 
 And ever-dying Gladiator's air, 
 
 Their energy like life forms all their fame, 
 
 Yet looks not life, for they are still the same. — 
 
 She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
 Rather the dead, for life seem'd something now, 
 
 A strange sensation which she must partake 
 Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 
 
 Struck not her memory, though a heavy ache 
 Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true 
 
 Brought back the sense of pain without the cause, 
 
 For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 
 
 She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 
 On many a token without knowing what ; 
 
 She saw them watch her without asking why ; 
 And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 
 
 Not speechless, though she spoke not ; not a sigh 
 Relieved her thoughts ; dull silence and quick chat 
 
 Were tried in vain by those who served ; she gave 
 
 No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 
 
 • This 1b no very uncommon effect of the violence of conflicting and different passion*. 
 The Doge Francis Foscari, on his deposition in 1457, hearing the bells of St. Mark 
 announce the ejection of his successor, " mourut subitement d'une hemorragie causee 
 par une veine qui s'eclata dans sa poitrine" (see Sismondi and Daru, vols. L and ii.) at 
 Uie age of eighty years, when " Who would have thought the old man had to much blood 
 in him/" Before I was sixteen years of age, I was witness to a melancholy instance oi 
 the same effect of mixed passions upon a young person, who, however, did not die in 
 consequence, at that time, but fell a victim some years afterwards to a seizure of tin 
 same kiad. arising from causes intimately connected with agitation of mind. 
 
byron's poems. 
 
 Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not ; 
 
 Her father watch' d, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
 She recognized no being, and no spot, 
 
 However dear or cherish'd in their day ; 
 They changed from room to room, but all forget, 
 
 Gentle, but without memory she lay ; 
 At length those eyes, which they would fain be weanin 
 Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning ; 
 
 And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 
 
 The harper came, and tuned his instrument : 
 At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 
 
 On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
 Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp 
 
 Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re- sent 
 And he began a long low island song 
 Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong. 
 
 Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
 
 In time to his old tune ; he changed the theme, 
 
 And sung of love ; the fierce name struck through all 
 Her recollection : on her flash' d the dream 
 
 Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
 To be so being ; in a gushing stream 
 
 The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain, 
 
 Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. 
 
 Short solace, vain relief ! — thought came too quick, 
 And whirl'd her brain to madness ; she arose 
 
 As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, 
 And flew at all she met, as on her foes ; 
 
 But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, 
 
 Although her paroxysm drew towards its close ;-— 
 
 Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 
 
 Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. 
 
 Yet she betray' d at times a gleam of sense ; 
 
 Nothing could make her meet her father's face, 
 Though on all other things with looks intense 
 
 She gazed, but none she ever could retrace ; 
 Food she refused, and raiment ; no pretence 
 
 Avail'd for either ; neither change of place, 
 Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
 Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for ever. 
 
 Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus ; at last 3 
 
 Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show 
 A parting pang, the spirit from her pass'd : 
 
 And they who watch'd her nearest could not know 
 The very instant, till the change that cast 
 
 Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, 
 Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the black- 
 On ! to possess such lustre — and then lack I 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JOAA. 
 
 705 
 
 That isle is now all desolate and bare, 
 
 Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away ; 
 
 None but her own and father's grave is there,. 
 And nothing outward tolls of human clay : 
 
 Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
 No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 
 
 What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 
 
 Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. 
 
 THE BLACK FRIAR. 
 
 Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 
 
 Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
 For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air, 
 
 And his mass of the days that are gone. 
 When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville, 
 
 Made Norman Church his pre}'-, 
 And expell'd the friars, one friar still 
 
 Would not be driven away. 
 
 Though he came in his might, with King Henry's ripMy 
 
 To turn church lands to lay, 
 With sword in hand, and torch to light 
 
 Their walls, if they said nay ; 
 A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 
 
 And he did not seem form'd of clay, 
 For he's seen in the porch, and he's seen in the chuv^K. 
 
 Though ho is not seen by day. 
 
 And whether for good, or whether for ill, 
 
 It is not mine to say ; 
 But still with the house of Anrandeville 
 
 He abideth night and day. 
 By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said, 
 
 He flits on the bridal eve ; 
 And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death 
 
 He comes — but not to grieve. 
 
 When an heir is born, he's heard to mourn, 
 
 And when aught is to befall 
 That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 
 
 Ho walks from hall to hall. 
 His form you may trace, but not his face, 
 
 'Tis shadow'd by his cowl : 
 But his eyes may be seen from the folds batwoeo. 
 
 And they seem of a parted soul. 
 
 2 z 
 
706 
 
 BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friag^ 
 
 He still retains his sway, 
 For he is yet the Church's heir, 
 
 Whoever may be the lay. 
 Amundeville is lord by day, 
 
 But the monk is lord by night ; 
 Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal, 
 
 To question that friar's right. 
 
 Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 
 
 And he'll say nought to you ; 
 He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 
 
 As o'er the grass the dew. 
 Then grammercy ! for the Black Friar ; 
 
 Heaven sain him ! fair or foul, 
 And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 
 
 Let ours be for his soul. 
 
 NOKMAN OR NEWSTEAD ABBEY. 
 
 To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, — 
 
 An old, old monastery once, and now 
 Still older mansion, — of a rich and rare 
 
 Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
 Few specimens yet left us can compare 
 
 Withal : it lies perhaps a little low, 
 Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind 
 To shelter their devotion from the wind. 
 
 It stood embosom' d in a happy valley, 
 
 Crown' d by high woodlands, where the Druid oak 
 Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 
 
 His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thunderstroke g 
 And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 
 
 The dappled foresters — as day awoke 
 The branching stag swept down with all his herd, 
 To quaff a brook which murmur' d like a bird. 
 
 Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 
 
 Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 
 
 By a river, which its soften' d way did take 
 In currents through the calmer water spread 
 
 Around : the wildfowl nestled in the brake 
 And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed ; 
 
 The troods sloped downwards to its brink, and stood 
 
 With their green faces fix'd upon the flood* 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 70/ 
 
 I ts outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 
 
 Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding 1 , 
 
 Ite shriller echoes — like an infant made 
 Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 
 
 Into a rivulet ; and thus allayed, 
 Pursued its course, now gleaming, and now hiding 
 
 Its windings through the woods ; now clear, now blus, 
 
 According as the skies their shadows threw. 
 
 A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 
 
 (While yet the church was Rome's) stood half apart 
 In a grand arch, which once screen'd many an aisle. 
 
 These last had disappear' d — a loss to art : 
 The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, 
 
 And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 
 Which mourn'd the power of time's or tempest's march, 
 In gazing on that venerable arch. 
 
 Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, 
 
 Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in stone ; 
 
 But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, 
 
 But in the war which struck Charles from his throne, 
 
 When each house was a fortalice — as tell 
 The annals of full many a line undone, — 
 
 The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 
 
 For those who knew not to resign or reign. 
 
 But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
 The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child, 
 
 With her Son in her bless'd arms, look'd round, 
 
 Spared by some chance when all beside was spoil'd ; 
 
 She made the earth below seem holy ground. 
 This may be superstition, weak or wild, 
 
 But even the faintest relics of a shrine 
 
 Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 
 
 A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
 
 Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 
 Through which the deepen'd glories once could en tar, 
 
 Streaming from off the sun like seraphs' wings, 
 Now yawns all desolate : now loud, now fainter, 
 
 The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and oft sing« 
 The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 
 Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 
 
 But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
 The wind is winged from one point of heaven, 
 
 There moans a strange unearthly sound, which then 
 Is musical — a dying accent driven , 
 
 Through the huge arch, which soars and sings again- 
 Some deem it but the distant echo given 
 
 Back to the night wind by the waterfall, 
 
 And harmonized by the old choral wall : 
 
 4d 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 Others, that some original shape, or form 
 
 Shaped by decay perchance, hath given the power 
 
 (Though less than that of Memnon's statue, warm 
 In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fixed hour) 
 
 To this grey ruin with a voice to charm, 
 
 Sad, but serene, it sweeps o'er tree or tower ; 
 
 The cause, I know not, nor can solve ; but such 
 
 The fact : — I've heard it, — once perhaps too much. 
 
 Amidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 
 Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings quaint — ■ 
 
 Strange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
 And here perhaps a monster, there a saint : 
 
 The spring gush'd through grim mouths of granite mad 
 And sparkled into basins, where it spent 
 
 Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 
 
 Like man's vain glory, and his vainer troubles. 
 
 The mansion's self was vast and venerable, 
 With more of the monastic than has been 
 
 Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were/stable, 
 The cells, too, and refectory, I ween ; 
 
 An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
 Still unimpair'd, to decorate the scene ; 
 
 The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk, 
 
 4 nd spoke more of the baron than the monk. 
 
 Hti^e halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, join'd 
 By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 
 
 Might shock a connoisseur ; but when combined, 
 Form'd a whole, which, irregular in parts, 
 
 Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 
 
 At least of those whose eyes are in their hearts. 
 
 JULIA'S PORTRAIT. 
 
 Her eye (I'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
 Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire 
 
 Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
 Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 
 
 And love than either ; and there would arise 
 A something in them which was not desire, 
 
 But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul 
 
 Which struggled through andchasten'd down the who! a 
 
 Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair, and smooth ; 
 
 Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow, 
 Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth, 
 
 Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow, 
 As if her veins ran lightning ; she, in sooth, 
 
 Possess'd an air and grace by no means common : 
 
 Her stature tali— I hate a dumpy wc)iua^. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 JUAN IN LOVE. 
 
 Young Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks. 
 Thinking unutterable things ; he threw 
 
 Himself at length within the leafy nooks 
 "Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew ; 
 
 There poets find material for their books, 
 
 And every now and then we read them through, 
 
 So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
 
 Unless, like Wordsworth, they prove unintelligible. 
 
 He (Juan, and not Wordsworth) so pursued 
 His self-communion with his own high soul, 
 
 Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 
 Had mitigated part, though not the whole 
 
 Of its disease ; he did the best he could 
 With things not very subject to control, 
 
 And turn'd, without perceiving his condition, 
 
 Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 
 
 He thought about himself, and the whole earth, 
 Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 
 
 And how the deuce they ever could have birth ; 
 And then he thought of earthquakes, and of wars. 
 
 How many miles the moon might have in girth, 
 Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
 
 To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; — 
 
 And then ho thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 
 
 In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 
 Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 
 
 Which some are born with, but the most part learn 
 To plague themselves withal, they know not why : 
 
 'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern 
 His brain about the action of the sky ; 
 
 If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, 
 
 I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 
 
 He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers. 
 
 And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 
 He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal bowers, 
 
 And how the goddesses came down to men : 
 He missed the pathway, he forgot the hours, 
 And when he look'd upon his watch again, 
 Ho found how much old Time had been a winner- 
 He also found that he had lost his dinner. 
 
 Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 
 
 Boscan, or Garcilasso ; — by the wind 
 Even as the page is rustled while we look, 
 
 So by the poesy of his own mind 
 Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 
 
 As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 
 Their spells, and give them to the passing galo, 
 According to some good old woman's tale. 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 A SCENE IN GREECE. 
 
 And further on a troop of Grecian girls, 
 
 The first and tallest her white kerchief waving, 
 
 Were strung together like a row of pearls, 
 Link'd hand in hand, and dancing ; each, too, having 
 
 Down her white neck long floating auburn curls — 
 (The least of which would set ten poets raving) ; 
 
 Their leader sang — and bounded to her song, 
 
 With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 
 
 And here, assembled cross-legg'd round their trays, 
 Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
 
 Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 
 And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 
 
 And sherbet cooling in the porous vase ; 
 Above them their dessert grew on its vine ; 
 
 The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er 
 
 Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck' d, their mellow store. 
 
 A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 
 There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ; 
 
 While peaceful, as if still an unwean'd lamb, 
 The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 
 
 His sober head, majestically tame, 
 Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 
 
 His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 
 
 Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 
 
 Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses, 
 Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic cheeks, 
 
 Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses, 
 The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks, 
 
 The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 
 Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
 
 So that the philosophical beholder 
 
 Sigh'd for their sakes— that they should e'er grow older ^ 
 
 Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
 To a sedate grey circle of old smokers, 
 
 Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
 Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, 
 
 Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, 
 Of rocks bewitch 'd that open to the knockers, 
 
 Of magic ladies, who by one sole act, 
 
 Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a fact;. 
 
 TWILIGHT. 
 
 Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 
 Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
 
 Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 
 Rooted where once the Adrian wave flow'd o'tr^ 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 To where the last Cesarean fortress stood, 
 Evergreen forest ! which Boccaccio's lore 
 And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to m% 
 How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 
 
 .^e shrill cicalas, people of the pine, 
 Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, 
 
 Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 
 And vesper bells that rose the boughs along ; 
 
 The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 
 
 His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng 
 
 Which learn' d from this example not to fly 
 
 From a true lover — shadow'd my mind's eye. 
 
 0 Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 
 Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
 
 To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, 
 The welcome stall to the o'erlabour'd steer ; 
 
 Whate'er of peace about our hearth-stone clings, 
 Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, 
 
 Are gather'd round us by thy look of rest ; 
 
 Thou bring* st the child, too, to the mother's breast. 
 
 Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart 
 Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
 
 When they from their sweet friends are torn apaH ; 
 Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 
 
 As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 
 Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
 
 Is this a fancy which our reason scorns ? 
 
 Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns ! 
 
 When Nero perish'd by the justest doom 
 Which ever the destroyer yet destroy 'd, 
 
 Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 
 
 Of nations freed, and the world overjoyM, 
 
 Some hands unseen strewM flowers upon his tomb : 
 Perhaps the weakness of a heart not voitl 
 
 Of feeling for some kindness done, when power 
 
 Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 
 
 A GROUP OF BEAUTIES. 
 
 Of those who had most genius for this sort 
 Of sentimental friendship, there were thrw, 
 
 Lolah, Katinka, and Dudu ; m short, 
 (To save description) fair as lair can bo 
 
 V/ ere they according to the best report, 
 Though differing in stature and decree, 
 
 And clime and time, and country and complcxica ; 
 
 They all alike admired their now connexion. 
 
BYRON'S .P03&3. 
 
 Lolah. was dusk as India, and as warm ; 
 
 Katinka was a Georgian, white and recJ, 
 With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 
 
 And feet so small they scarce seem'd made to 
 But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu's form 
 
 Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
 Being somewhat large, and languishing, and lazy, 
 Yet of a beauty that would drive you crazy. 
 
 A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 
 Yet very fit to "murder sleep" in those 
 
 Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
 Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose : 
 
 Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, 
 Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce loss* ; 
 
 Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where 
 
 It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 
 
 She was not violently lively, but 
 
 Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking ; 
 Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half-shut, 
 
 They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
 She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 
 
 From marble, like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
 The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
 And timidly expanding into life. 
 
 Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
 " Juanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 
 
 Katinka ask'd her also whence she came — 
 
 " From Spain."— "But where is Spain ?"—" Don't 
 ask such stuff, 
 
 Kor show your Georgian ignorance — for sharao ! " 
 Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 
 
 To poor Katinka : " Spain's an island near 
 
 Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 
 
 A PICTUKE. 
 
 She stood a moment as a Pythoness 
 Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full 
 
 Of inspiration gather'd from distress, 
 When all the heart-strings like wild horses p«!3 
 
 The heart asunder ; — then, as more or less 
 
 Their speed abated or their strength grew dull, 
 
 She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 
 
 And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling kuee3* 
 
 Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
 Fell in long tresses like the weeping willow p 
 
 Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 
 Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow. 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAV-'. 
 
 A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair 
 
 Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, 
 Which rushes to some shore whose shingles check 
 Its further course, but must receive its wreak. 
 
 Her head hung down, and her long hair in stooping 
 Conceal'd her features better than a veil : 
 
 And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, 
 White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 
 
 Would that I were a painter! to be grouping 
 All that a poet drags into detail ! 
 
 Oh that my words were colours ! but their tints 
 
 May serve perhaps as outlines or slight hints. 
 
 WAR. 
 
 All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 
 
 To wield them in their terrible array. 
 The army, like a lion from his den, 
 
 March' d forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay— 
 A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 
 
 To breathe destruction on its winding way, 
 Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain, 
 Immediately in others grew again. 
 
 History can only take things in tho gross : 
 But could we know them in detail, perchance 
 
 In balancing the profit and the loss, 
 War's merit it by no- means might enhance, 
 
 To waste so much gold for a little dross, 
 
 As hath been done, mere conquest to advance. 
 
 The drying up a single tear has more 
 
 Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 
 
 And why ? because it brings self-approbation ; 
 
 Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
 Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation, 
 
 Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, 
 A higher title, or a loftier station, 
 
 Though they may make Corruption gape or stard. 
 Yet in the end, except in Freedom's battles, 
 Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 
 
 And such they are, — and such they will bo found 
 
 Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
 Whose every battle-field is holy ground, 
 
 Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undonc- 
 How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound ! 
 
 While the mere victor's may appal or stun 
 The servile and the vain, such names will be 
 A watchword till the future shall be free. 
 
IS if RON'S .TOEMi!>. 
 
 CONTEMPORARY POETS. 
 
 Sir Walter reign' d before me ; Moore and Campbell 
 Before and after ; but now grown more holy, 
 
 The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 
 With poets almost Clergymen, or wholly ; 
 
 And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 
 
 Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 
 
 Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 
 
 A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 
 
 Still he excels that artificial hard 
 
 Labourer in the same vineyard, though the vine 
 Yields him but vinegar for his reward, — 
 
 That neutralized dull Dorus of the Nine ; 
 That swarthy Sporus, neither man or bard : 
 
 That ox of verse, who ploughs for every line : — 
 Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 
 The howling Hebrews of Cybele's priest. 
 
 Then there's my gentle Euphues ; who, they say, 
 
 Sets up for being a sort of moral me; 
 He'll find it rather difficult some day 
 
 To turn out both, or either, it may be. 
 Some persons think that Coleridge hath the sway ; 
 
 And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three ; 
 And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian " Savage Landor" 
 Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander. 
 
 John Keats, who was kill'd off by one critique, 
 Just as he really promised something great, 
 
 If not intelligible, without Greek 
 
 Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 
 
 Much as they might have been supposed to speak. 
 Poor fellow ! his was an untoward fate ; 
 
 'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,* 
 
 Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article. 
 
 The list grows long of liye and dead pretenders 
 To that which none will gain — or none will know 
 
 The conqueror at least ; who, ere Time renders 
 His last award, will have the long grass grow 
 
 Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders. 
 If I might augur, I should rate but low 
 
 Their chances ; — they're too numerous, like the thirty 
 
 Mock tyrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but dirty. 
 
 * " Divin» particulum aura." 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 WORLDLY WEALTH. 
 
 Why call the miser miserable ? as 
 
 T said before : the frugal life is his, 
 Which in a saint or cynic ever was 
 
 The theme of praise : a hermit would not miss 
 Canonisation for the selfsame cause, — 
 
 And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's austerities ? 
 Because, you'll say, nought calls for such a trial ; 
 Then there's more merit in his self-denial. 
 
 He is your only poet ; — passion, pure, 
 And sparkling on from heap to heap, displays 
 
 Possessed, the ore, of which mere hopes allure 
 Nations athwart the deep : the golden rays 
 
 Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure : 
 On him the diamond pours its brilliant blaze ; 
 
 While the mild emerald's beam shades down the dyea 
 
 Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 
 
 The lands on either side are his : the ship 
 From Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads 
 
 For him the fragrant produce of each trip ; 
 Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 
 
 And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
 His very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 
 
 While he, despising every sensual call, 
 
 Commands — the intellectual lord of all. 
 
 Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
 
 To build a college, or to found a race, 
 An hospital, a church, — and leave behind 
 
 Some dome surmounted by his meagre face. 
 Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
 
 Even with the very ore which makes them base ; 
 Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, 
 Or revel in the joys of calculation. 
 
 But whether all, or each, or none of these 
 May be the hoarder's principle of action, 
 
 The fool will call such mania a disease : — 
 What is his own % Go — look at each transaction, 
 
 Wars, revels, love — do these bring men more ease 
 Than the mere plodding through each " vulgar 
 fraction ? " 
 
 Or do they benefit mankind ? Lean miser ! 
 
 Let spendthrifts' heirs inquire of yours — who's wiser \ 
 
 How beauteous are rouleaus ! how charming chests 
 Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
 
 (Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
 Weigh not the thin ore where their visage sninec, 
 
BTROfl'g POEMS. 
 
 But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rest3 
 
 Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confinoa, 
 Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp :-~ 
 Yos ! ready money is Aladdin's lamp. 
 
 "Love rules the camp, the court, the grove, — for lovo 
 Is heaven, and heaven is love : — so sings the bard ; 
 
 Which it were rather difficult to prove, 
 (A thing with poetry in general hard). 
 
 Perhaps there may be something in " the grove," 
 At least it rhymes to " love :" but I'm prepared 
 
 To doubt (no less than landlords of their rental) 
 
 If " courts " and " camps " be quite so sentimental. 
 
 MATCH-MAKING. 
 
 How all the needy honourable misters, 
 Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 
 
 The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters, 
 (Who, by the by, when clever, are more handy 
 
 At making matches, where " 'tis gold that glisters," 
 Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy 
 
 Buzz round " the Fortune " with their busy battery, 
 
 To turn her head with waltzing and with flattery ! 
 
 Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation ; 
 
 Nay, married dames will now and then discover 
 Such pure disinterestedness of passion, 
 
 I've known them court an heiress for their lover. 
 " Tantsene ! M Such the virtues of high station, 
 
 Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet's "Dover ! " 
 While the poor rich wretch, object of these cares, 
 Has cause to wish her sire had had male heirs. 
 
 cJorao are soon bagg*d, and some reject three dozen. 
 
 Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 
 And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin, 
 
 (Friends of the party,) who begin accusals, 
 Such as — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chog<j 
 
 Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 
 To his billets ? Why waltz with him ? Why, I pray, 
 Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day ? 
 
 u Why ? — Why ? Besides, Fred really was attach' d j 
 
 'Twas not her fortune — he has enough without : 
 The time will come she'll wish that she had snatch & 
 
 So good an opportunity, no doubt : — 
 But the old Marchioness some plan had hatch'd, 
 
 As I'll tell Aurea at to-morrow's rout : 
 And after all poor Frederick may do bettor- 
 Pray, did you see her answer to his letter V* 
 
EXTRACTS FROM DON JUAN. 
 
 Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 
 Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 
 
 After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 
 Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives ; 
 
 And when at last the pretty creature gets 
 
 Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or drives,, 
 
 ft soothes the awkward squad of the rejected, 
 
 To find how very badly she selected. 
 
 QUIXOTISM. 
 
 Rough J ohnson, the great moralist, prof essM , 
 Eight honestly, "he liked an honest hater ! " 
 
 The only truth that yet has been confess'd 
 Within these latest thousand years, or later. 
 
 Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest : — 
 For my part I am but a mere spectator, 
 
 And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 
 
 Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephistophelcs ; 
 
 But neither love nor hate in much excess ; 
 
 Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer sometimes, 
 It is because I cannot well do less, 
 
 And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
 I should be very willing to redress 
 
 Men's wrongs, and rather check than punish crimes 
 Had not Cervantes, in that too true tale 
 Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fail. 
 
 Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad, 
 Because it makes us smile : his hero's right. 
 
 And still pursues the right ; to curb the bad 
 His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight 
 
 His guerdon : 'tis his virtue makes him mad ! 
 But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 
 
 A sorrier still is the great moral taught 
 
 By that real epic unto all who have thought. 
 
 Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 
 To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff ; 
 
 Opposing singly the united strong, 
 
 From foreign yoke to free the helpless native : — 
 
 Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song, 
 Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, 
 
 A jest, a riddle, Fame through thick and thin sought 
 
 And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote ? 
 
 Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away ; 
 
 A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
 Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 
 
 Has Spain had heroes. While Romance could charrj 
 
BYRON'S POEMS. 
 
 The world gave ground before her bright array ; 
 
 And therefore have his volumes done such hasx% 
 That all their glory, as a composition, 
 Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition. 
 
 HUMAN MOTIVES. 
 
 I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle 
 Whic^ with the landlord makes too long a stand; 
 
 Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 
 Especially with politics on hand ; 
 
 I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, 
 Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the sand j 
 
 I hate it as I hate an argument, 
 
 A laureate's ode, or servile peer's " content." 
 
 'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things, 
 They are so much intertwisted with the earth ; 
 
 So that the branch a goodly verdure flings, 
 I reck not if an acorn gave it birth. 
 
 To trace all actions to their secret springs 
 Would make indeed some melancholy mirtl* ; 
 
 But this is not at present my concern, 
 
 And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 
 
 TRUTH. 
 
 'Tis strange, but true ; for truth is always strange 
 Stanger that fiction : if it could be told, 
 
 How much would novels gain by the exchange ! 
 How differently the world would men behold I 
 
 How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 
 The new world would be nothing to the old, 
 
 If some Columbus of the moral seas 
 
 Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 
 
 Wliat " antres vast and deserts idle " then 
 Would be discover'd in the human soul I 
 
 What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 
 With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 
 
 What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 
 Of those who hold the kingdoms in control ! 
 
 Were things but only call'd by their right naise^ 
 
 Ceosar himself would be ashamed of fame. 
 
EXTRACT FROM DON JUAN. #19 
 
 DEFAMED PLEASURES, 
 
 Hie evaporation of a joyous day- 
 Is like the last glass of champagne, withe ui 
 
 The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 
 Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
 
 Or like a soda bottle when its spray 
 
 Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
 
 Or like a billow left by storms behind, 
 
 Without the animation of the wind ; 
 
 Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest, 
 Or none ; or like — like nothing that I know 
 
 Except itself ; — such is the human breast ; 
 A thing, of which similitudes can show 
 
 No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
 Dyed purple, none at present can tell how, 
 
 If from a shell-fish or from cochineal. 
 
 So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal ! 
 
 But next to dressing for a rout or ball, 
 
 Undressing is a woe ; our robe-de-chambre 
 May sit like that of Nessus, and recall 
 
 Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber, 
 Titus exclaim'd, " I've lost a day ! " Of all 
 
 The nights and days most people can remember, 
 (I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd,) 
 
 I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd. 
 
 •flYMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON.