y*0^ 
 

 BYRON GALLEEY 
 
 ENGRAVINGS 
 
n 
 
 r^ 
 
f 
 
 ^igljlg JTini0l)cir (jhtgratungs, 
 
 tLLUSTIATING 
 
 1®\R® [B^^0K1 3 S M®[SKg a 
 
 SELECTED BEAUTIES FROM HIS POEMS. 
 
 ELUCIDATED BY HISTORICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES; TOGETHER WITH A SKETCH OF 
 HIS LIFE, CONTAINING IMPORTANT AND UNPUBLISHED MATTER. 
 
 ROBERT B. M r GREG0R, ESQ. 
 
 Neva t}ark ; 
 PUBLISHED BY R. MARTIN, 
 
 46 ANN-STREET. 
 
^ 
 $ 
 
 /fl 
 
 ■v 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, 
 
 By Robert Martin, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of 
 
 New Tort 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 If the following work is considered in its 
 most prominent feature — as a collection of 
 engravings designed to illustrate the pro- 
 ductions of Lord Byron, — it will hardly fail, 
 upon its reception, to meet with some de- 
 gree of approbation. 
 
 The many admirers of the transcendent 
 genius of the gifted Poet, will appreciate a 
 design, which, if it does not adorn, may yet 
 lend additional interest to the invaluable 
 source from whence they have frequently 
 derived exquisite gratification and refined 
 pleasure. 
 
 Any creditable attempt to unite in closer 
 ties the younger Muse of Painting to its 
 elder and more dignified Sisters of Poetry, 
 will generally be productive of mutual bene- 
 fit to both. The chaste and ardent lover of 
 intellectual harmony may then view, at a 
 single glance, the proper embodiment of the 
 pleasing sound that charmed him, whilst 
 enjoying the sweet and lingering tones that 
 gave it birth. 
 
 Even the descriptive notes, like intrusive 
 links connecting them together, however 
 harsh and dissonant, may by their very de- 
 
 fects enhance the enjoyment caused by the 
 few strains presented of the delicious melody 
 which fond Memory remembers to have 
 heard with more perfect and deeper satis- 
 faction, and feels unwilling to have its ex- 
 cellence impaired, and gratified to find its 
 beauty unsurpassed. 
 
 To render this a worthy companion of 
 Lord Byron's Poems, as well as an attrac- 
 tive ornament for the drawing-room and 
 library, the publisher has spared neither 
 pains nor expense in procuring suitable em- 
 bellishments ; and the engravers employed 
 rank among the most celebrated in this 
 country and in Europe. 
 
 There are also two other objects intended 
 to be attained by this volume. To many, 
 the works of Lord Byron have been for- 
 bidden, and some have never read them, 
 having had their opinions biased by the 
 unfounded prejudice and calumny of others. 
 Should the selected beauties of his poems, 
 (in which there is nothing that can taint 
 the purest mind,) like alluring and glittering 
 gems, create a commendable cupidity in the 
 admiring novice, so as to render him unsatis- 
 
A\ 
 
 ' 
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1849, 
 
 By Robert Martin, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of 
 
 New York. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 If the following work is considered in its 
 most prominent feature — as a collection of 
 engravings designed to illustrate the pro- 
 ductions of Lord Byron, — it will hardly fail, 
 upon its reception, to meet with some de- 
 gree of approbation. 
 
 The many admirers of the transcendent 
 genius of the gifted Poet, will appreciate a 
 design, which, if it does not adorn, may yet 
 lend additional interest to the invaluable 
 source from whence they have frequently 
 derived exquisite gratification and refined 
 pleasure. 
 
 Any creditable attempt to unite in closer 
 ties the younger Muse of Painting to its 
 elder and more dignified Sisters of Poetry, 
 will generally be productive of mutual bene- 
 fit to both. The chaste and ardent lover of 
 intellectual harmony may then view, at a 
 single glance, the proper embodiment of the 
 pleasing sound that charmed him, whilst 
 enjoying the sweet and lingering tones that 
 gave it birth. 
 
 Even the descriptive notes, like intrusive 
 links connecting them together, however 
 harsh and dissonant, may by their very de- 
 
 fects enhance the enjoyment caused by the 
 few strains presented of the delicious melody 
 which fond Memory remembers to have 
 heard with more perfect and deeper satis- 
 faction, and feels unwilling to have its ex- 
 cellence impaired, and gratified to find its 
 beauty unsurpassed. 
 
 To render this a worthy companion of 
 Lord Byron's Poems, as well as an attrac- 
 tive ornament for the drawing-room and 
 library, the publisher has spared neither 
 pains nor expense in procuring suitable em- 
 bellishments ; and the engravers employed 
 rank among the most celebrated in this 
 country and in Europe. 
 
 There are also two other objects intended 
 to be attained by this volume. To many, 
 the works of Lord Byron have been for- 
 bidden, and some have never read them, 
 having had their opinions biased by the 
 unfounded prejudice and calumny of others. 
 Should the selected beauties of his poems, 
 (in which there is nothing that can taint 
 the purest mind,) like alluring and glittering 
 gems, create a commendable cupidity in the 
 admiring novice, so as to render him unsatis- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 fiod, until the exhaustless mine is explored 
 from whence they were extracted ; this, the 
 desired success of the first intention, will 
 then prove to be a lasting benefit. 
 
 Some conscientiously object to certain 
 portions of Byron's poems. These, alas ! 
 cannot now be remedied ; for though they 
 are loosely worded, they are also truthful 
 limnings of the depravity existing in the 
 world. The stern moralist who would pro- 
 scribe the many innocent beauties, solely for 
 the few lesser evils accompanying them, 
 should, to avoid contamination in a greater 
 matter, entirely withdraw from all society, 
 where vice exceeds ten thousandfold its op- 
 ponent virtue; and even then, he will be 
 more than mortal if his bigoted and un- 
 charitable thoughts do not constitute greater 
 temptations than those he fled from, and 
 lead him into worse errors than the follies 
 of those he hypocritically despises. 
 
 But the last object is the most important, 
 Most of the historians of Lord Byron's 
 
 melancholy career have, from malicious and 
 envious motives, distorted and exaggerated 
 his many faults. In the present sketch of 
 his life, the author sincerely deplores their 
 existence in the illustrious poet, so will not 
 garnish, or offer a single palliation for them : 
 but earnestly desires that his brighter and 
 better qualities may receive the praise they 
 deserve, his memory be cherished and not 
 vilified, and his deeds be weighed by the 
 world with scales whose beam consisting 
 of impartiality, has one balance of charity 
 and the other of self-conduct, and he eagerly 
 anticipates a worthier result. 
 
 If it be said of him, that the eyes 01 
 Friendship have been closed before stern 
 Justice, and fondly awakened to the softer 
 emotions of gentle Mercy, he humbly hopes 
 lie could deserve the compliment : but it 
 accused of wilfully perverting facts, he ar- 
 rogates to himself the satisfaction of plead- 
 ing before the bar of his own conscience, and 
 there being found — Not Guilty ! 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 FROM 178S TO 1807. 
 
 Ills ANCESTRY BIRTH AND PARENTAGE — BOYHOOD 
 
 AND EARLY LOVES EDUCATION, PURSUITS, AND 
 
 ASSOCIATES. 
 
 There have been so many volumes written 
 about Lord Byron, all so evidently colored with 
 pn judice, that tin- publisher thought a ne\i Biog- 
 raphy, embracing all the known facts of his life, 
 would be acceptable. This sketch will comprise 
 all that is really valuable and interesting to the 
 general reader, so as to presi nl a complete idea of 
 the man. We shall studiouslj avoid all el 
 
 on, and only aim at telling "a plain un- 
 varnished tale." For this purpose, we shall 
 avail ourselves of the various writers who have 
 treated this subject, and endeavor to avoid the 
 bias which too frequently tinges their nai 
 YV,' shall condense the pleasant gossip and per- 
 sonal reminiscences of Leigh Hunt. Moore, Med - 
 win, and Gait, and interweave with these a sim- 
 ple account of his life, as authenticated either by 
 himself en- his contemporaries: these we shall 
 illustrate with confirmatory extracts from his own 
 correspondence, so as to form a suci inct hut 
 comprehensive narrative of the most remarkable 
 . his era. The better to carrj out our 
 plan, we have divided the Biography; thus ex- 
 hibiting P ron a- i!i ■ I a ,\ , i lie student, the lover, 
 tin' poet, the man. and the p io 
 
 To write the impartial life of a man who filled 
 
 1CUOUS a position in t lie w i, rid'.. 
 
 blows so fiercely a: .ain I 
 - a i hough neai ly a gen- 
 
 eration ha- passed a\\a\ since he was laid in the 
 tomb. The difficulty is increased bj the fad 
 that a few of those still linger who were his 
 friends and his foes: above all. that one, whose 
 difference wiih him exercised so great an influ- 
 ence on his exist, tee. Byron was not one to 
 pursue the even tenor of his way without refer- 
 ence to his contemporaries : he was eminent l\ a 
 man at the mercy of almost everj onewithwhom 
 he came in contact, lie wanted more than any 
 celebrated man of his time that self-reliance and 
 repose which would have saved him man 
 
 trials. Of a highly sensitive nature, 
 quickened by circumstane. s into almo a morbid 
 slate, he viewed the simplest acts ami expres- 
 sions through a distorted medium, which made 
 his commonest intercourse with his friends one of 
 constant misconception and recrimination. This 
 destroyed many of his most valuable friend 
 and embittered much of Ins existence. There 
 was, however, more bitterness in las tongue than 
 in his heart : and one who knew him well has 
 
 1. tliai he Frequentlj had to lash himself 
 into a rage, before he could lind it in his heart to 
 abuse his assailants. He had pet antipathies, 
 which he took immense pains to Keep ali\ 
 in a vigorous state of hate. It is necessary to 
 keep this steadily in view, in order to nude 
 many of the prominent actions of his life ; other- 
 
 le appear, without this co 
 : ous, as almost to jt i cion of 
 
 occasional insanity. 
 
 In addition to this peculiar ti 
 circumstances of his life were of themselvi 
 ficient to destrov rhesuavitj ol a stoic, Much less 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 of one who sometimes was so morbid as to regard 
 even an inconvenient shower of rain as almost a 
 personal affront. 
 
 In order fully to understand the controlling, 
 or rather disturbing, influences of his career, it 
 will be necessary to glance at his ancestry, from 
 whence sprang that family pride so strangely at 
 variance witli the loftiest charaeteristii s of genius. 
 
 The Byron family had always been conspicuous 
 for the JierU of its nature. In the Civil Wars, 
 it took the shape of loyalty, and the besl of its 
 
 blood was shed on the field of battle, lighting for 
 
 the royal cause. In later times, a lord of that 
 name lived, who had much of the idiosyncracy 
 of the great poet, and with him commenced that 
 feud with the Chaworth family, which the author 
 
 of Childe Harold considered ought to have been 
 bealed bj his marriage with its lovely representa- 
 tive, Mary. So strongly did the peculiarities of 
 the poet's ancestor operate upon the ignorant 
 mind of In- tenantry, that they used to regard 
 him with a feeling almost amounting to supersti- 
 tion. There is little doubt hut that this man was 
 the original of Manfred. 
 
 From the fields of Calais, Cressy, Bosworth, 
 and Marston Moor, we pass to scenes more im- 
 mediately connected with the poet. Before, 
 however, finally abandoning his ancestry, we may 
 remark that the nobility of the family dates iw 
 origin from 1643, when Sir John Byron was 
 created Baron Byron of Rochdale, in Lancaster. 
 This is the cavalier so honorably noticed by the 
 writer of Colonel Hutchinson's memoirs. 
 
 By the maternal side. Byron had a still higher 
 claim to ancestral distinction, his mother being 
 one ..f the Cordon, of Gighl ; descended lineally 
 from Sir William Gordon, third son of the Earl 
 of Huntley, by the daughter of .lames the First. 
 
 The celebrity of the Byron name seemed to 
 slumber till 1T50. when the shipwreck and suf- 
 ferings of Admiral Byron, the poet's grandfather, 
 awakened the sympathy of the public. A few 
 yearsafter this — viz. in 1765 — the poet's grand- 
 uncle stood a prisoner at the bar of the House of 
 Lords, for killing, in a rencontre, his relative, Mr. 
 
 Chaworth ; and no sooner had the popular ex 
 citement of this died away, before it was again 
 roused by the still more painful event of the 
 poet's own father eloping with the Marchioness 
 of Carmarthen, whom, on the passing of the bill 
 of divorce, he afterwards married. From this 
 short union sprang the poet's half-sister Augusta. 
 now the Hon. Mrs. Leigh. The death of this 
 wife, in 17n4. enabled the poet's father to repair 
 his wasted finances, by marrying Catharine Gor- 
 don of Gight. This lady was the great poet's 
 mother, and from her he undoubtedly inherited 
 many of his vehemencies of disposition. That 
 Byron's father really loved her is uncertain. 
 Tile probable reason is that he wedded her to 
 repair his wasted estate; and the events which 
 rapidly succeeded this inauspicious union strongly 
 confirm it. In less than a year, the greater part 
 of her property was dissipated ; and before sin- 
 had been a wile two years, she found herself re- 
 duced to the comparatively small pittance of 
 £150 per annum. These pecuniary difficulties 
 compelled Mrs. Byron to retire to Fiance, from 
 whence she relumed towards the end of 1787. 
 
 In the following year, on tin- -_'L'd January, at 
 
 Holies Street, in London, George Cordon Byron, 
 the author of Don Juan, was born. 
 , Two years afterwards, Mrs. Byron took her 
 child to Aberdeen, where her husband joined 
 her. Here, however, the incompatibility of their 
 tempers again prevented their living together, 
 and. after a short time, they separated. Still, 
 the father seems to have had a lingering touch of 
 
 human nature in him: he occasionally a. -led 
 
 the child when out with his nurse ; for at this 
 time hi' had not left Aberdeen. 
 
 There is a tradition he one day solicited that 
 his child should remain with him the whole 
 night : but the infant Hercules of Poetry led his 
 papa such a life, that he was glad never to repeat 
 the invitation. Many stories are told of his juve- 
 nile violence ; but this is one of the imbecilities 
 of biography, for what child, whether fool or 
 poet, has not had his fits of violence ? Cutting 
 of teeth is not alone confined to genius. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 About this time the child began to be con- 
 scious of the inconvenience and annoyance of a 
 club-foot. This accident had occurred at the 
 time of his birth ; and although the celebrated 
 John Hunter applied palliatives, most of the 
 remedies used increased the evil. On this point, 
 even at this early age. he evinced extraordinary 
 sensitiveness ; and upon cursory allusions to his 
 malformation, he has cried out in his youthful 
 Scotch, " Dinna speak of it !" In after life he has, 
 however, been known, on one occasion at least, 
 to jest upon it, and say that the only two great 
 men besides himself had been lame. viz. : Scott 
 and Shakspeare. The limp of the latter he 
 founded upon a passage in his Sonnets. 
 
 Another sentence will finish our notice of the 
 poet's father. After a visit, in 1790, to Scotland, 
 taken for the sole purpose of extorting money 
 from his wife, he retired to Valenciennes, where 
 he died in the following year. That she enter- 
 tained a strong affection for her unworthy hus- 
 band, is apparent from a letter which has lately 
 been made public : 
 
 lo Mies. LEIGH. 
 
 "Aberdeen, August 23d, 1799. 
 " My dear Madam — 
 
 " You wrong me very much when you sup- 
 pose I would not lament Mr. Byron's death. It 
 has made me very miserable, and the more so 
 that I had not the melancholy satisfaction of see- 
 ing him before his death. If I had known of his 
 illness I would have come to him. I do not 
 think I shall ever get the better of it. Neces- 
 sity, not inclination, parted us, at least on my 
 part, and I flatter myself it was the same with 
 him ; and notwithstanding all his foibles — for 
 they deserve no worse name — I ever sincerely 
 loved him ; and believe me, my dear Madam, I 
 have the greatest regard and affection for you, 
 for the very kind part you have acted to poor 
 Mr. Byron, and it is a great comfort to me thai 
 he was with so kind a friend at the time of his 
 death. You say he was sensible to the last. 
 Did he ever mention me '? Was he long ill ? and 
 where was he buried ? Be so good as to write 
 
 all those particulars, and also send me some of 
 his hair. As to money matters, they are per- 
 fectly indifferent to me. I only wish there may 
 be enough to pay his debts, and to pay you the 
 money you have laid out on his account. 1 wish 
 it was in my power to do all this ; but a hun- 
 dred and fifty pounds a year will do little, which 
 is all I have, and am due a great deal of money 
 in this country. 
 
 " George is well. I shall be happy to let him 
 be with you sometimes, but at present he is my 
 only comfort, and the only thing that makes me 
 wish to live. I hope, if any thing should happen 
 to me, you will take care of him. 1 was not well 
 before, and I do not think I shall ever recover 
 the severe shock I have received. It was so un- 
 expected. If I had only seen him before he died ! 
 Did he ever mention me ? I am unable In I -a, 
 more. Believe me, yours, with sincere affection, 
 " C. Byron. 
 
 " Pray write soon." 
 
 In his fifth year he was sent to Mr. Bower's, 
 a day-school in Aberdeen, where he remained 
 nearly a twelvemonth. We will, however, con- 
 dense, from a sort of Diary he kept, called " My 
 Dictionary," an alphabet of his tutors. 
 
 Alluding to Aberdeen, he says : 
 
 "For several years of my earliest childhood I 
 was in this city, but I have never revisited it 
 since my tenth year. I was sent at live years 
 old, or earlier, to a school kept by a Mr. Bower. 
 who was called Boosey Bower. It was a schooi 
 for both sexes. I learned here little, except to 
 repeat by rote the first lesson of monosyllables, 
 such as God made man ! 
 
 " I was then consigned to a new preceptor, 
 called Ross, afterwards a minister of one of the 
 kirks. Under him I made extraordinary progress, 
 and I recollect to this day his mild manners and 
 good-natured painstaking. The moment I could 
 read, my grand passion was history. * * * 
 Afterwards I had a saturnine young man named 
 Paterson. He was the son of my shoemaker, 
 but a good scholar: with him I began Latin." 
 
 Moore relates that he is still remembered by 
 
I.] K E i) I-' LO R H B \ R (• N 
 
 many of his schoolfellows, and thai theii i 
 sion is that " he was a lively, warm-hearted, and 
 high-spirited boy — passionate and resentful, but 
 affectionate and companionable with his school- 
 fellows : to a remarkable degree adventurous and 
 feai less, and aln aj s moi givi a blow 
 
 than take one." 
 
 In the summer of 1796, after an al 
 scarlel fever, his mother removed him to the 
 Highlands. Th a farm-house in 
 
 the nei '• B illater, about forty miles 
 
 from Aberdeen. Here the dark summit of 
 Lochin-y-gair stood in gloom] 
 the eyes of the young bard ; and in after years 
 
 are weak enough to imagine that it re- 
 quires G to J spirit : 
 
 a wider knowledge of human nature coi 
 all that it will awake of itself, and defy outward 
 circumstance. Nature- has for a poet a thousand 
 aspects, and an old citj is as redolent of inspira- 
 tion to a Chatterton, 
 would be deficient of it to a man without genius. 
 
 It is related that here lie had a narrow escape 
 
 of his life, for in scramblingup some declivity he 
 
 tell. Already he was rolling downwards, whin 
 the attendant luckily caught hold of him. ami 
 was but just in time to save him from 
 killed. Great men have too many of tie 
 derful escapes to render them credible : we re- 
 ply like the man who had heard much about 
 i bat he had S« I tOO many in believe in 
 them ! 
 
 It was at this period — when he was not quite 
 
 eight years old — that he first fell in love, which 
 is an interesting fart, as a proof of the suscepti- 
 bility of his nature; although we are strongly of 
 opinion that this kind o( sympathy exists in most 
 persons earlier than is 1 i hject v( 
 
 his first attachment was Man Duff. Fears after 
 
 (in 1813), in his journal, he thus alludes to this 
 infantine amour : 
 
 •• 1 have been thinkin I lately of 
 
 Mary Dull'. How very odd that 1 should have 
 been so utterly, devotedly fond of that girl! 
 
 . too. when I could neither lee! pas-ion. 
 
 nor know the meaning of the word. * * * 
 
 ber, tOO, our walks, and the happiness 
 
 !i\ Mary in the children's apartments, 
 
 at their house, not far from the Plain Stones at 
 
 Aberdeen, while her lesser sister, Helen, played 
 
 with the doll, and we sal - lose, in 
 
 Our way ." 
 
 Byron goes on to say that her marriage in 
 
 after years was a thunderstroke to him. He 
 
 i this meministic vagary in his twenty- 
 
 We have here anticipated the chronol 
 
 iphy, and must therefore return. 
 
 On May 19, 1798 (then in his tenth year), 
 
 this young, wild runner about of the mountain 
 
 became, by the death of his grand-uncle, a Peer 
 
 ind. The next da] . the young po 
 
 to his ne. ther, and asked her if she " found out 
 
 anx difference between his being a Lord, for he 
 could DO 
 
 By th.' death, of his grand -uncle. Lord Car- 
 lisle, who was related to the family, became his 
 guardian; and in the autumn of 1 7 : < ^- . Mrs. 
 ad her son, attended by their faithful 
 domestic, May Gray, left Aberdeen for New stead 
 Abbey. 
 
 ■Tins sudden transition 
 
 scurity to comparative wealth and rank was a 
 great misfortune to the future poet. Under a 
 judicious mother, he might have avoided all the 
 
 ■ alar change in his position ; but 
 with a woman SO capricious as Mrs. Byron, every 
 
 - .1. Al one time she pelted — 
 at another, she reviled him : the result was that 
 the fulcrum of youthful i troyed, 
 
 and Byron grew up as he chose to mould him- 
 self. She has been known to forget herself so 
 i S i\ " ho was a- . a ml as 
 
 his father." and to reproach him with his lame- 
 ness. Byron, boy as he was. had too much of 
 the " divine afflatus" in him not to know that 
 this was outrageous; and thus the jt>;sti : i,- of 
 
 a parent being destroyed, he had little regard 
 for any established authority afterwards. All 
 
L I F E OF LORD B V R O N 
 
 laws are the remains of the ivvrivm-r wr feel I'm- 
 commands in our childhood; and when that is 
 withdrawn, the mind naturally falls into skepticism. 
 
 As though on purpose to render all things 
 unfavorable to his moral culture, the young lord 
 found, on his arrival at his family estates, that a 
 hah i of mysticism hung about the late lord. 
 This, no doubt, had its sinister influence on his 
 young fancy, and led to many thoughts, which 
 in time became habits. 
 
 Here another attempt was made to obviate his 
 lameness, by Mr. Lavender of Nottingham; but 
 his efforts mcl with no success, and he was com- 
 pelled to abandon his system, after having put 
 his patient to much torture. 
 
 In the summer of 1799, Mrs. Byron removed 
 her son to London, where he was put under the 
 care of Dr. Baillie. By his advice, he was placed 
 at Dr. Glennie's school, at Dulwich, near Nor- 
 wood, a beautiful village live miles from London. 
 Here he remained some time ; but the injudicious 
 influence of his mother did much to counteract 
 the good he would otherwise have received from 
 the regimen he underwent here. Mrs. Byron in- 
 terfered so frequently, that the interference of 
 his guardian, Lord Carlisle, was invoked. This 
 and all added to the confusion. 
 
 During his tuition here he saw Ma re-ant Parker, 
 to whom he attributes his first dash into poetry ; 
 and here he met with that book which gave rise 
 to some of the most exciting scenes in the ship- 
 wreck of Don Juan. 
 
 After being at Dr. Glennie's for two years, he 
 was removed to Harrow. Before, however, set- 
 tling there, he went with his mother, for a short 
 time, to Cheltenham. 
 
 On his arrival at Harrow, Byron found the 
 disadvantages of that shy disposition which had 
 led to so many misconceptions on the part of his 
 schoolfellows. 
 
 Dr. Drury was at this time head master of the 
 school, and we. are happy to be able to give his 
 opinion of Byron in his own words : 
 
 " Mr. Hanson, Lord Byron's solicitor, con- 
 signed him to me at the age of 13A, with remarks 
 
 that his education had been neglected, hut he 
 thought there was a cleverness about him. * 
 * * I soon found out that a wild mountain 
 colt had been submitted to my management!" 
 
 At Harrow, Byron made many acquaintances, 
 some of whom have achieved great fame — such 
 as Peel; and others of a moderate degree of re- 
 cognition, such ,'is Harness, Proctor, Sinclair, ifec. 
 Main tales are told of Byron's liking for Peel, 
 who was some years his younger, and we be- 
 lieve , li.lt th< ly event of his life which Peel 
 
 esteems above being prime minister of England, 
 
 is that of having been the schoolfellow of Byron. 
 
 In 1802, Byron visited Bath with his mother, 
 and on their return look up their lodging at Not- 
 tingham, Ncwstead Abbey being let at that lime 
 to Lord Grey de Ruthven. About this period 
 he became acquainted with that fair spirit whose 
 beauty was the lodestar of his soul. For six 
 weeks, he did little else save ride about with 
 Mary Chaworth ! He here, on the old terrace, 
 sal oft, "loosened into tears," while she sang 
 "Mary Anne." an old favorite English tune. 
 
 We cannot help saying that we think here 
 Byron made the goal error of his life, so far as 
 personal happiness was concerned. Miss Cha- 
 worth was full two years older than the young 
 lord, and we all know what a start two yen- 
 gives a girl. We have it in evidence that 
 Mary Chaworth considered her cousin a- a mere 
 wayward boy, to be petted ; but the boy was 
 not able to distinguish the petting, and hence the 
 misery. Had Byron been a few years older, 
 much anguish had been spared. We are aware 
 these regrets are very idle, although tliev are 
 natural, for poets are the mental cockchafers 
 through which the world puts its pin, that it may 
 enjoy iis writhings ; and while one says how ex- 
 quisitely it dances for our delight, another knows 
 how terribly it writhes for our warning. 
 
 How constantly and enduringly this vision of 
 the sweet girl hung over him, we have his own 
 evidence in the "Dream," written years after- 
 wards. Here often, at his desk in school, he 
 dreamed those dreams which douhlle-> have 
 
hi F E o K LO R D B 5 RON 
 
 more of pleasure in them than visions of sleep ; 
 but from a dream let us step to a small spot of 
 « 1i.it the world calls reality . and note this curious 
 extract from one of Byron's school books : 
 
 "George Gordon Byron — Wednesday, June 
 26, A. D. 1805; three-quarters of an hour pasl 
 ;; o'clock in the afternoon. Third school : Cal- 
 vert, monitor. Tom Wildman on my right hand ; 
 Harrow on tin' hill." 
 
 \\ hat a little, bul most significant world, does 
 this trifling memorandum let us into ! 
 
 This ends his life in Karrow.so far as the date 
 is concerned. Hovt fondlj he lingered over the 
 recollection of it. is known to all who take an in- 
 teresl in him, for il was here thai he ordered the 
 bodj of his child Mlegra to be brought from 
 [talj ; and beneath the spot he loved when a 
 boy, lies the frame of his natural daughter. 
 
 In October, 1805, he was removed to Trinitj 
 College, Cambridge; and atfirst, it appeals, he 
 little liked the change : the reflections he makes 
 are gloomy enough. In I sin; he rejoined his 
 
 mother at Southwell. It was here that he 
 
 formed the acquaintance of the Pigotts, Bechers, 
 
 &C. — families o\' standard respectability, and 
 
 for whom the poet always cherished a greal 
 
 ,1 
 
 At Cambridge, he had indulged his passion for 
 
 forming friendships. Among the most romantic 
 
 was one hecherished forayouth named Eddleston, 
 
 who was One of the choir. The poem entitled 
 
 •• The Cornelian" was written to him. 
 
 Here also he become attached to Edward Noel 
 Long, who was drow ned in 1800, •.'tx Ins passage 
 to Lisbon with his regiment. 
 
 Byron still retained that shyness of manners 
 
 which was the result of his secluded Highland 
 
 life. One who knew him then, writes of him 
 thus: 
 
 ••The first time I w a> introduced to him was 
 at a partj ai his mother's, when he was so shj 
 
 that she was forced to send for him three times 
 before she could persuade him lo come into the 
 
 drawing room to plaj with the young pi 
 
 a round game. He was then a fat, bashful boy, 
 
 with his hair combed .straight over his fore- 
 head." 
 
 lie corresponded at this time w ith many of 
 
 his Harrow friends — such as Lord Clare, Lord 
 
 PowerSCOUrt, William Peel, Harness. &c. The 
 
 earliest letters of his which have been preserved 
 
 are a few to Miss Pigott, dated 1804. The hand- 
 writing of these is very boyish, and the spelling 
 defective. 
 
 In L806 he had a quarrel with his mother. 
 
 which was of so violent a kind that he immedi- 
 ately left Newstead for London. It was on this 
 
 occasion that the tierce lady threw poker, tongs. 
 Ac., at his head She. however, lost no time in 
 following her truant son. and a reconciliation 
 ensued. 
 
 We have now sketched Byron from the infant 
 to his seventeenth year, at which time the desire 
 of " rushing into print" seized him. Hi- had in- 
 dulged in composition for some years, but now 
 he resolved to give to the world his poems. We 
 
 shall, however, reserve this for the next chapter. 
 
 1' A KT 1 1 . 
 
 V R.0 M 1807 TO IS \-2. 
 
 " ,u vi Mil v" — ■' HOURS OF IDLENESS" - JO! i.m v - 
 
 i, Ml. .VI SPAIN MALTA BR] 
 
 II KKI.V — RET! UN TO I SGI VM> DEATH Of HIS 
 
 MOTHER — PI Bl [CATION 0] " CHI] in H LRO] D." 
 
 \\ , now enter upon thai pal I of Byn 
 reer, from whence sprang his fame. It is an old 
 saving, that at some time in a man's lite he must 
 inevitably write verses, for poetrv is the (lower, if 
 love; and none exist who have not enduiedlhat 
 sweet calamity. 
 
 Of Byron's susceptibility to female influence 
 
 we have had ample evidence, and this would 
 nalurallv lead him to poetic musings. His wealth 
 
 would render smooth the difficulties of publish- 
 ing, and we regard, therefore, his becoming at) 
 auth a- as one of the necessities of his CO 
 lun that the hov who wrote the Juvenilia and 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 Hours of Idleness should prove one of the giants 
 of Parnassus, was more, however, than could be 
 expected. 
 
 It is a common practice among even the ad- 
 mirers of Byron to speak slightingly of his 
 "Hours of Idleness" — turning from it as from a 
 very commonplace volume of verses. We think 
 this an error; for though we admit there are 
 many mediocre poems in this volume, still there 
 are unmistakable evidences of genius. Added 
 tn this, the masterly versification should alone 
 have counselled forbearance. We are, however, 
 somewhat anticipating the course of our biog- 
 raphy. 
 
 In 1806, Lord Byron prepared some poems 
 for the press. There is an anecdote extant, that 
 one evening, when Miss Pigott was reading aloud 
 Bums' Poems, Byron said he had also written 
 something, and forthwith he commenced reciting, 
 " In thee I fondly Impel to clasp," Ac. 
 
 From this minute, the desire to appear in print 
 took possession of him. and Mr. Ridge of Newark 
 his the honor of first receiving the manuscript 
 poems of Byron. After some little time, a vol- 
 ume was printed, and the first copy was sent to 
 Mr. Becher. It appears that this solemn fool 
 took exception to some poem, and the whole 
 edition was consequently burned. This is much 
 to be regretted, for the first steps of a man of 
 genius are always interesting. 
 
 To one of his correspondents he thus writes : 
 it is a curious specimen of boyish conceit , and is 
 addressed to a young lady (Miss Pigott), dated 
 August '.', 1807 : 
 
 " Southwell is a damned place ! I have done 
 with it — at leasl in all probability. Excepting 
 yourself, I esteem no one in all its precincts. 
 You were my only rational companion, and. in 
 plain truth, I had more respect for you than the 
 whole bevy, with whose foibles I amused myself, 
 in compliance with their prevailing propensities. 
 Ym gave yourself more trouble with nie, and 
 my manuscripts, than a thousand dolls would 
 
 have done. Believe me, I have not forgotten 
 yon in this circle of sin !" 
 
 This is certainly a very singular epistle from a 
 boy of seventeen to a young lady ! In the next 
 specimen we shall give there will be found a curi- 
 ous love of display of worldly wealth, which shows 
 how little the poor beggar-boy of Aberdeen had 
 become accustomed to the luxuries of the peer- 
 age. We italicize the equivocal phrases : 
 
 " London, August 11, 1807. 
 "To Miss Pigott: 
 
 " On Sunday next, /"set off for the Highlands. 
 A friend of mine accompanies me in my carriage 
 to Edinburgh. There we shall leave it, and 
 proceed in a tandem (a species of open carriage) 
 through the western passes to Inverary, where 
 we shall purchase shelpies, to enable us to ww 
 places inaccessible to vehicular conveyances. 
 On the coast we shall hire a vessel .'" And si i on. 
 
 This is certainly a singular letter for a British 
 nobleman to write. It portrays the vulgar aston- 
 ishment of a man who suddenly found he had a 
 carriagt ' 
 
 In another letter to the same lady, dated 26th 
 October, 1807, we have the same ostentatious 
 spirit of boyism : 
 
 •• My dear Elizabeth — 
 
 " Fatigued with sitting up till four in the 
 morning, for the last two days, at hazard" * * 
 
 These are characteristic traits in the ill-educated 
 bard. In his correspondence at this time it is easy 
 to recognize that uncomfortable feeling which is 
 ever t he result of a transition mind in its first si ag es. 
 
 Another glanceytfto the young poet's mind is 
 afforded in the following passage, which, although 
 short, lets in a world of light : 
 
 " Apropos, I have been praised to the skies in 
 the Critical Review, and abused greatly in an- 
 other publication. So much the better, they tell 
 me, for the sale of the book !" 
 
 The critic of human nature will smile over 
 these little revelations! 
 
 In the spring of 1808 appeared in the Edin- 
 
1.1 FE OF LO UP BY RON 
 
 burgh Renew the memorable critique on his 
 •■ Hours of Idleness." In a letter to Mr. Becbor, 
 dated February 26, 1S08, he had expressed an 
 tion of such an attack; bul thai it would 
 have appeared in so contemptuous and uncompro- 
 mising a shape it is evident ho did not anticipate. 
 h must be confessed that Lord Byron's early 
 volume docs not display in itch genius. Still 
 there are evidences of rhythm and susceptibilities 
 which prefigure much excellence. Doubtless the 
 democratic critic was exasperated by thi 
 emtio pretension of the preface, and we all know 
 what an influence n predisposition has upon a 
 writer when he comment of a new 
 
 Byron's rago at first was what every young 
 author (Vols at a nidi' assault upon his cherished 
 offspring. It is just possible that no one but a 
 mother can sympathite with a poet's sensation, 
 when the child of his brain is thus attacked. 
 Judging from I - nee, he first in- 
 
 dulged in a little claret, ami then commenced his 
 
 \ 
 delivering- himself of the first twenty lines, he 
 at lie felt considerably better. 
 
 ie employed his 
 
 time in finishing his reply to the critics. When 
 
 completed, it was forthwith transmitted to the 
 
 printers. Byron, in this satire, managed to hit 
 
 rlisle lor the coldness with which he had 
 
 the dedication to the Hours of Idleness. 
 
 the host. 
 
 tthors are of a grateful and ■ 
 
 eir gratitude to 
 emu blockhead (who li 
 vanity than good feeling, done them a small 
 inscribe their volume to this particular 
 The noodle in question thinks he is 
 therefore a great man. and the whole n 
 of pimohinollo ! When will men < 
 
 plimentin . 
 
 to strike Carlisle in his new poem, and he did 
 
 On the 13th Match (a few days before the 
 satire was published), Byron took his seat in the 
 House of Lords for the first time. Here ho met 
 with a slight mortification, which still further en- 
 couraged his bitter feeling against the dominant 
 
 Byron was now fully plunged into the two 
 worlds of politics ami poetry, out of which he 
 never extricated himself. How little we know 
 ourselves is acknowledged by the lips of all. but 
 our self-ignorance is one of the few i 
 believed in: otherwise the young poet must have 
 known that a vigorous attack was of all things 
 that which he most needed, to rouse his 
 to their full exertion. At first the severity ol 
 ewildered and disheartened him, 
 but he soon rallied, and gave them blow for blow. 
 
 We have no wish to drag into lighl 
 those amours which have so long disgraced the 
 wealthy youth of all nations, but there \> 
 orally about the love affairs of 
 deeming circumstance, some sentiment, 
 Strong temptation, which relieved much of its 
 
 - about this time that he indulg. 
 of those masquerade imprudences, and formed a 
 connection with a young lady, who lived with 
 him in the disgu - 
 
 him to Brighton, and he had the folly to intro- 
 duce her to some of his titled female acquaint- 
 
 He also rejoiced in the compa 
 
 actors : indeed, he seemed determined. 
 in all these peculiarities, to bo as unliki 
 
 - 
 letters to Jackson, the boxer, are still pi 
 The death of Lord Falkland, w' 
 Mr. Powell in a duel, about this time, affected 
 him deeply, and the real generosity of I - 
 
L 1 F E OF LORD B Y EON 
 
 of the assault ; for who would care for one who 
 
 ran a muck, and tilled at all he nut '.' 
 
 He had been for some time contemplating 
 travelling, and in the summer of 1809 he put 
 this resolution in practice. Embarking in the 
 "Lisbon Packet," Capt. Kidd, be sailed from 
 Falmouth on the 2d duly, and arrived in the 
 ! a on the 7 th of the same month. Leaving 
 Lisbon, he travelled to Seville, and from thence 
 to Cadiz and Gibraltar. The favorable impres- 
 sion Cadi/, made upon him he has celebrated in 
 his verses. 
 
 After ashort stay at Gibraltar, he sailed for 
 M dta, where he mel the beautiful and romantic 
 Mrs. Spencer Smith. This lady he celebrates 
 in Childe Harold under the name of Florence. 
 
 Soon wearied with Malta, he, with his com- 
 panion Hobhouse, sailed in a brig-of-war, em- 
 ployed to convoj a fleet of merchantmen to 
 I Prei boring for two 
 
 or three day. at P anas, ihe\ arrived al I 
 on the 29th September. On their way thither, 
 
 he caught a sunset \ie\\ of Missoloiighi. llow 
 little knew he that in a few years afterwards he 
 
 1 iv down his life at that spot ! 
 Landing at Prevesa, he took his joun 
 Albania, and went through many parts of Turkey. 
 The anxious reader can consult Mr. Hobhouse's 
 journal for the minute particulars of this tour. 
 These continental wanderings of Myron are inter- 
 esting, as forming the groundwork of Childe 
 Harold. With that strange love for the incon- 
 gruous which so distinguished the poet through 
 life, he became a great admirer of the celebrated 
 All Pacha, to whom he was introduced, and who 
 Si emed, in return, to take a great fancy to his 
 
 idmirer.in his amiable sort of tiger way. 
 On the 21st November, the travellers reached 
 the memorable Missoloiighi ! A touching inci- 
 dent occurred in his journey from Patras : he 
 fired at a bird ! [t was a young eaglet 
 only wounded. The poet tried to save it, but its 
 ined and died ; and in his 
 own affecting words he says, "and I never did 
 
 since, and never will, attempt the death of an- 
 
 other bird !" These little traits reveal more than 
 a volume of sentiment ! 
 
 At Athens he remained nearly three months, 
 and he ne\ or let a day pass without some research 
 into the localities of its past glories. There he 
 became acquainted with the family of the late 
 
 Consul's widow, Tl dora Maori, who had three 
 
 beautiful and virtuous daughters. To the eldest 
 of these (Theresa), Lord Eyron dedicated his 
 celebrated verses : 
 
 u Maid "I" Allien-, ere we part, 
 Give, oh! give me buck mj heart I" 
 
 This lady, who is now so endeared to the 
 lovers of genius, is the wife of Mr. Black of Syra, 
 and has shown herself worthy of the immortality 
 bestowed by the poet, by her undeviating recti- 
 tude of conduct. Utile did she think, when she 
 saw the .] her mother's 
 
 house, that at that moment she had secured a 
 fame which will last with the literature of the 
 world. We refer our readers to another part, 
 where they will find a more extensive reft i 
 these three modern graces of Greece 
 
 After a ten weeks' staj here, Byron availed 
 himself, though very reluctantly, of a passage 
 in an English sloop-of-war, to visit Smyrna. 
 He remained there a short time, making a 
 visit to Ephesus, to inspect the ruins. On the 
 Uth April, he sailed for Constantinople, in a Brit- 
 ish frigate, and on the 1st of M;,\ Byron first be- 
 held the Dardanelles. On the 3d he swam from 
 Sestosto Abydos, a distance of about a mile. This 
 act has been celebrated in imaginative literature ; 
 but our readers must remember thai the distance 
 achieved is not so much the feat, as the strength 
 of the current is more fatiguing than the actual 
 length of the performance. 
 
 On the 14th May, he arrived at Constantinople, 
 and on that day two months he left. After 
 touching at a small island called Zea, he pro- 
 ince more i" Athens. 
 
 On the 3d of June, 1811, he set sail from 
 Malta in the Volnu'e frigate, for England, where 
 he arrived early in July. Here again, after two 
 
10 
 
 LIFE OF LOUD BYRON. 
 
 years' absence, we land him, with a mind im- 
 proved, and a heart quickened. 
 
 On the 15th July, Byron told Dallas he had 
 ;i new poem ready for press : it was a para- 
 phrase of Horace's Art of Poetry. Dallas had 
 the good sense to tell him frankly what he 
 thought of this production, which elicited from 
 the poet that he had another poem — this other 
 being "Childe Harold." That its author liked 
 the Horatian paraphrase better is natural, seeing 
 that his personal prejudices would dispose him 
 in that direction, and there is little doubt, as a 
 mere work of art, that the paraphrase is superior 
 to the original poem. 
 
 Now commenced his first acquaintance with 
 Mr. Murray, who had before expressed a desire 
 to publish his works. While' he was negotiating 
 with him the publication of "Childe Harold," 
 Lord Byron received intelligence of his mother's 
 illness, and immediately started for Newstead ; 
 but before he reached his ancestral seat, she had 
 breathed her last. She died August 1st, 1811. 
 Soon after this, " Childe Harold" was published, 
 and, to use the poet's own -words, "he awoke 
 the next day famous !" 
 
 This is undoubtedly one of the most successful 
 instances in literature, and it took the reading 
 world completely by storm. From this minute, 
 the poetical popularity of Byron began, never to 
 wane ! 
 
 Here we close this chapter. The commonest 
 reader cannot have failed to observe the giant 
 strides the subject of our biography has made in 
 a few years. From the bashful, clumsy boy, he 
 has sprung into the poet, full of glowing fancies 
 and noble inspirations. There is no example on 
 record where so much has been so sudd< oly 
 achieved, as in the author of " Childe Harold." 
 
 PART IIP 
 
 FROM 1813 TO 1 
 
 THE GIAOUR MARRIAGE 11IKTH OF ADA — -SEPA- 
 RATION DIFFICULTIES DEPARTURE FROM ENG- 
 
 LAND BRUSSELS GENEVA ITALY TAKES UP 
 
 HI3 RESIDENCE IN VENICE. 
 
 Bvron's next venture was the Giaour, which 
 ran through five editions in a short time. To 
 this succeeded the Bride of Abydos, which was 
 equally successful. It is, however, painful at 
 this time to read his private journal, for it merely 
 reveals a course of empty frivolity and dissipa- 
 tion, fit only for dandies or monkeys. There- was 
 little of (lie (li-nii . of the poet, or the simplicity 
 of the man, in his pursuits ; but under this out- 
 side of frosty affectation an Etna glowed within, 
 and early in 1814 he gave evidence of it in the 
 " Corsair." 
 
 This is one of his best minor poems, and 
 abounds in the finest descriptions, whether of 
 nature or of the human heart. We concede 
 there is the nightly color on it, but the effect is 
 magnificent, though somewhat sombre. 
 
 " Lara" rapidly succeeded, and the whole of 
 these poems caused a. furor in the poetical world, 
 which has seldom been equalled. 
 
 We are now approaching the most momentous 
 event of our poet's life, — one from which he was 
 accustomed to date all his after sorrows. • In 
 September, 1816, in a letter to Mr. Moore, he 
 announces his coming marriage in these terms : 
 " 1 am going to be married — that is, I am ac- 
 cepted. My mother of the Gracchi (that are to 
 be) you think too straight-laced for me, although 
 tin- paragon of only children, and invested with 
 golden opinions of all sorts of men, and full of 
 most blest conditions as Desdemona herself: 
 Miss Milbanke is the lady." 
 
 In this spasmodic jesting vein did he announce 
 his inauspicious wadding, which was solemnized 
 on the 2d January, 1815. It is said that on the 
 very marriage-day Lord Byron had a chilling in- 
 stance of her want of geniality, inasmuch as the 
 blushing bride insisted upon having her lady's- 
 maid companioned with her in the travelling car- 
 riage. 
 
 In the course of this spring he became 
 acquainted with Sir Walter Scott, through the 
 instrumentality of Mr. Murray. The noble poet 
 
LTFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 11 
 
 had made advances to the great Wizard of the 
 North in the shape of a trilling present, and 
 Scott responded cordially to the offering. 
 
 But from this literary correspondence we must 
 turn to his domestic history, which began, very 
 soon after his marriage, to assume a doubtful 
 aspect. Towards the end of the first year of his 
 union, his pecuniary difficulties became most op- 
 pressive ; indeed, to-such an extent, that he con- 
 templated the sale of his library, to relieve him- 
 self from some temporary pressure. 
 
 In the midst of this trouble, his daughter was 
 born, on the 10th December, 1815, and was 
 chri itened Augusta Ada. 
 
 On the 29th February, 1S1G, when his child 
 i rcely three months old, the unhappy poet 
 announced, in a letter to Mr. Moore, that he was 
 on the point of separating from his wife. We 
 extract from this letter the following significant 
 remarks : 
 
 " My little girl is in the county, and they tell 
 me is a very fine child, and now nearly three 
 months old. Lady Noel, my mother-in-law (or 
 rather at law), is at present overlooking it. Her 
 daughter (Miss Milbanke that was) is, / believe, 
 in London with her father. A Mrs. C. (now a 
 kind of housekeeper and spy of Lady N.'s), who, 
 in her better days, was a washerwoman, is sup- 
 posed to be, by the learned, very much the oc- 
 cult cause of our late domestic discrepancies." 
 
 Here we have a rough guess at the whole 
 tragedy. So many absurd causes have been 
 mentioned as the reason for this separation, that 
 the public will scarcely be satisfied with the com- 
 lniin sense solution of the mystery, which simply 
 lay in the total difference of habits in the two 
 parties. One was wayward, impulsive, and licen- 
 tious; the other was cold, correct, and highly 
 moral. What need be added to these fruitful 
 elements of discord? In addition, there was 
 the irritating fact of poverty ! 
 
 Whatever were the real causes, no sooner was 
 the fact ascertained, than a most senseless and 
 vindictive clamor was raised against the former 
 idol of popular applause. He who had for two 
 
 years been the lion of society, became now a mon- 
 ster, that ought to be hunted down to the very 
 death. How keenly Byron must have felt this 
 astounding change in the spirit of his dream needs 
 no pen to describe. At first he reeled beneath 
 the torrent of invective that fell upon his devoted 
 head ; but. calling his pride and his genius to 
 back him, he, after a time, boldly rushed to 
 the conflict, and resolved to fight it out ; not, 
 however, before he had, in a moment of weak- 
 ness, written some lack-a-daisical verses to his 
 wife, and some malignant ones to her nurse. 
 These were unworthy a man of his genius, but 
 great allowance must be made for the impetu- 
 osity of his nature. In April, these two domestic 
 poems appeared, and the rupture was complete. 
 So completely was the public tide against him, 
 that his recognition in public was considered 
 almost infamous. With the exception of one 
 paper, which was silent, the whole press was 
 united against him, and teemed with the most 
 flagitious calumnies. 
 
 Stung with this universal and undeserved exe- 
 cration, the great poet resolved to abandon a 
 country forever which persecuted him so relent- 
 lessly, and on the 25th April, 1816, he sailed for 
 Ostend. That the full humiliation of his heart 
 may be understood, we quote from Moore the 
 following painful paragraph : 
 
 " The circumstances under which Lord Byron 
 now took leave of England were such as, in the 
 case of any ordinary person, could not be con- 
 sidered otherwise than disastrous and humiliating. 
 He had, in the course of one short year, gone 
 through every variety of domestic misery, had 
 seen his hearth eight or nine times profaned by the 
 visitations of the law, and been only saved from a 
 prison by the privileges of his rank ; and he had 
 alienated from him the affections of his wife." 
 
 This must be considered a melancholy picture, 
 but it is a true one, and through this slough of 
 despond was the greatest, of modern poets dragged 
 by the resistless circumstances of his fate. How 
 pertinaciously the malice of his foes pursued him 
 we shall see in the following pages. 
 
12 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON 
 
 Byron arrived at Brussels in May, and the 
 i his travels can now be traced in his own 
 matchless verses. Passing on to Waterloo, he 
 visited that memorable held of slaughter ; and 
 proceeding up the Rhine arrived at Geneva. 
 Here he resolved to take up his abode for some 
 time, and he consequently hired a villa on the 
 banks of the lake. Here he occasionally saw 
 Madame de Stiiel, who resided at Copet. 
 
 In a letter to Murray, dated June '27, 1810, 
 he announces having finished the third canto of 
 I bilde Harold, which he promises to send by a 
 safe opportunity. 
 
 In the September of this year he visited Chil- 
 lon, in company with Hobhouse, and it was in 
 consequence of this that he commenced his poem 
 <■[' i he Prisoner of Chillon. 
 
 It was at Geneva thai he met Shelley, and their 
 acquaintance soon ripened into a warm friend- 
 ship. Shelley, who was four years younger than 
 Byron, had some time previously, in England, 
 sent to him a copy of " Queen Mali." and the 
 noble poet was known to have spoken in terms 
 of high commendation of the poem : the] 
 fore nut with a strong mutual desire to be 
 pleased with each other. Notwithstanding their 
 common affinity as poets, few men were more 
 dissimilar in their natures than the authors of 
 Childe Harold and Queen Mab. One was as 
 singularly pure in his pleasures as the other was 
 sensual ; and the self-denial of one, and the self- 
 indulgence of the other, formed a singular con- 
 trast. One was visionary and spiritual, the 
 other passionate and corporeal. Nevertheless, 
 they entertained for each other a very warm and 
 lasting regard. 
 
 In addition to this interesting group of Byron, 
 Shelley, and his wife, was Dr. Polidori, a young 
 man who had accompanied Byron in the capacity 
 of physician. 
 
 It was at Geneva that he commenced his ro- 
 of the Vampire, which grew out of a con- 
 versation with Mrs. Shelley. This, however, he 
 never completed. 
 
 His time here was occasionally diversified with 
 
 visitors ; among others were Monk Lewis, Sharp, 
 ; 
 
 Weary of Geneva, in October he set out for 
 Italy, and in October arrived at Milan, from 
 whence he proceeded to Verona. After visiting 
 all that was remarkable in that celebrated place, 
 he proceeded to Venice, which became one of 
 his favorite residences. He observes in one of 
 his letters thai the bride of the Adriatic was one 
 of the few cities that answered to his expecta- 
 tions. There was a gloomv and deeaving gran- 
 deur in this famous place which suited well the 
 
 I of his mind, and the peculiarities of their 
 
 tbitS rendered it still more attractive. 
 
 Woman had always been the rock on which 
 Lord Byron had shipwrecked much happiness, 
 and the besetting weakness pursued him here. 
 Many tales, alike improbable and absurd, of his 
 gallantries were eagerly caught at by his ene- 
 mies, and reproduced in England with additions 
 and distortions so eminently ludicrous, that noth- 
 ing but a morbid desire to blacken his already 
 damaged character could have given them cur- 
 rency. According to some of the pious slander- 
 ers, there was scarcely a crime lie did not delight 
 in. Ill a word, he was a pirate, seducer, mur- 
 'derer, and vampire ! 
 
 It is painful to contemplate the delight with 
 which the mass of our fellow-creatures catch at 
 anything calculated to drag down the illu 
 to their own degraded level. That Byron gave 
 
 many opportunities to his enemies is dou 
 true, but it is now an ascertained fact thai some 
 of the correspondents of the English papers in- 
 vented stories of his irregularities, in order to 
 suit the taste of the public at home. 
 
 It was about this time that he became 
 acquainted with his inamorata known in his cor. 
 respondence under the name of Mariana, and 
 many stories are related of her violent temper. 
 Sometimes her noble admirer was half intimi- 
 dated by her displays of vehemence, accustomed 
 as he had been to the former ebullitions of his 
 mother. 
 
 It was during his residence in Venice that he 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 13 
 
 wrote Manfred, one of the mo>l beautiful of his 
 productions. 
 
 In the May of this year he arrived in Rome, 
 and here he revelled in all the gorgeous recollec- 
 tions of the past. How completely he identified 
 himself with the solemn associations around him 
 is visible in every page of his works. Few poets 
 have possessed so deep a power of forcing the 
 presence of the past upon their readers as Byron, 
 and in no case has he more completely succeeded 
 than in his allusions to the perished might and 
 grandeur of the former Mistress of the World. 
 
 After remaining a month in the Eternal City, 
 he returned to Venice, from whence most of his 
 correspondence is dated. 
 
 He now commenced the fourth canto of Childe 
 Harold, and completely gave himself up to his 
 " poesies and lady loves." He was now in his 
 twenty-ninth year, and one of the most celebrated 
 men of his age. His popularity as a poet was 
 iv contrasted with his unpopularity as a 
 man, and the avidity with which the public de- 
 voured every thing that appertained to him 
 I'wi mi'd a singular contradiction to their implied 
 contempt and dislike. 
 
 Even now many began to suspect that they 
 had used him with a cruelty, which, even to a crimi- 
 nal, would have been unjustifiable ; and doubt- 
 less, as they paused over some of his matchless 
 descriptions, the conviction must have been forced 
 upon them that so great a mind could not be 
 destitute so entirely of heart. 
 
 That much of this proceeded from his own 
 love of mysticism is undoubted, for he appears 
 in have taken an almost insane pleasure in mak- 
 ing the world believe that he had dark inclina- 
 tions at variance with the orthodox notions of 
 virtue. Every irregularity he himself prochftmed, 
 or else put into such a shape that it attracted 
 more attention than a dozen such peccadilloes 
 would in another man. This weakness, or rather 
 perversity, evinced itself at a very early period, 
 as we have seen in his correspondence with Miss 
 Pigott, and it clung to him through life. 
 
 Much of this evidently sprung from that want 
 of repose and self-respect to which we have be- 
 fore adverted, for pride is but a poor substitute 
 for that calm consciousness which saves its {as- 
 sessor from so many mortifications. 
 
 Lord Byron was what is commonly called 
 thin-skinned ; indeed, he can hardly be considered 
 as to have had a skin at all. What another 
 would not have felt, drove him into rage and re- 
 prisals, and laid the foundation of many a deadly 
 feud. That, on the other hand, he had great 
 facility in attaching persons to him is apparent 
 throughout the whole course of his life, while 
 the intensity of his feelings is shown in many of 
 his schoolboy friendships. 
 
 Of his love for the marvellous in action there 
 are many instances on record. We have before 
 named his youthful lady page — a sort of Kaled 
 to his own Lara. Sometimes this took another 
 shape, as in the case of the bear which he now 
 and then travelled with. In a recent work, there 
 is a curious account of his taking a place for this 
 animal in the evening mail-coach, under the name 
 of Mr. Bruin; and the horror of his other biped 
 companion when morning dawned, and he beheld 
 the kind of fellow-passenger he had passed the 
 night with, may be readily imagined. 
 
 This is the same bear that he put up for a fel- 
 lowship at college. A man who was fond of 
 playing these practical jukes upon mankind could 
 not fail to have many inconveniences himself to 
 encounter, for the world has little toleration for 
 any follies but its own, and is too apt to consider 
 as a crime in another what itself daily indulges 
 in. Our self-complacency is prodigious, and 
 from it springs the uncharitableness of human 
 judgments. 
 
 We close this part of our subject by observing 
 that most of the great poet's actions had more 
 of the form than the spirit of evil, and that Leigh 
 Hunt said once to the writer that many acts, in- 
 nocent in themselves, became questionable by the 
 manner of Lord Byron's doing them. 
 
11 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 FROM 1818 TO 1821. 
 
 BTRON IN VENICE RAVENNA SARDANAPALUS 
 
 MARINO FAI.IEHO THE COUNTESS GUICCIOLI. 
 
 Byron remained at Venice in a state of self- 
 satisfied dissatisfaction with the world, and em- 
 ployed himself, fortunately for the world, invent- 
 ing those brilliant philippics, which have made 
 him the Demosthenes of Poetry. 
 
 It has been the custom for British writers to 
 him for his dislike to the society of Eng- 
 lish travellers. We must confess we sec no just 
 cause to blame him on this score. He, of all 
 men, had least reason to be grateful to the coun- 
 try of his birth : it had been his toady in popu- 
 larity — his merciless assailant in adversity. No 
 society could have shown more of the vices of 
 the mongrel than it did ; and we think Lord 
 Byron would have shown a self-contempt unpar- 
 alli led, if he had affected a wish to 
 of that nation which had so grossly abused him. 
 
 A good-tempered simpleton, who was permit- 
 ted tu visit him about this time indulges in some 
 remarks, which seem to imply that he was as 
 fond of Englishmen as lie was of roast-beef, and 
 he adduces the fact as evidence that th 
 both those intellectual representatives of that 
 nation present — viz., himself and the Sir Loin. 
 The truth is, doubtless, that the great poet's 
 " l'amour propre" was too deeply wounded to 
 admit of a <5ordial reconciliation, although he 
 would at times indulge in a little harmless and 
 unmeaning philanthropy ; just as the lady of 
 fashion celebrated by Pope, who 
 
 " Paid a tradesman once, to make him stare F' 
 
 Lord Byron owed nothing to his country save 
 unmitigated abuse and relentless persecution. 
 Irregularities which had been encouraged in royal 
 persons, were visited with condign punishment 
 when he was their perpetrator; and, however 
 ungracious it may sound to the admirers of the 
 great poet, we perfectly agree with the world in 
 this respect. These degrading vices were natu- 
 
 ral to a George the Fourth, or a Heliogabalus, 
 
 but the] were sad exhibitions of human nature 
 when a man of genius like Byron condescended 
 to them. 
 
 "With this qualification we fully agree with the 
 English public. 
 
 One of Byron's peculiarities was to run down 
 mi of original genius, and put some com- 
 mon-place, or, at best, some mediocre writer, in 
 1 1 . The lover of genuine poetry cannot 
 fail being struck with this anomaly, as lie peruses 
 his entire correspondence. The most extrava- 
 gant praises are given to such feeble writers as 
 Rogers, and others of that class ; while affected 
 contempt, or unsparing sarcasm, is levelled con- 
 stantly at Wordsworth and Coleridge. This is 
 sufficiently glaring in his poems ; hut in his let- 
 ters it would be perfectly ludicrous, if it were not 
 so monstrously unjust. That Byron privately 
 thought differently we know. Indeed, if bis 
 v, ere honestly what he said they were, 
 their critical value would be next to nothing. 
 This is, however, a curious fact in his psycholog- 
 ical history, and shows how little the injustice 
 that had been showered upon him, had made 
 him just himself to others ; but like begets like, 
 and tyrants produce slaves, the difference being 
 simply in the position. Of the little respect he 
 felt for a man of genius, when he had a difference, 
 of opinion with him, we have a singular instance 
 in a letter to Murray, where, after alluding to 
 some observations in Coleridge's Biographia Lit- 
 teraria, he closes his remarks with, " and henco 
 : tirade, which is the last chapter of his 
 vagabond 
 
 In the same epistle, there are two other inter- 
 esting morceaux of informance, which we will 
 quote. This letter is dated October, 1817 : 
 
 " I have written a poem of eighty-four octave 
 stanzas, humorous, in or after the excellent man- 
 ner of Mr. Whistlecraft, on a Venetian anecdote 
 which amused me." 
 
 This is the first announcement of that style of 
 composition, in which he was destined to excel 
 ! all the world. 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 15 
 
 The next is a curious confession for a man of 
 poetical celebrity, or, indeed, of any taste in lite- 
 rature at all, to make : 
 
 " I never read, and do not know that I ever 
 saw, the Faustus of Marlow." 
 
 He makes this observation in consequence of 
 the originality of Manfred having been attacked. 
 
 lb- seems to have led now a life of careless 
 indulgence, devoting his time to making love and 
 writing verses. Of his activity in both pursuits, 
 we have ample evidence. His favorite time for 
 composition was night ; and when all was still 
 and at rest, this great poet took up his pen, to 
 send his voice along the sounding corridors of 
 Time. 
 
 During this last year, he had attached himself 
 to Madame Segati, the wife of a linen-draper, 
 in whose house he had apartments. Growing, 
 however, weary of this lady love, he hired the 
 Mocenigo palace, and plunged into a mad round 
 of debauchery, to which his former liaison was 
 virtue. We prefer, however, not. to dwell on this 
 dark part of his existence, and should not have 
 alluded to it at all, were it not absolutely neces- 
 sary for the full understanding of his character. 
 
 It was about June, 1818, that he commenced 
 the poem by which he will be longest remem- 
 bered — Don Juan. This work is also connected 
 with another epoch in Byron's life, and which 
 influenced it to the very end. In April, 1819, 
 he first saw the Countess Guiccioli. She was the 
 daughter of Count Gamba of Ravenna, and wife 
 to Count Guiccioli, an old and wealthy widower, 
 to whom she had been married without the 
 slightest inclination on her part'. With the ex- 
 ception of Miss Chaworth, this was evidently the 
 only real attachment of his whole life, and her 
 response to it dragged him from the sensual sty 
 into which he had thrown himself, out of pure 
 desperation and disgust. 
 
 We must give in her own words her account 
 of their first interview : 
 
 " I became acquainted with Lord Byron in the 
 April of 1819. He was introduced to me at 
 Venice, by the Countess Benzoni, at one of that 
 
 lady's parties. This introduction, which had so 
 much influence over the lives of both, took place 
 contrary to our wishes, and had been permitted 
 by us only from courtesy. 
 
 " For myself, more fatigued than usual that 
 evening, on account of the hours they keep at 
 Venice, I went with great repugnance to this 
 party, and purely in obedience to Count Guic- 
 cioli. Lord Byron, too, who was averse to form- 
 ing new acquaintances, alleging that he had en- 
 tirely renounced all attachments, and was unwil- 
 ling any more to expose himself to their conse- 
 quences, on being requested by the Countess 
 Benzoni to allow himself to be presented, refused, 
 and at last only assented from a desire to oblige 
 her. 
 
 " His noble and exquisitely beautiful counte- 
 nance — the tone of his voice — his manners — the 
 thousand enchantments that surrounded him — 
 rendered him so different and so superior a being 
 to any whom I had hitherto seen, that it was im- 
 possible he should not have left the most pro- 
 found impression upon me. From that evening, 
 during the whole of my subsequent stay at Ven- 
 ice, we met every day." 
 
 When this lady was compelled to leave Venice, 
 to accompany her husband to their residence in 
 Ravenna, she wrote to Byron in the most impas- 
 sioned manner, declaring her life was valueless 
 without him. He therefore, in June, joined her 
 there, and became her constant companion. 
 However startling this may sound to English 
 ears, it is so common in Italy as to be considered 
 more a matter of custom than sin. 
 
 Moore, who visited him at this time, gives a 
 very interesting account of the semi-conjugal 
 happiness which seemed to attend the connec- 
 tion. She had now entirely left her husband, 
 and lived with Byron. 
 
 When the first two cantos of Don Juan were 
 published, the outciy was loud against the un- 
 lucky author. The old stories were ripped up. 
 with new exaggerations, and again he was con- 
 sidered by the respectable as one abandoned by 
 God and man. It is nee- >>iry t> keep these 
 
16 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRON 
 
 facts in mind, in order to account for the ferocity 
 of much of the noble poet's verses, which, with- 
 out the provocation he was so constantly receiv- 
 ing, would resemble a fiendish desire to give 
 pain to his contemporaries. 
 
 In the November of this year, the Count made 
 an attempt to recover his wife from Lord Byron. 
 The latter thus writes to Mr. Murray on the sub- 
 ject : 
 
 "As I tell you that the Guiccioli business is 
 exploding one way or the other, I will just add 
 that, without attempting- to influence tin- Count- 
 ess; a good deal depends upon it. If she and 
 her husband make it up, you will perhaps see me 
 in England sooner than you expect. If not, I 
 shall retire with her to France or America, 
 change my name, and lead a quiet provincial life." 
 
 How deeply he felt his banishment from liis 
 native land, and the calumnies against him, we 
 have certain evidence in the "Prophecy of 
 Dante," written at this time. There is a Dan- 
 tesque grandeur about this fine poem, worthy 
 the gloomy Florentine himself. The opening is 
 like a line prelude of solemn music, admirably 
 calculated to induce that particular frame of 
 mind in which this magnificent composition 
 should be read. 
 
 After a severe struggle, the Countess was 
 compelled to return with her lawful spouse, and 
 Mr. Hoppner testifies to the despondency which 
 ensued, on Byron's part, upon his separation from 
 his mistress. 
 
 Unable to endure Italy any longer, he resolved 
 to return to England, and face his enemies. For 
 this purpose, all had been arranged, when the 
 news arrived that the fair Countess was danger- 
 ously ill at Ravenna, owing to grief at hi 
 ration from the object of her love. Byron flew 
 at once to her side, and his fate was decided. 
 He had just before sent to Murray the third 
 canto of Don Juan, intending to superintend its 
 progress through the press in person. 
 
 Byron arrived at Ravenna on Christmas-day, 
 and the progress of the young lady's n 
 was rapid. Here they enjoyed as much felicity 
 
 as persons in their position could. The Countess 
 was a great admirer of poetry, and she had made 
 great progress in the English language, so that 
 she could enter with spirit into her noble lover's 
 compositions. Injustice to her sense of womanly 
 feeling, it is due to her to state that Don Juan 
 was her great aversion, and that she frequently 
 implored Byron not to proceed with it. 
 
 Another change was in progress for the lo\ ers, 
 for early in July, the Countess, who was now 
 formally separated from her husband, was com- 
 pelled, by the terms of her separation, to reside 
 at a villa belonging to her father, Count Gamba, 
 about fifteen miles from Ravenna. 
 
 Here Byron visited her, generally twice or 
 thrice in the month ; passing the rest of his time 
 in perfect solitude. The lady felt this change in 
 her life acutely, and whiled away the weary hours 
 in educating herself for her illustrious friend. 
 We can fully enter into the melancholy state of 
 her existence at this time, and how blank all 
 must have seemed when he, who was her lode- 
 star, was away. 
 
 He employed his mind now in the composition 
 of " Marino Faliero," which he told a friend of 
 ours was first suggested by the situation of the 
 Countess and her husband. This fine tragedy 
 he dedicated to Goethe, who had paid Byron 
 rv high compliments, on reading his 
 " Manfred." 
 
 As a proof how Byron brooded over real or 
 imaginary wrongs, he commenced a poetical por- 
 trait gallery, in which he resolved to give full- 
 length pictures of his contemporaries. Some of 
 le finished; and one — that on Samuel 
 Rogers — has been published. It first appeared 
 in Fraser's Magazine, through the agency of the 
 Countess of Blessington, to whom the satirist 
 gave it, when at Geneva. The tone is very 
 sai age and undignified, descending to the fiercest 
 personal abuse. In a letter to Murray, dated 
 November 9th, IS'20, Byron thus alludes to 
 Ro jers : " If I he person had not. by many little, 
 dirty, sneaking traits, provoked it, I should have 
 been silent, though I had observed him." 
 
LIKE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 17 
 
 Tin- revolutionary ferment was very active in 
 
 Italy this year, and the well-known political 
 liberalism of the English poet made him much 
 suspected by the authorities. They, however, 
 confined their malice to ordering- the arrest of 
 some of his political friends, who being Italians, 
 were of course amenable to the laws of their 
 country, however tyrannical. 
 
 In his journal, we have a minute account of 
 the manner of his life at this time. It is some- 
 what frivolous, and relates more to his external 
 than to his internal life. The entry dated 21st 
 January, 1821, which completed his thirty-third 
 year, is sufficiently gloomy to have cheered his 
 direst enemy. 
 
 In entering upon a new year in his life, he had, 
 as usual, his vexations ; among others, an at- 
 tempt made to perform " Marino Faliero," at 
 Drury Lane. We do not wonder at Byron's in- 
 dignation, for it is so essentially undramatic that 
 it was only courting a failure. 
 
 While Byron was fretting his soul away in 
 petty vexations, thankless for that which ought 
 to have consoled him for all — the love of the 
 guileless and beautiful Countess, who had sacri- 
 ficed all for his sake — another English poet, 
 scarcely inferior to him, was calmly counting the 
 beatings of his broken and wearied heart, at 
 Rome. Keats died on the of February ; 
 
 and in a letter to Shelley, dated 20th April, 
 Byron thus alludes to it : 
 
 "I am very sorry .to hear what you say of 
 Keats — is it actually true '.' 1 did not think 
 criticism had been so killing." 
 
 It is a proud, and yet a disgraceful, page in 
 English literature, that the conventionalism of that 
 nation had driven into banishment three such 
 poets as Byron, Shelley, and Keats, at one and 
 tlte same time ! Happy land ! where they have 
 so much useless genius .' ! 
 
 - Sardanapalus" was completed in the June of 
 this year, and transmitted to Murray for publica- i 
 tion 
 
 It is pleasant to come upon such extracts as 
 these : — " A young American, named Coolidge, 
 called on me not many months ago. * * * 
 YVliciie\ er an American requests to see me (which 
 is not unfrequently) I comply — firstly, because I 
 respect a people who acquired their freedom by 
 their firmness, without excess ; secondly, be- 
 cause these transatlantic visits, ' few and far be- 
 tween,' make me feel as if talking with posterity 
 from the other side of the Styx." 
 
 Lord Byron was roused from his poetical pur- 
 suits by receiving, this month, a letter from the 
 Countess Guiccioli, in which site announces that 
 her family had been proscribed. We have not 
 space for it; but the whole speaks conclusively 
 to the enduring affection which this young crea- 
 ture, scarcely twenty-two, had for the " banished 
 poet of England." Subsequently she was com- 
 pelled to fly to Florence with her father and 
 brother, Lord Byron still remaining at Ravenna. 
 In reviewing the career of this celebrated man, 
 i: i- impossible not to become attached to him, in 
 spite of his failings. This was the opinion of one 
 who believed he had been deeply injured by the 
 " moody childe ;" but he has repeatedly told the 
 writer of this hasty sketch, that in his good, 
 genial mood, Byron was one of the most " love- 
 able being-" he had ever met. His complaint 
 against him was, that his disposition was so fickle, 
 that it was impossible to be certain whether you 
 would be received with an almost boyish delight, 
 or a chilling formality, that, was perfectly insult- 
 ing. All these correspond exactly with the. tone 
 of his writings ; bearing oul the conviction, that 
 as his poetical genius was superior to most men, 
 so was his consistency deficient. But it is not 
 for the dull to put on their own Procrustean bed 
 a man of such unquestioned intellect, and pro- 
 nounce him bad, because he is not of their stand- 
 ard. Let them rather be too thankful to receive 
 him, " with all his imperfections on his head," 
 for, take him for all in all, we ne'er shall look 
 upon his like again. 
 
IS 
 
 L I P E o !•' LO Kli B V R.0 N 
 
 P A KT V . 
 
 PROM Jl l.V. 1831, TO AI'KU,. 1883. 
 
 SHI I i IV — RAVENNA — BOLOGNA — PISA — ROGBRS 
 — LAD! BLESSINGTON — UKAril OF A l.l.I.<. i: \ — 
 
 -Mill l l \ ni;ow M n — 
 COUN1 d'oRS w — i Ai'V i; \ RON 
 
 In August, 1821, Shelley, ai Byron's express 
 invitation, arrived on a visit, and, in his corre- 
 spondence, expresses much pleasure at his recep- 
 tion. The author of Queen Mab was undoubt- 
 edly one of those for whom Byron entertained 
 the utmost respect. In a letter, he thus 
 sketohes the external of the poet's life : 
 
 "We ride out in the evening, in the pine 
 forests which divide the city from the sou. Our 
 way of life is this : Lord Byron gets up at two ; 
 breakfasts; we talk, read, tfec, until si\ ; then 
 we ride at eight, and after dinner sit talking to 
 tour or five o'clock in the morning! Lord Byron 
 is greatly improved, in everj respect, Bis con- 
 nection with Madame Guiccioli has been of inesti- 
 mable benefit to him. He lias read to me some 
 of the unpublished cantos of Don Juan, which is 
 astonishingly fine." 
 
 Agreeably to the arrangement with the Guic- 
 cioli, Lord Byron took up his abode in Bologna, 
 where he met Mr. Rogers. The latter has. in his 
 poem on Italy, in his usual feeble, but graceful 
 style, commemorated the event. 
 
 Some time previous to this he had transmitted 
 to Murray his drama of " Cain." which the pub- 
 lisher very naturally hesitated to publish. 
 
 In a letter to Murray, Byron says ; •• A man's 
 poetry is a distinct faculty, or soul, and has no 
 more to do with the evory-day individual than 
 the inspiration with the Pythoness when re- 
 moved from her tripod." 
 
 Byron now took up his residence at Pisa, where 
 he led his usual life. He was visited, in the 
 April of 1822, with the severest domestic calam- 
 ity he had yet experienced — we mean in the 
 death of his little daughter. Allegro. In letters 
 to Murray and Shelley, he alludes to , 
 with much feeling Here his old associations 
 
 came over him. and he resolved that the body of 
 
 his favorite child should he deposited in Harrow 
 churchyard, where often, when a lad. he had 
 whiled away the sunny hours in musings which 
 afterwards took the immortal shape of verse. In 
 a letter, he thus particularizes his wish : 
 
 " There is a spot in the churchyard, near the 
 footpath, on the brow o\ the hill looking towards 
 Windsor, and a tomb under a large tree (bearing 
 the name of Pcaehie. or Peachy), where 1 used 
 to sit for hours and hours, when a boj . Tins 
 was my favorite spot." 
 
 Ai the same time, he sent the following in 
 
 scription : 
 
 UVLEGKA, 
 
 IVU iiintR or SKOKOl OORDOH, tORS RltOR, 
 
 Who died at Begin Omllo, in Italy, 
 lprll : 
 aoi-d rivr vsars and thru: months, 
 d to ber, but she shall not return to me," 
 
 When he was at Leghorn, he received a flat- 
 tering invitation from the commander of the 
 American squadron, which he accepted. He 
 was received with the honors due to his genius. 
 He mentions the circumstance, in his correspond- 
 ence, with much delight. 
 
 A very vivid idea of the gloomy state of his 
 mind can be realized from his " Werner." which 
 was published at that time. He had been much 
 impressed with this subject, which is taken from 
 one of Miss Lee's Canterbury Tales. We learn. 
 however, from his correspondents, that he had 
 serious intentions of emigrating to America, and 
 w rote to Mr. Ellis for information. His plan was 
 to take the Countess with him. put chase an 
 lange his name, renounce his nation, and 
 devote himself to agricultural pursuits. This 
 fever, however, passed off, like many others ; but 
 it amused his mind for a short time. 
 
 In July of this year, Leigh Hunt arrived at 
 . his wife and family, having been in- 
 vited by Shelley and Byron to edit a periodical 
 called the Liberal, to which they promised both 
 money and contributions. In the first number of 
 this appeared the celebrated Vision of Judgment, 
 
F E (> I' 1,(1 If I) I! V HO \ 
 
 in 
 
 b brilliant and unsparing parody of Southey's 
 disgusting eul tgy on George the Third. 
 
 We shall ii"i enter into the causes of its fail- 
 ure, bul contenl ourselves by observing that n<> 
 real union could long <-\is< between such anoma 
 Ions beings as Byron, Shelley, and Hunt. The 
 former bad by this time learned the value ol 
 
 in sy, and was by no means willing to k< ■<■ |> liis 
 
 purse open, for the maudlin generosity of 1 1 , 
 
 in- the extravagant f his wife. Lord Byron, 
 
 however, requires no [><-n to exculpate him in 
 this affair, for the author of Rimini has justified 
 the noble poet, \<\ his o» n \ ersi f I he diffi- 
 cult] . 
 
 This ill-starred partnership was suddenly dis- 
 rupted bj the death of Shelley, who was drowned 
 in a Btorm. The singular burning of -his body by 
 the Bea shore, which was attended by By ron, 
 Hunt, Medwin, and Trelawney, has been so fre- 
 quenl ly described, thai we shall merely record 
 the fai i 
 
 Byron now removed to Genoa, where he was 
 visited by Lord Clare, the companion of his boy- 
 hood. His delight at once more seeing his old 
 schoolfellow, as related by eye-witnesses, par- 
 takes more of infantine joy than of sober raanl I 
 
 In April, 1823, the visit of Lord and Lady 
 Blessington, with Count D'Orsay, gave a momen 
 in gleam of sunshine to his life; I'm' with all 
 his affected misanthropy, Lord Byron was emi- 
 nently social. His happiest hours were passed 
 in the Bociety of t Ii, ,-«• who would listen to his 
 spoken confessions, and sympathize with his mis- 
 fortunes. 
 
 Fen voli is throw a greater light upon his 
 
 nature than Lady Blessington's volume of his 
 conversations. We have been told by one of his 
 most intimate friends thai, it is like listening to 
 aim. Alwaysready to acknowledge himself worse 
 than he was, nothing annoyed him so much 
 as to be takm at his woiil by his hearers! This 
 was a peculiarity which sometimes puzzled his 
 companions; but it is a common trait in human 
 nature, and has been la-ought forth with much 
 comic effeel in Sir Fretful Plagiary ' 
 
 I lis atia, I el to Lady Blessington has laid 
 
 them both open to many reproaches, which were 
 evidently unfounded. 'The vulgar-minded are 
 unable to realize i hat a strong and pei fectly in 
 nouent friendship may exist between persons of 
 opposite sexes, of exalted genius. Fools rush 
 into the only gratification they can enjoy — those 
 of the senses; bul those who really taste the 
 ecstasy of love, are the few who, like Rousseau, 
 
 walk miles of a morning, merely tO kiss the hand 
 
 of Madame de Warrene. The lower order pluck 
 the fruit of the tree pi knowledge, and hence 
 their expulsion from the paradise of love ; while 
 self-denial and loftier nppivrialion of I he dignity 
 of womanhood gives to the lasl interview of ngc 
 
 the zest of the first i iting ol ) outh. The com 
 
 mon idea of love is happily illustrated by the 
 fable of the hoy killing the goose, to reap at once 
 all the hoarded golden egg-, concealed within her 
 mysterious recesses. 
 
 The same remark applies to his friendship with 
 Lady Caroline Lamb, ahoni which so much scan- 
 dal has been written. Some latitude must be 
 
 allowed tO literary ladies. (ienius is ol* no gen 
 
 dei and i hey are o aci u to d to regard every 
 
 thing in the abstract, that many outward circum- 
 stances are overlooked, which are calculated to 
 produce a false impression on the world, which 
 is made up of the masses, or rather the lower 
 
 orders of society. We have neither space nor 
 
 inclination to enter into the controversy as to how 
 
 far it is wise to humor I he prejudices of thai 
 many-headed hydra. 
 
 Turning over the correspondence of Byron, we 
 come to a very interesting leiter, addressed by 
 him to Lady Byron, in which he acknowledges 
 the receipt of a lock of Ada's hair, which he 
 
 says " is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark 
 already as mine was at twelve years of age." In 
 
 this remarkable letter we come to this particular 
 
 sentence : 
 
 ifor the inscription of the date 
 ill tell you why — I believe 
 only two or three words of 
 my possession ; for your let- 
 
 "I also thank y 
 and name, and I 
 that they are th 
 
 ir hnndu riting 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRO: 
 
 ters 1 returned : and except the two words, or 
 
 rather the one word, ' Household,' written twice 
 in ;m old account-hook, I have no other.'' 
 
 The keen observer of the workings of the 
 human heart can see in these simple words 
 vast historj of mental suffering and regret. 
 Surely the man who had the power to inspire so 
 many lasting attachments must have had many 
 noble qualities of the heart, as well as brilliant 
 faculties of the head ; and Fletcher, his old and 
 ! valet, no doubt spoke the trn 
 
 only woman 1 
 over knew who could not manage nn ; 
 The fact is. she would not meet him halfway: 
 
 jot of her prejud 
 
 of the most singular beings 
 
 n a fool, and unable to appn c 
 genius, it would have been another matl 
 
 - an eminently intellectual woman, and 
 fully equal to an estimate of her husband's 
 
 of mind. She knew Ids nature pretty well when 
 she married him, and there was no exi 
 her refusing to o rifices for one she 
 
 had sworn to love, honor, and obey. If the real 
 ivas whal has been privatel) stated by- 
 some of her friends. " thai she would nol I 
 the pain and inconvenience of another pri 
 for all the husbands in tin' world." she need not 
 have hesitated in boldly avowing this to the 
 world : for we maintain there was more indelicacy 
 in the thousand dark rumors and inueudos. 
 springing from the mysterious silence, than from 
 the openly spoken fact of the case. 
 
 In these few remarks, we have nodes 
 ter a disrespectful word of Lady Byron. We 
 concede to her all the merits of the utmost pru- 
 
 and the coldest propriety; but a woman 
 
 who had married a man like Byron, with her 
 her mature age, should have 
 thought it her duty, if il were not her inclina- 
 • have made some sacrifices, and many 
 efforts, ere she threw him into that abyss 
 bauchery, which she must have known would 
 have followed upon her repudiation of hii 
 
 must have been well aware that a man of genius 
 has always a herd of barking curs at his heels. 
 ready to hunt him to death, should the world 
 once raise its fiendish howl against him; and 
 that nothing gratifies "the pack of litterateurs 
 and penny-a-liners" so much as to forge scandal 
 i lie man whom they hate and tear, out of 
 that instinctive perception which ever dwells in 
 tlie baser minds. As a tine poet of America has 
 lately said in the limn Journal, " there is always 
 a race of small, disappointed authors, who are 
 
 become 1 killers' hacks, and establish 
 
 a kingdom of em v !" 
 
 FROM V.U TO DECEMBER, 1823. 
 ISYKON IN GREECE. 
 
 There is a melancholy interest attached to the 
 last years of this singular man, which belongs to 
 very few others. He died at a time when he 
 seemed to lie entering into a new- phase of exist - 
 is in every man's life, and 
 the entrance into each is ushered by that pecu- 
 liar restlessness which Lamb used to call the 
 growing pains of seraph wings. It would be 
 considering the question too curiously to enter 
 into anv guess of what Byron might have been, 
 or might have done, had his life been prolonged. 
 It is more than probable that every human 
 course is complete, without reference to the ap- 
 parent number of mortal days. A modern poet 
 has treated it in this light, when he says — 
 '■ Life, long or short, is truly circular '." 
 
 That Byron felt this irritability is sufficiently 
 from a glance at his correspondence, 
 without any study of his character. To this 
 l be attributed the singular fact of ins 
 leaving the Countess Guiccioli. to whom, there is 
 no doubt, he was much attached. We must 
 likewise take into account Byron's personal vanity, 
 which was excessive. This foible peeped out in 
 
L [ F E OF LORD B Y RON. 
 
 21 
 
 main' circumstances of bis early life, and clung to 
 him to his living day. It also formed a largo 
 ingredient in the character of his illustrious con- 
 temporary. Napoleon. The vulgar idea of great 
 men bring exempl from the common failings of 
 humanity, was happily ridiculed by Samuel 
 Johnson, who. on a fool's saying he was aston- 
 ished i" find the Doctor took so much inter- 
 est in his dinner, replied, "Sir, do you think 
 God made all these good things for you block- 
 heads ?" 
 
 We must, also, not overlook another very 
 powerful incentive in Byron's composition — viz., 
 love of fame. When to this we add a burning 
 desire to do something to shame the obloquj 
 which had so long waited upon him, we have a 
 very intelligible reason for his embarking in the 
 Greek cause. 
 
 So far as the principle of freedom was con- 
 cerned, we do not. think he had very confirmed 
 ideas. Naturally, he hated oppression, but the 
 strong motive with him, in all his political acts, 
 was more a dislike to orthodox governments, 
 than a love for the abstract right, He was 
 essentially discontented, and acted from this dis- 
 satisfaction of feeling throughout life. 
 
 In this slate of mind, he was induced to listen 
 to the proposals made by some- gentleman inter- 
 ested in the Greek cause. We think that a close 
 examination of his correspondence will show that, 
 having incautiously pledged himself to embark in 
 it, he was prevented, by a feeling of pride, from 
 retracing his step, although be felt it was per- 
 sonally unwise. Some have believed that it 
 was to break off his connection with the Guic- 
 cioli, of whom they argue he must, have been 
 weary. 
 
 Whatever was the motive, he finally resolved, 
 in May, 1828, to hazard his life, fame, and 
 fortune, in the struggle for Grecian liberty. 
 How thoroughly he entered into the scheme, is 
 evident to all who have read his letters to Bow- 
 ring on the subject. Indeed, we do not see how 
 any rational mind can doubt the sincerity of 
 so impulsive a. man ns Byron. Tn a few lines 
 
 addressed to the Countess of Blessington, he 
 says : 
 
 "Do not defend me; it will never do; you 
 will only make yourself enemies. Mine are nei- 
 ther to be diminished nor softened, but they may 
 be overthrown ; and there are events which may 
 
 occur, less improbable than those which have 
 happened in our time, that may reverse the 
 present state of things. We shall see.'' 
 
 1 1 is clear from this that he had hopes of tri- 
 umphing over bis enemies in England, by the 
 brilliancy of his exploits in Greece. lie therefore 
 bent himself resolutely to the plan, and wrote to 
 Trelawney, who was in Rome, to come to him 
 without delay. He also engaged Dr. Bruno to 
 attend him as physician, and ordered three 
 splendid helmets to be made, with " Crede 
 Byron" on the crest. 
 
 A very interesting scene is related by Lady 
 Blessington, which occurred when he was taking 
 leave of her. Pressing her hand, he said, 
 " Here we are together for the last time ! I have 
 a strong presentiment we shall never meet again. 
 I shall never return from Greece." After con- 
 tinuing the conversation, in this strain, for some 
 short time longer, he leaned over the sofa, and 
 burst into an uncontrolled fit of crying. When he 
 recovered from his impulse, he presented to 
 each a small token of his regard. 
 
 All being now settled, he hired an English 
 brig, called the Hercules, and sailed with bis per- 
 sonal attendants, on the 13th of July, on his ex- 
 pedition. The adverse state of the weather, how- 
 ever, compelled them to return the next day to 
 Genoa, and it is said he considered this as ominous 
 of the whole, proceeding. While they were repair- 
 ing the vessel, he stayed with Mr. Barry ; and that 
 gentleman reports bis conversation took the most 
 gloomy turn. Sailing the next morning, they 
 reached Leghorn in five days. When he arrived 
 there, he had recovered all his former enthusiasm 
 in the cause, and seemed impatient for action. 
 It was here that he received some verses and P 
 letter from Goethe, to which he had just time 
 to ili-patrh a cordial reply. 
 
L 1 F E (» r LO I! 1» BYRON. 
 
 Sailing from Leghorn on the 24th .Inly, ho 
 arrived at Argostoli, the chief porl in Cepha- 
 lonia, on the 5th August. 
 
 The arrival of so celebrated a man naturally 
 caused a considerable sensation, and he was re- 
 ceived by the governor, Colonel Napier, and his 
 officers, in the m< >-~( flattering manner. At a 
 dinner given to him by the garrison, li«' expressed, 
 with all tin- force of a poet's soul, the pleasure 
 he experienced at the generous welcome. 
 
 He had, on the first minute of his arrival, dis- 
 patched a messenger to the seat of war; and 
 after n lapse of eight days, he received a reply 
 from the heroic Mateo Bozzaris, who was then 
 preparing for the attack in which he so gloriously 
 fell. The noble Suliote announces in this letter 
 that, the following day, he would set out, with a 
 chosen band of warriors, to receive the British 
 poet at Missolonghi, with due honors ; but the 
 gallant chief was not destined to see that mor- 
 row's sun, for that verj night he fell, in his cele- 
 brated attack on the Turkish camp. 
 
 A very short time enabled Byron to see what 
 a hopeless task he had embarked in. Underthe 
 influence of these feelings, he writes: •• 1 am of 
 St. Paul's opinion, that there is no difference be- 
 tween Jews and Greek — the character of both 
 
 being equally vile." 
 
 Byron having resolved to remain in the island 
 of Cephalonia till he had come to a full under- 
 standing with the Greek government, he took up 
 
 his quarters at Metaxata. a small village about 
 seven miles from AxgOStoli. 
 
 As a proof of the little concert existing between 
 the Grecian commanders, we may name that at 
 this time he received three conflicting requests 
 
 from them— one from Colocotroni, urging his 
 
 presence at Salainis ; another from Met l> 
 
 ging him to hasten to Missolonghi; and a third 
 from Mavrocordato, inviting him to Hydra. 
 
 Count Gamba, who had accompanied Byron, 
 says that the great poet amused himself by ex- 
 posing the intrigues oi the various factions, and 
 by confronting the lying agents. 
 
 It was during his S M\ at Arcostoli that his 
 
 acquaintance commenced with Dr. Kennedy, whc 
 has published a volume of his conversations with 
 his celebrated friend. The worthy Doctor, in his 
 
 anxiety to convert Byron to Christianity, had 
 somewhat overtaxed his patience; hut he men- 
 tions himself that nothing could exceed the noble 
 poet's toleration and courtesy. 
 
 onversations are valuable, inasmuch as 
 the] evince Myron's predisposition to ncknowl- 
 i nit li of divine revelation, as contained 
 in the Scriptures. They are certainh a complete 
 answer to the knot of bigots w ho have assailedhim 
 as being an atheist. One thing must strike every 
 one in this volume, and that is the extraordinary 
 knowledge displayed of the Bible, and the theo- 
 logical grasp of Byron's mind. 
 
 While staying here, he wrote frequently to 
 the Countess Guiccioli, and for the first time, in 
 English. In one of them he says : " October 7. 
 [823 — 1 was a fool to come here; hut being 
 here, 1 must see what is to he don,.." And m 
 another, written during the same month, he ex- 
 presses an intention of soon returning to Italy, 
 adding that he can say nothing in favor of the 
 Creeks! 
 
 A few days later he writes still more emphatic- 
 ally, " You may he sure that the moment I can 
 join you again will be as welcome to me as at 
 any period of our recollection." 
 
 In December, the dissensions of the wretched 
 men who had the management of the govern- 
 ment reached such a point, that Byron addressed 
 
 a remonstrance to them. The dignity and force 
 
 of this production are above all praise, and >how 
 that whatever a man of genius undertakes to 
 do. In' does well ! 
 
 How earnesllj he entered into the cause is ap- 
 parent from the generosity with which he ad- 
 vanced to the provisional government his own 
 
 fortune, and we fearlesslj assert that to no man 
 does Greece owe so much as to Lord Byron. 
 
 He ,-11110 to their aid at the most critical point of 
 their Struggle : he threw into the scale I I 
 li,/,- of his fame, and the substantial aid of his 
 wealth : but above all these, he compelled the 
 
As* / 
 
 f*2 I \ 
 
LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 
 
 2;; 
 
 discordant chiefs to elect Mavrocordato the head 
 of the government — the only man among them j 
 who had the faintest pretensions to the title of a 
 patriot or a statesman. 
 
 Mavrocordato having been invested with full 
 powers to organize Western Greece, Byron now 
 resolved himself to enter on the scene of action. | 
 How anxiously he was expected, we may gather 
 from the letters of the Prince Mavrocordato and 
 Colonel Stanhope, who had a command in the 
 Greek army. The former says — " Your counsels 
 will be listened to like oracles ;" and Stanhope 
 writes that, in walking along the streets, the 
 people stopped him to inquire when Byron 
 would be among them. 
 
 Still the poet's half-prophetic mind saw his 
 fate looming afar, and in a letter to Moore, writ- 
 ten a few hours before he sailed for Missolonghi, 
 he indulges in a semi-jocular strain as to meeting 
 the fate of several warrior bards who had been 
 cut short in middle life ! Thus, like the pillar of 
 fire, and the cloud of smoke, did the presentiment 
 of his doom haunt the great poet, who marched 
 onwards to his destined glory unswervingly to 
 the end ! How truly his own forebodings were 
 fulfilled, the next chapter will show. 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 S LAST 
 
 Byron's life is eminently dramatic : it seems 
 to resolve itself naturally into all the divisions of 
 a drama. We are now at the beginning of the 
 fifth act, and in it the hero falls with dignity. 
 
 It is certainly to be wished that he had fallen 
 for a nation better worthy the sacrifice of so great 
 a man ! The hackneyed metaphor of stepping 
 " from the sublime to the ridiculous" is truly ex- 
 pressive of the Greeks of the Iliad to the Greeks 
 of our own times. Coleridge said once to Dr. 
 Gillman that he could conceive nothing greater, 
 
 in the way of an anti-climax, than Isaiah utter- 
 ing prophecy, and a modern Jew hawking old 
 clothes. 
 
 That Byron, who had embarked his fame, for- 
 tune, and life, had a low opinion of the nation he 
 had risked so much for, is evident, from the re- 
 mark he made respecting the conduct of Sir 
 Thomas Maitland. " I came out (says Byron) 
 prejudiced against his government of the Greeks, 
 but I have changed my opinion. They are such 
 barbarians, that, if I had the government of 
 them, I would pave these very roads with their 
 bodies !" 
 
 This was certainly a melancholy prospect for 
 the poet-hero. He could have no more sympa- 
 thy with them, or respect for their cause, than a 
 noble lion has for a drove of swine. We must, 
 however, bear in mind that the " primum mobile" 
 of the evil was the frightful tyranny under which 
 they had groaned so long. 
 
 It was in this frame of mind that he resolved 
 to leave Metaxata for Missolonghi. Dr. Kennedy 
 called upon him to take leave, and found him 
 reading " Quentin Durward." A few hours af- 
 terwards, they set sail — Byron on board the 
 Mistico, and Count Gamba, with the heavy bag- 
 gage, in the Bombarda. 
 
 After touching at Zante for the specie, on the 
 evening of the 29th December they were fairly 
 under weigh for the seat of war. The wind was 
 favorable — the sky clear — the air fresh, but not 
 sharp — the sailors sung patriotic songs, in which 
 Byron, who was in the fullest gayety, took part. 
 In the course of the night, the Mistico had a 
 narrow chance of being captured by a Turkish 
 frigate. They, however, ran their small craft 
 among some rocks called the Scrofes, and conse- 
 quently escaped ; but the larger vessel, in which 
 Gamba, the horses, press, and eight thousand 
 dollars were embarked, was taken, and car- 
 ried into Patras. Here, after undergoing a scru- 
 tiny, they were released. The Mistico experi- 
 enced much bad weather, and did not arrive 
 at Missolonghi till the 5th January. He was 
 received with that adulation which the base and 
 
24 
 
 LIFE OF LORD BYRO N 
 
 degraded ever exhibit, when they think they have 
 got a "magnificent" fly into their miserable 
 spider's web. When Byron landed, he had the 
 satisfaction of finding the missing vessel safely 
 arrived. Bui lure his satisfaction ended, for 
 never had imagination conjured up into one small 
 space the ideal of a degradation equal to the 
 reality here displayed. 
 
 The Beet had disbanded — the army was riot- 
 ous and clamorous for their pay — the chiefs were 
 quarrelling among themselves; and the inhabit- 
 ants were desponding, and ready to join any ad- 
 venturer. 
 
 In a letter to Mr. Hancock, written early in 
 February, I!\ ron says : 
 
 " I am to be commander-in-chief, and the post 
 is by no means a sinecure, for we are not what 
 Major Sturgeon calls " a set of the most amicable 
 officers." Whether we shall have a boxing-bout 
 between Captain Sheers and the Colonel, I can- 
 not tell : but between Suliote chiefs, German 
 barons. English volunteers, and adventurers of 
 all nations, we are likely to form as goodly an 
 allied army as ever quarrelled beneath the same 
 banner." 
 
 A leu days afterwards, he received his com 
 mission from the government to lead the expedi- 
 tion against Lepanto, which was then in the 
 hands of the Turks. At this very minute, how- 
 ever, his band of Suliotes broke out into open 
 mutiny, and some lives were sacrificed before the 
 riot was put down. This was a source of great 
 annoyance to Byron, and increased his disgust at 
 the conduct of the Greeks. From (Jamba's ac- 
 count, we are almost tempted to believe that the 
 poet looked forward with a hopeful eye that he 
 might fall in some military enterprise. That this 
 would have many charms to one of his nature, is 
 apparent. It wotdd have made his name one of 
 the most glorious in the annals of the world. 
 Already famous as a poet, it only required the 
 soldier's death to place il beyond the uh 
 competition. Every thing was in readiness, when 
 the intrigues of Colocotroni caused a quarrel be- 
 tween the great poet and his Suliote band. 
 
 Although the latter abandoned their demands 
 the next day. and re-entered Lord Heron's ser- 
 vice, it had the effect of postponing the opera- 
 tions against Lepanto. 
 
 On the 15th of February, he was seized with 
 a tit, which was the precursor of his illness and 
 death. He was sitting with Parry, Hesketh, and 
 Colonel Stanhope, when he complained of thirst. 
 After taking a glass of cider, his face changed. 
 He attempted to walk, but was unable, and 
 finally fell into Mr. Parry's arms. In another 
 minute he was in strong convulsions. The fit, 
 however, was as short as it was violent. In a 
 few minutes, his speech and senses returned, and 
 no effect remained except excessive weakness. 
 The next morning he complained of pains in his 
 head, which induced the doctors to apply leeches 
 to his temples. The bleeding was s,, excessive 
 that he fainted from loss of blood. He had 
 scarcely recovered from this, when his mutinous 
 troops broke into his sick chamber, demanding 
 some concessions and privileges, to which he had 
 before refused to comply. Colonel Stanhope and 
 Count Gamba, who wen 1 present, describe the 
 dignity and dauntless behaviour of the. English 
 poet. Rising from his bed, he confronted them, 
 replied to their insolence, and finally, by his 
 
 courage and presence of mind, awed them into 
 submission. That this, however, had a bad 
 effect upon his nervous system, in his then weak 
 and excited state, and hastened his death, there 
 can be little doubt. He, however, resolved to 
 rid himself of these lawless villains, and, after 
 some negotiations, the whole Suliote band was 
 induced to depart from Missolonghi. With 
 them, however, vanished all chance of the attack 
 on Lepanto. 
 
 Every letter written by him at this lime bears 
 legibly on its page the shadow of his now rapidly 
 approaching fate. Wearied with the quarrels of 
 the chiefs, he resolved, with Mavroeordato, to pro- 
 ceed to Salona, to meet Ulysses, and the leaders of 
 Eastern Greece. While waiting for some neces- 
 sarv information, he zealously employed himself 
 in repairing the fortifications of Missolonghi, and 
 
LIFE OF LOR D B Y R O \ 
 
 raising a brigade. Thus passed the last month 
 but one of his checkered life. 
 
 From the time he was first attacked with the 
 tii, he had been partially indisposed, suffering 
 chiefly from vertigo and cold shudderings. 
 Everj day brought new trials to his health and 
 temper. Added to these, the rains had made 
 the plains around Missolonghi a perfect swamp, 
 so that he was unable to take his usual exercise. 
 This was the condition of things when April — 
 the month in which he was to die — dawned upon 
 tin- earl h. 
 
 The first week was taken up in quarrels be- 
 tween the citizens, and so disturbed grew the 
 populace, that a collision was very near taking 
 place between them and Byron's body-guard of 
 Suliotes. 
 
 On the 10th of April, he was riding with 
 Count Gamba and his body-guard of fifty Suli- 
 otes, when, three miles from Missolonghi, he was 
 overtaken by a heavy shower of rain. It was 
 his usual custom to dismount at the walls, and 
 return to his own quarters in a boat. On the 
 present occasion, he was importuned by Gamba 
 home to his very door, and so avoid the 
 msequences of sitting in Ins « et i 
 ed to the rain. Byron refused, saying: 
 " A pretty soldier you would make me — afraid 
 tower of rain." He therefore persisted in 
 his determination, and returned in his usual man- 
 ner. Two hours after his arrival home, he was 
 with shudderings and rheumatic pains; 
 and when Gambil entered his room at eight 
 
 o'clock in the evening, he found the great | t 
 
 lying '.n a sola, restless and meli ni 
 
 ie next daj he rose at his usual hour, trans- 
 msiness, and was even well enou fh to 
 
 I've wood, accompanied by his long 
 
 train of soldiers. Byron was fond of dramatic 
 pout [i, and it followed him to his grave. This 
 was the last time he ever crossed his threshold 
 nli\e. 
 
 On his return, he told Fletcher he felt so ill 
 
 that he feared the saddle had not been thoroughly 
 
 dried. In the evening, Mr. Finlav and Dr. Mil- 
 
 4 
 
 lingen called upon him. They found him gayer 
 than usual, but all on a sudden he became pen- 
 sive, and in that state they left him. 
 
 His restlessness increased, and on the 12th he 
 kept his bed. Although unable either to sleep 
 or eat, on the two following days his fever 
 seemed to decline; but so did his strength. 
 During this time, he suffered much in his head. 
 
 Towards the evening of the 1 tth, Dr. Bruno 
 urged him to be bled. To this operation he had, 
 throughout life, evinced the .strongest repug- 
 nance: he would therefore no! consul. It was 
 this night that he tested the accuracy of his 
 memory, bj repeating some Latin verses he 
 learned at school. Only being one word out, he 
 expressed himself satisfied with the result. Un- 
 like' as the two men are. we cannot help recalling 
 to iii" reader's recollection a parallel experiment 
 
 el' S.ier.lel .JullHSOU, wlldl Oil lllS denlhliec.l. 
 
 All things seemed to conspire against the hero- 
 poet. The weather was so stormy, that no ship 
 could be sent toZante for heller medical advice ; 
 the rain descended in torrents ; and between the 
 floods from the shore, and the sirocco from the 
 sea, Missolonghi was the i ,<■ of malaria. 
 
 It was at this minute that Dr. Millingen was 
 called in professionally. Unfortunately for the 
 world, he was an advocate for bleeding. Byron's 
 intellect, however, fell not without a logical 
 struggle, lie argued the question for some 
 time, combating the quackeries of the medical 
 profession with the solidities of common sense 
 and experience. Among other remarks. Byron 
 said "that bleeding a man so nervous as himself 
 was like loosening the chords of a harp already 
 suffering for want of tension." Hon true this 
 was, the fatalsequel proved. " Bleeding," added 
 the poet, '• will inevitably kill me." 
 
 Parry, the military engineer, who sat by him 
 this evening, says that " he seemed perfectly calm 
 and resigned, and so unlike his usual manner, 
 that my mind foreboded a fatal result.'' 
 
 Next morning, Drs. Millingen and Bruno re- 
 newed their importunities, and Byron, wearied 
 out, extended his arm, angrily exclaiming — 
 
26 
 
 LIFE OF LOUD BYRON. 
 
 " There, you damned butchers ! since you will 
 have it so, take as much blood as you like, and 
 have 'I with it." 
 
 These ignorant, reckless quacks had, however, 
 miscalculated. After the first copious bleeding, 
 he grew worse. They bled again, and the case 
 was hopeless. Byron was right: he wanted 
 more blood than lie already had — not to have it 
 taken from him. As Tennyson says in the Two 
 Voices : 
 
 " Tis life, whereof these veins are scant — 
 More life, and fuller — that I want." 
 
 Dr. Southwood Smith and Dr. Arnott have 
 repeatedly acknowledged to the writer of this 
 memoir that a careful review of the case forced 
 them to believe that Byron was bled to death! 
 
 On the 17th. the butcherly bleedings were re- 
 peated, but he grew worse. Then they blistered 
 him Mr. Booker, who was one of those sta- 
 tioned tn mount guard at his chamher-door, and 
 who was occasionally called in to hold the raving 
 man of genius down in his bed, described, in a 
 conversation with the writer, the melancholy de- 
 tail- of these lasl few days. G-amba, Fletcher, 
 and Tita were of little use as nurses, in conse- 
 qui rice of their grief, which was so injudiciously 
 ed, as several times to arouse Byron's re- 
 buke. 
 
 Parry says : " In all the attendants, there was 
 the officiousness of zeal; but owing tn their ig- 
 norance of each other's language, their zeal only 
 added to the confusion. This circumstance, and 
 the want of common necessaries, made Lord 
 Byron's apartment such a picture of distress, and 
 even anguish, during the two or three last 
 of his life, as 1 never before beheld, and wish 
 never again to witness." 
 
 On the 18th, Byron rose about, three in the 
 afternoon, and, leaning on Tita, his servant, was 
 able 1.. walk into the next room. When seated 
 there, he asked for a book, which he read for a 
 few minutes. Putting the volume suddenly 
 down, he said he felt taint, and again taking 
 Tita's arm. tottered into his bedroom, and re- 
 turned to bed. 
 
 The physicians now becoming alarmed, called 
 in Dr. Millingen's assistant. Dr. Freibtr, and a 
 Greek physician, Luca Vaga, attached to Mavro 
 cordato. After some hesitation on Byron'- p irt, 
 they were at last admitted to the patient. Dr. 
 Millingen's account severely censures Bruno's 
 course of treatment, for he says that, contrary to 
 his advice, he administered valerian and ether, 
 which produced an immediate return of the con- 
 vulsions and delirium, in an aggravated shape. 
 It is singular that, like Napoleon in his last mo- 
 ments, Byron fancied he was leading troops on 
 to an assault, calling out, half in English, half in 
 Italian — "Forwards! courage! follow me!" 
 
 On coming to himself again, he asked Fletcher 
 to send for Dr. Thomas, as he wished to know 
 what really was the matter with him. With 
 that geniality which ever belongs to the true 
 port, he then expressed the regret he felt, at re- 
 quiring such a fatiguing attendance. 
 
 It was now- evident to all around him thai he 
 felt his last hour was rapidly approaching, and 
 that he was most anxious to communicate his 
 dying wishes. Calling Fletcher to him, he com- 
 menced talking in so rapid and indistinct a man- 
 ner as to In-wilder that faithful servant. Upon his 
 to bring pen and paper for Byron to write 
 down what he meant, the departing poet cried 
 — ■' There is no time : all is nearly over. I 
 dying. Goto my sister ; go to Lady Byroi — 
 she will surely see you. Tell her" — here his 
 feelings overpowered him, but, after a pans.-, he 
 
 tmenced muttering and ejaculating, but 
 
 so indistinctly, that only a word here and there- 
 was intelligible. For full twenty minutes did 
 tills painful scene go on, the attendants being 
 mly to catch at intervals isolated words, 
 such us " Guiccioli — Ada — my wife — Hobhouse 
 — Augusta — Kinnaird." After a pause, he said 
 ear, distinct manner — "Now I have told 
 you all." Fletcher replied — " My lord, I have 
 not understood a word your lordship has been 
 saving." " Not understand me !" exclaimed the 
 dying poet. " God help me! what a pity ! It 
 is too late : all is now over." " I hope not," 
 
ORl> BYRON 
 
 27 
 
 said Fletcher: "bul the Lord's will be done!" 
 " ITes, Mi- will — line," murmured Byron, 
 
 A sedative was now .-1111111111 tered to him, and 
 
 1 he bandage round his head wa I med. 
 
 When m was done, he said, " A 1 1 ! Christi," and 
 
 shed a fen tears. lie then sank into a pr ind 
 
 Bleep \ waking in al I an hour, he be fan to 
 
 mutter again to himself, but only words here and 
 there could be distinguished. Among them 
 
 were — "Poor Greece ! Poor town ! My | - 
 
 servants! My hour is ne! I il 1 care for 
 
 death ; bul why was [ not told of mj fate 
 sooner? Why did I nol go to England before 
 1 came here '.' Bul all is over now There are 
 things here which make the world dear to me. 
 For the rest, I am contei die." 
 
 Towards six o'clock this evening, hi 
 round in his bed, saying " Now I shall go to 
 Bleep." These were 1 he lasl words he ever m - 
 tered ; for immediately after la- I'll into thai 
 
 Bleep t' w hich la' never woke. For the nexl 
 
 twenty-four hours, he lay without sense ami mo 
 lion; and at a quarter past six on the following 
 day — the 19l.li April — he was observed to open 
 his eyes, and immediately shut them again. The 
 I ' 1 1 \ ■ icians fell his puls< — Byron was dead ' 
 
 When this was known to the Greeks, they 
 went about like children who had losl their only 
 
 protector, saying in a ipiiel lone, as though thej 
 
 feared to wake a slumbering child — "The great 
 man is ^one !" 
 
 More than a quarter of a century lias passed, 
 and the world allows he- was a greal man; and 
 England will, in a few years, be prouder of her 
 
 Byr han her Wellingtons or her victories. 
 
 *i el 1 his said ( lolossus of Genius was hooted out 
 of England, and his acquaintance considered infa- 
 mous. These are bitter lessons, bul the) teach as 
 what our fellow-creatures are : sycophants in our 
 prosperity — persecutors in our weakness and mis- 
 fortune. The mass now are the same as In the 
 days of Pilate, when they released Barabbas, 
 deified Nero, and crucified Christ! But, in 
 Byron's own words, Time, the avenger, execrates 
 •ho e wrongs, and make, the old byeword of re- 
 
 proach the synonym of glory, li is thus with 
 1 he greal 1 1 before n\ and he stands pre emi- 
 nent even am the Wordsworth i, the Shelleys, 
 
 Keatsi and the < loleridges of his time. 
 
 He has translated the univer e into hi ov n 
 
 ("a ne ; constituted 1 self 1 he high priest, not 
 
 ol human or physical nature, bul of himself, 
 
 Byron, the | I ; and this is the grandest and 
 
 crowiiiiio- nehii'\enienl, of the human intellect. 
 
 Byron is undoubtedly the most personally 
 
 ing poet thai ever lived , ad -ation for 
 
 him seems to be pari, and pan-el of the youthful 
 heart — a sort ol' iuumiorv siep m the progress of 
 
 feeling. Much of this possibly proceed 
 
 the peculiar sentimenl everywhere dominant in 
 his writings. There is a >le life fi 
 
 romance running through it, which formsa fitting 
 ; ccompanimi nl to I he melodi of h vei ie. The 
 
 ■ of a mind like Byron's is as fa 1 
 as that of an inferior person is insufferable. 
 
 We maj addui e, a 1 an instance the 1 ol 
 Leigh Hunt's autobiographical writings. Thai he 
 is a pleasant and entertaining conversationist all 
 who know him admit ; bul the difference between 
 mere second-hand talent and genius is fell at 
 once, when wc compare the egotism of the two 
 men. While that of Byron throws a magic ovi - 
 everj thing, the prattle of 1 he aut hor of Rimini 
 becomes mere frivolous small-talk — puerile in its 
 vanity, and contemptible for the suppressed 
 malice which is ever willing 1" wound, but 
 in strike. In Byron, we have so magnificent a 
 disregard of every thing sum- the humor of the 
 minute, that, it sometimes resembles more the 
 mock heroic of the Frogs and Mice than the [Had 
 yet we clearly recognize in both the master hand 
 of Homer. 
 
 This is, however, only one phase of the great 
 poet's mind, although ai times mi ; prominent K 
 shown, more especially in the most characteristic 
 of his poems — Don Juan. In his first great 
 work, Cliilde Harold, he assumes more the 
 gloomy Epicurean thoroughly satiated with the 
 pleasures of the world. Tin-re is more boyish 
 ness in this poem than his admirers like to admit. 
 
L 1 F E OF LORD B V R O X 
 
 It is. however, a state through which most 
 ,-outh have passed, Still there is this difference, 
 that in Byron it w:is not so artificial as in the 
 many. There is also a - • in this 
 
 beautiful production, which s 
 That this had 
 s checkered life and financial emh 
 meats, is. we think, beyond a douht : and al- 
 though it would have been itn; 5S 
 altogether crushed the 
 
 yet we think il most probable that uninterrupted 
 i d the de- 
 velopment of those powers which have as 
 the world. Nature made him a poet, but his 
 
 are cradled into verse by v. ■■ ■ 
 They learn in suffering what they teach in - 
 
 Trulj 
 
 life in thi- 
 
 In h S I 
 
 - 
 
 at the SU 
 
 with the 
 
 E 
 
 strain! in 
 them. v. 
 ral ebull 
 
 his will. In Be] 
 purely ■' med his 
 
 - 
 
 even the 
 
 blasphemous pieties of Souther, as to disarm en- 
 tirely the critical faculty, and rob condemnation 
 ■ 
 I his desultory, short pieces are artificial, 
 
 or written in an assumed mood foreign to Ins 
 nature. We principally allude to his loveverses, 
 Sacred Melodies. Arc. We think 
 
 nl of knowledge ot the human heart, 
 when he adduces some of the 1 1 
 
 rion. He was certainly 
 igions man. lie was occasionally t.\r\o- 
 s 
 
 of all fixed rules 
 — there, 
 
 him. He hated argument; ind 
 
 ! 
 - we know are dull men ! 
 nd lofty-flighted 
 to wait for the ; 
 
 rell knew that he never could convince 
 man, and that another man never should 
 him. He therefore very properly con- 
 sidered discussion as waste labor. But 
 will not allow us to dwell on the peculi 
 
 We must therefore con- 
 - 
 
 Poet of the People than 
 end that any i 
 ngs will achieve as complete a 
 
 student of 
 can of that of Johnson. There is not a 
 
 turn of mind or shade of thought that is nut 
 chronicled in the writings ox Bvron. 
 
V 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
 
WHEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGHLANDER. 
 
 Win \ 1 roved a young Highlander o'er the dark heath, 
 And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of snow ! 
 To gaze on the torrent thai thunder'd beneath, 
 
 Or the mist of the tempest that gather'd below, 
 Untutor'd by Bcience, a stranger to fear, 
 
 And rude as the rocks where my infancy grew, 
 No feeling, save , to my bosom was dear; 
 
 Need I say, my sweet .Mary, Was centred in you 1 
 
 Yet it could not be love, lor I knew not the name, — 
 
 What passion can dwell in the heart of a chilli ? 
 But still I perceive an emotion the same 
 
 As I i.lt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd wild : 
 One image alone on my bosom impres9'd, 
 
 I loved my bleak regions, nor panted for new ; 
 And few were my wants, for my wishes were hless'd ; 
 
 And pure were my thoughts, lor my soul was with 
 you. 
 
 I arose with the dawn : with my dog as my guide. 
 
 From mountain to mountain I bounded along; 
 I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, 
 
 And heard at a distance the Highlander's song : 
 At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose, 
 
 No dreams, save of Mary, were spread to my view ; 
 And 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 more ; 
 A> the last of my race, I must wither alone, 
 
 And delight but in days 1 have witness'd before : 
 
 Ah! splendor has raised, but embitter'd, my lot ; 
 
 More dear were the scenes which my infancy knew ; 
 Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet i bey are not 
 forgot ; 
 
 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 Colbleeo : 
 
 When I see the soft blue of a love-spi akiug eye, 
 
 I think of those eyes that endear'd the rude scene; 
 
 When, haply, some 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 more 
 
 Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of snow : 
 But while these soar above me, unchanged as before, 
 
 Will Mary be there to receive me ?— ah no ! 
 Adieu, then, ye hills, where my childhood was bred ! 
 
 Thou sweet-flowing Dee, to thy waters adieu ! 
 No home in the forest shall shelter my bead, — 
 
 Ah ! Mary, what hi could be mine but with you ? 
 
 The spirited engraving of Lord Byron in 
 Highland costume, though purely imagin- 
 ary, is yet characteristic of the above 
 poem, as it is also of the stanzas written in 
 recollection of Lachin Y. Gair. 
 
 Ah ! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd ; 
 My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid ■ 
 
80 
 
 n «>r i;s o F i P IK N ESS. 
 
 On chieftains long perish'dmy memory ponder'd, 
 As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade : 
 
 1 sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
 Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star-. 
 
 For ftuuoy was oheer'd by traditional story, 
 Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch-na-Garr. 
 
 Scotland was the cradle of his muse. 
 Her romantic scenes and legendary lore 
 brought forth and nurtured the budding 
 genius of the unconscious child, who knew 
 
 aol the danger o( tlu- gift, until it bloomed 
 in beauty, surrounded by sharp and hurtful 
 thorns. 
 
 K\ eu at a very early ago. he would steal 
 away from home, ami brood in solitude 
 over the incomprehensible thoughts that 
 filled his mind, awakened by tumultuous 
 passions which were so fatally and preco- 
 ciously developed. The stern realities o\ 
 majestic Nature filled his soul with unut- 
 terable emotions ; but it required after- 
 thought, after-life, the charm o( absence 
 and the wand of Fancy, to disenthrall these 
 bright ideas, and let them teem with firm, 
 poetic lite. The sweet treasures oi mem- 
 ory, when enhanced by material depriva- 
 tion, are far dearer than the brightest an- 
 
 ticipations o\ illusive hope. And the fond 
 recollections oi ohildhood, when compared 
 with similar scenes in maturity, furnish re- 
 splendent tints to enrich poesy The fol- 
 lowing lilies connected with the subject, 
 which were written only a year before his 
 death, fully portray this meaning : 
 
 Both nourish'd amid nature's native scenes, 
 Loved to the last, whatever intervenes 
 Between us and our childhood's sympathy, 
 
 Which still reverts to what tirst caught the eye, 
 Ho who tirst met the Highland's swelling blue 
 Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue. 
 Hail in each erag a friend's familiar face, 
 And elasp the mountain in his mind's embrace. 
 Long have 1 roam'd through lands which an- not mine, 
 Adored the Alp and loved the Aponnino. 
 Revered Parnassus, and beheld the steep 
 Jove's Ida and Olympus crown the deep : 
 But 'twas not all long ages' lore, nor all 
 Their nature held me in their thrilling thrall : 
 The infant nature still survived the boy, 
 And Loch-na-Garr with Ida look'd o'er Troy. 
 Mix'd Celtic memories with the Phrygian mount, 
 And Highland linns with Oastalie's clear fount 
 Forgive mo. Homer's universal shade ! 
 Forgive me. Phoebus ! that my fancy stray \1 ; 
 The north and nature taught me to adore 
 Your scenes sublime, from those beloved before. 
 
LOVE'S LAST A DIEU. 
 
 LOVE'S L A S T A I) I E D ! 
 
 " All i', act lie ftvyu."— AnifUtj, 
 
 'I'm ro iea ol love glad the garden of life, 
 Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent dew, 
 
 'Jill Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
 Or prunes them for ever in love's las) adieu ' 
 
 Ii] rain with endearments we soothe the sad heart, 
 In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; 
 
 The chance of an hour may command 118 to part, 
 Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 
 
 3. 
 Slill Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen 
 Breast, 
 
 Will whisper, "Our meeting we yet trny renew:'' 
 i dream of deceit half our sorrow's represl, 
 
 Will, thi 
 Nor taste we the poison oi love's last adieu ! 
 
 Oil ! mark you yon pair : in the sunshine of youth 
 
 Love twined round their childhood his flowers :i- 
 they grew ; 
 They flourish awhile in the season of truth, 
 Till chill'd by the winter of love's last adieu ! 
 
 Sweet lady ! why thus doth B tear Bteal its way 
 Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in hue 
 
 Vet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 
 Thy reason Ins perish'd with love's last adieu ! 
 
 6. 
 
 Oh ! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind ? 
 From cities to eaves of the forest lie fll v. : 
 
 Tin re. raving, he howls his complaint to the wind ; 
 The mountains reverberate love's last adieu ! 
 
 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 1 
 
 How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 9. 
 
 Youth flies, life decay even hope is o'ercast ; 
 
 No more with love's former devotion we sue : 
 He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast; 
 
 The -hroud ol affection is love's last adieu ! 
 
IKM'KS OF IDLENESS. 
 
 In tliis life of probation for rapture divine, 
 Astrea declares that some penance is doe: 
 
 From him who lias worshipp'd at love's gentle shrine. 
 The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 
 
 11. 
 
 Who kneels to the god ™ '>i s *!•*' "' ''U h ' 
 
 Musi myrtle and cypress alternately straw: 
 His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight ; 
 
 His e\ press, the garland of love's last adieu ! 
 
 The Hours of Idleness, when considered 
 as the production of a tyro in poetry, and a 
 mere youth, are certainly entitled to a greal 
 deal of praise. The lofty thoughts that are 
 loosely scattered through them, show the 
 eager graspings of a soaring and ambitious 
 mind striving to pierce into mighty things 
 which it cannot clearly comprehend : of the 
 young, aspiring student thirsting to obtain 
 that knowledge at once, which the hoary- 
 headed master has attained solely by time, 
 attended with painful experience. They 
 invariably appear to have been written by 
 one far older in thought, than a youth whose 
 aim is usually folly and pleasure. " Love's 
 Last Adieu" would seem to have been writ- 
 ten by an old man. unskilled in poetry, hut 
 whose heart had been bereft of every object 
 of its love ; and whose affections and feelings 
 
 had withered and become blunted, and had 
 thus tamed down, as it were, the pathos with 
 which the versification is invested. 
 
 As a germ of poetical tenderness and 
 mournful melody, it is insignificant when 
 compared with the subsequent fruits of his 
 mind, when wo and grief had taught his 
 harp to give responsive. strains. The bitter 
 morality which it teaches, and the absence 
 of all repulsive, love-sick ravings, enrich it 
 with that good sound sense, that approxi- 
 mates very nearly to grandeur and sublim- 
 ity. The exquisite thought, however. ^[ 
 "Love's Last Adieu," so unskilfully handled, 
 has been far from exhausted. The word 
 •• Farewell !" contains a mine of sorrow, but 
 it onlj denotes Love's temporal parting, 
 which often creates pleasure through the 
 bright anticipations of Hope! But " Love's 
 Last Adieu" is the eternal parting of life 
 and love forever! It is the death-blow of 
 hope, and the destroyer of every joy, the 
 blighting desolation that makes solitude 
 agony, and society a curse. — the gnawing 
 canker of grief, and the burning torch of 
 immedicable wo. for which there is no balm 
 but that of religion, no end but the grave, 
 and no rest but the sweet and ever-blessed 
 rest of Heaven ! 
 
THE MAID OF ATHENS. 
 
 Til E MAID OF ATHENS. 
 
 Maiu of Alliens, ere we part, 
 Give, oh, give me back my heart! 
 
 ' > bat lias left my br'-ast, 
 
 Keep it new, and take the rest! 
 Hear my vow before I go, 
 
 Zutj f/ov, adi ay>ir<7>. 
 
 By those tresses unconfined, 
 Woo'd by each J3gean wind ; 
 By those lids whose jetty fringe 
 Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
 By those wild eyes like the roe, 
 
 Z(ii7 /io5, ffdi iyanw. 
 
 3. 
 
 By that lip I long to taste ; 
 By that zone-encircled waist ; 
 By all the token-flowers that tell 
 What words can never speak so well ; 
 By Love's alternate joy and wo, 
 
 Z<dti pou. ads iyn-KU. 
 
 My life, I love you. 
 
 Maid of Athens I I am gone : 
 Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
 Though I fly to Istambol, 
 Albans holds my heart and soul ; 
 ( '.in I cease to love thee ? No ! 
 Z'/'i/ (<o5, ndi iyaxu. 
 
 Towards the latter end of December, 
 1809, Lord Byron visited Athens foi tin- 
 first time. During his stay, which lasted 
 nearly three months, he resided with Theo- 
 dora Macri, a Grecian lady, and widow of 
 the late English consul at Athens, and 
 passed his time in visiting the most celebra- 
 ted spots surrounding that interesting and 
 classic shrine of ancient glory, or in paying 
 attentions to the three virtuous and beauti- 
 ful daughters of his amiable hostess. Their 
 names were Theresa, Mariana, and Katin- 
 ka; and Theresa, the eldest, for whom he 
 either feigned or felt an intense passion- 
 which was, however, purely Platonic, was, 
 as " the Maid of Athens," the subject of this 
 warm and pretty encomium. According to 
 the custom of courtship in this country, he 
 had wounded himself with a dagger across 
 
.'.4 
 
 T11K M.\ll> OV ATHENS. 
 
 liis breast in her presence, but without elicit- 
 ing any corresponding sympathy from the 
 youthful beauty, who stoically witnessed the 
 operation as a trifling tribute to her charms. 
 
 The history of this family, apart from this. 
 is as interesting as it is painfully romantic. 
 The consul dying, leaving them in pover- 
 ty, they obtained a livelihood by renting a 
 part of their house to English travellers, and 
 being more accomplished than Grecian fe- 
 males usually are. incomparably lovely, and 
 possessing many virtues and social qualities, 
 they gained the esteem o( all who knew 
 them; but rendered Famous by the publica- 
 tion of Lord Byron's eulogy, they afterwards 
 formed one of the greatest attractions of 
 Athens. Among the many Englishmen who 
 resorted to their house, a Mr."W ■•• — ••■ 
 and Mr. C ' ' ' ' *, by unremitting atten- 
 tions, gained the affections o\ Theresa and 
 Katinka. and they were honorably engaged 
 to be married. Their pretended lovers at 
 length left for England, where they remain- 
 ed, and thus cruelly and infamously deserted 
 them, alleging as a reason that their fathers 
 
 objected to their unions. The confiding 
 hearts o\ the two sisters were torn with bit- 
 terness and anguish by this shameful neg- 
 lect, and they entirely withdrew from all 
 society. 
 
 When the Turks took Athens, the family 
 lied to Corfu in an open boat, where, at 
 first, they were not permitted to land : and 
 being utterly destitute, they would have per- 
 ished, had they not fortunately found a 
 friend, whose influence procured them ad- 
 mission. Lord Guilford, who was then in 
 Rome, happened to hear of their circum- 
 stances, and generously sent them one hun- 
 dred pounds to relieve their pressing wants. 
 
 .Mariana, the youngest sister, has been 
 dead a long time : the two eldest were mar- 
 ried, ami are now living in comfort and 
 happiness, and although time has dimmed 
 their youthful beauty, their mental adorn- 
 ments have increased with maturity. 
 
 Theresa, (whose name is now Airs. 
 Black,) it is said, has a daughter, whose 
 loveliness surpasses that for which her mo- 
 ther was formerly so celebrated. 
 

 
 
 
ADA. 
 
 Is thy face like tliy mother's, my fair child ! 
 Ada ! sole daughter of my house and heart? 
 When last I saw thy young blue eyes they smiled, 
 And then we parted — not as now we part, 
 But with a hope. 
 
 Augusta Ada Byron, the present Count- 
 ess of Lovelace, was born on the 10th of 
 December, 1815. In less than three months 
 after her birth, the unfortunate separation 
 took place between her parents, and Lord 
 Byron saw her for the last time. On the 
 :25th of April of the following year, he left 
 England for ever ; and in the ensuing May 
 he commenced the third Canto of Childe 
 Harold with the above touching lines. 
 
 It is strangely true, that Lord Byron's 
 mighty genius was enabled to take its lofty 
 flight, and tower in its pride of place, solely, 
 from the immolation of all that he held 
 dear to him. The pilgrimage of Childe 
 Harold forms a melancholy attestation of 
 this painful truth. Goaded by the merci- 
 less satire inflicted upon his first unpre- 
 tending poems, and dissatisfied with himself 
 for having recriminated with too much an- 
 imosity and misplaced acrimony ; his tor- 
 mented mind produced the first two cantos 
 
 of this immortal poem, the concluding 
 stanzas of which are like the dying strains 
 of a sweetly mournful melody, possessing 
 pathos that unfolds real sorrow, being in- 
 spired by the death of his mother, and a 
 simultaneous loss of some of his most inti- 
 mate and dearest friends. 
 
 But when again the Pilgrim wanders 
 forth, his home and hearth have been de- 
 stroyed, his name and reputation blasted by 
 envy, and his confiding heart and affections 
 withered before disdainful pride and con- 
 tempt. He resumes his fitful lay with the 
 name of his infant child upon its opening 
 notes. He remembers, alas ! too well, the 
 sweet smile of innocence that darted from 
 her laughing eyes, when he saw her last ; 
 but parted from her, and for ever ! this last 
 bitter drop fills again the cup of misery, 
 which he had already drunk to the dregs, 
 and he dare not proceed for a while, until 
 he has learned to " make his torture tribu- 
 tary to his will, when the warm heart of 
 the unhappy" parent unburdens its sincere 
 affection, and wafts a blessing and a prayer 
 upon the much-loved object, and bitterly 
 sighs to be one day but thus beloved again. 
 
36 
 
 (Mil LI) K HAROLD. 
 
 My daughter ! with thy namo this song begun — 
 M\ daughter! with thy name thus much shall 
 
 end — 
 I sec thee not, — I hear thee not, — hut none 
 Can be so wrapp'd in thee ; thou art the Trie; d 
 To whom the shadows of Far years extend : 
 Mbeil my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
 ,M\ 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. 
 
 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: [same, 
 
 Tl'jogh the grave closed between us, — 'twere the 
 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. 
 
 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 ; 
 Vet this was in my nature : — as it is, 
 I know not what is there, yet something like to this. 
 
 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 tire 
 Shall he more temper'd, and thy hope far higher. 
 Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
 And from the mountains where 1 now respire, 
 Pain would I waft such blessing upon thee. 
 As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have been to 
 
I ANTHE. 
 
 TO I ANTHE. 
 
 Not in those elimes 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 dream'd, 
 Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd : 
 Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
 To paint those charms whi ch 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 unbeseem 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 ! let 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 intwined ; 
 And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
 On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrin d 
 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 
 less require ? 
 
38 
 
 CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 The opening stanzas of Childe Harold 
 were addressed to Lady Charlotte Harley 
 in 1812, who was then only eleven years 
 old, under the appellation of " Ianthe." 
 
 This delicate tribute of sincere friendship 
 is a sweet embodiment of the gifted poet's 
 admiration of budding innocence and beau- 
 ty ; and the solicitude he feels for this youth- 
 ful " Peri," that she may continue to bloom 
 as pure in heart, and guileless beyond the 
 fondest imagination of Hope, is as tenderly 
 affectionate as a parent's love. 
 
 When Lord Byron wrote in praise of 
 female loveliness, he invested the living 
 beauties whose charms he described, with 
 a far more exquisite imagery than the fan- 
 cies of his own creation. His wish for 
 Ianthe is, that she may be as true as "Love's 
 image upon earth without his wing," and 
 that her anxious mother may behold her, as 
 the bright rainbow whose heavenly hues 
 will dispel all future sorrow. The last sub- 
 lime sentiment has only been exceeded by 
 him in one instance, viz., in the magnificent 
 lines addressed to Lady Wilmot Horton : 
 
 " 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." 
 
 The grand metaphor he uses, is the least 
 sensual, and the most poetical of any that 
 can ever be imagined. 
 
 " 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 !" 
 
 He here, as before, appropriately pays 
 the lofty homage due to female purity and 
 virtue ; an example which has been set by 
 divine inspiration. 
 
 Again, in speaking of his cousin Margaret 
 Parker, who died at a very early age, he 
 says,— 
 
 " I do not recollect scarcely any thing 
 equal to the transparent beauty of my 
 cousin, or to the sweetness of her temper, 
 during the short period of our intimacy. 
 She looked as if she had been made out of 
 a rainbow — all beauty and peace!" 
 
THE BULL-FIGHT 
 
 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. 
 
 This solemn and imposing stanza is a 
 truly fearful and vivid description of this 
 disgusting and brutal practice. 
 
 The morning and afternoon employments 
 of the people of Cadiz on this sacred day 
 form a striking and unpleasing contrast. 
 
 " Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine," 
 
 with every appearance of outward devo- 
 tion, they attend the service of Mass, and 
 the confessional. 
 
 " Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
 Young, old, high, low, at once the samo diversion 
 share." 
 
 The gentler sex feel a morbid relish for 
 these inhuman and unchristian spectacles, 
 and generally constitute the greatest part 
 of the audience — their perverted tastes en- 
 abling them to gaze with unpitying eyes 
 upon the awful destruction, alike of man 
 and beast. Not content with viewing these 
 
 scenes in public, ladies of the highest rank 
 often went to the private slaughter-houses 
 of professional bull-fighters, and there wit- 
 nessed scenes of a far more revolting na- 
 ture. 
 
 The noble poet very properly displays no 
 feeling for the men who wantonly risk their 
 lives in these dangerous sports ; but his 
 warmest sympathies are expressed for the 
 gallant steed, and the doomed victim who 
 is tortured without remorse. 
 
 He tenderly feels for 
 
 the friendly steed — 
 
 Alas ! too oft condemn'd for (man) to bear and bleed. 
 
 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 suit 
 His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
 His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow. 
 
 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 veer; 
 On foams the bull, but not unscath'd he goes ; 
 Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear : 
 
40 
 
 CHILPE HAROLD. 
 
 Ho flies, he wheels, distracted with his Ihi - 
 Dart follows dart : lance, lance ; loud bi 
 speak his woes. 
 
 Again he comes : nor dan 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 i.;- 
 
 ant steed is stretch'd a mangled corse ; 
 Another, hideous sight ! onseam'd appears, 
 11 s 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 
 bears. 
 
 This is certainly a touching tribute to the 
 faithfulness of this noble and useful animal : 
 and in portraying the dying scene of the 
 furious bull, he invests him with a halo of 
 bravery that would be worthy of a hero. 
 
 _-. breathless, furious to the last. 
 Full in the centre stands the bull at bay. 
 
 And foes disabled in the brutal fray : 
 And now die Matadores around him play, 
 
 Shake the red cloak, and poise the readv brand : 
 more through all he bursts his thundering 
 way- 
 Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
 Wraps bis 'tis ;\ast— he sinks upon the 
 
 sand ! 
 
 Where his vast neck jus; mingles with the spine, 
 Sheath'd in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
 —lie starts — disdaining to decline ■ 
 - amidst triumphal-.: 
 Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
 The decorated car appears — on high 
 
 rse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar eyes — 
 Four steeds that spurn the rein, as - 
 Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by. 
 
 Such the ungentle sport that oft • 
 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 ! 
 
 _ . now one plialanx'd host should meet the foe, 
 Enough, alas ! in humble homes remain, 
 Tomedital 'gains 
 
 l :se of wrath, whence life's warm 
 stream must flow. 
 

ATHENS FROM THE ILYSSA. 
 
 Ancient of days ! august Athena! where, 
 
 \\ here are thy men of might? thy grand in soul ? 
 
 Gone — glimmering through the dream of tilings 
 
 that were : 
 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 tint 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. 
 
 Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
 lis chambers desolate, and portals foul : 
 Yes, this was oner 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 lower, this tenement refit ? 
 
 But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
 On high, where Pallas linger'd, loath to flee 
 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-horn men should spare what once was free, 
 Yet they could violate each saddening shrine, 
 And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctant brine. 
 
 Ancient Athens, founded by Cccrops, 
 B. C. 155G, (one year before the departure 
 of the Israelites out of Egypt,) possesses 
 from this very fact an intense interest. Ib- 
 glory had a brilliant lustre even before 
 Rome existed, and, as the Mother of Arts 
 and Sciences, its rank is of the highest 
 order. The Athenian statesmen and phi- 
 losophers were the wisest of the Greeks, 
 and Athens attained to the greatest refine- 
 ment and luxury long before any of her 
 sister nations, her works of art being the 
 most numerous, and her temples the state- 
 liest that were erected in Greece. Even 
 when fallen, her magnificent ruins, splendid 
 beyond description, received a sincere, de- 
 votional homage from the poet; but noth- 
 ing can exceed the indignation he feels, in 
 witnessing the despoiling of these time- 
 hallowed monuments, and he lashes the 
 spoilers deservedly with his scorching and 
 merciless satire for their unfeeling rob- 
 beries. 
 
 Lord E * * * * principally, and a few 
 other antiquaries, with their paid agents, 
 literally plundered Athens of every beau- 
 tiful and costly relic, that by any means 
 
43 
 
 CIIILDK HAKOi.P. 
 
 could be removed. According to Lord 
 
 Byron, a whole range of beautiful basso- 
 
 -. in one compartment of the Aerop- 
 
 e wantonly and uselessly defaced. 
 
 Nothing can extenuate the conduct of a 
 
 nation, or a man. who, wealthy and 
 
 l'ul. will thus ruthlessly sack a weak and 
 
 country of the sacred monuments of 
 
 its ancient glory and religion ; and thus rob 
 
 the crushed and helpless patriots of the only 
 
 legacy left them by their ancestry to re- 
 
 . . ..orate, and civ 
 
 si the modem Kct's 
 To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath 
 spared : 
 
 I as barren, and his heart as hard, 
 
 96 hand prepared. 
 Audit to displace Athena's poor remains. 
 li - s >:i> too weak the sacred shnne to guard, 
 
 Yet fell some portion of their mother's pains. 
 And never know, till then, the weight of despots 
 
 chains. 
 
 What : shall it e'er be said by British tongue, 
 Albion was happy in Athena's tears ? 
 
 gfa in thy name the slaves her bosom wrung, 
 Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's cars; 
 
 in queen, the fret- Britannia, bears 
 The last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
 \ -. >'::;■. whoso gen'rous aid her name endears, 
 Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
 Which envious Eld forbore, and tyrants left to stand. 
 
 - vce ! 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 behooved 
 To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
 Cursed be the hour when from their isle the; roved. 
 And once again thy hapless bosom gored. 
 And snatch'd thy shrinking Gods to northern climes 
 abhorr'd 1 
 
THE ALBANIAN. 
 
 Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
 Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
 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 sure. 
 When gratitude or valor bids them bleed, 
 Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief may lead. 
 
 The little shepherd-boy, pensively watch- 
 ing his flock, forms a pleasing picture of 
 childish innocence; and it would appear 
 strange that when matured, he would con- 
 stitute the fierce and daring warrior, as de- 
 scribed in the above stanza. 
 
 peering down each precipice, the goat 
 
 Browseth ; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
 The little shepherd in his white capote 
 Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
 Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived shock. 
 
 But it is stranger still to think, that Ali, 
 the cruel Pacha of Yanina, and chief of Al- 
 bania, should be a venerable man, with a 
 mild and gentle aspect, showing at times 
 gieat tenderness of heart, and often engaging 
 in acts of courteous kindness. 
 
 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 wun 
 disgrace. 
 
 It is not that yon 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. 
 
 In a letter to his mother, the poet de- 
 scribes Ali thus : — 
 
 " His highness is sixty years old, very fat, 
 and not tall, but with a fine face, light blue 
 eyes, and a white beard ; his manner is very 
 kind, and at the same time he possesses 
 that dignity which I find universal among 
 the Turks. He has the appearance ol any 
 
II 
 
 (MI I LI) K HAROLD. 
 
 thing but his real character ; for he is a re- 
 morseless tyrant, guilty of the most horrible 
 cruelties, hit brave, and so good a general 
 that they call him the Mahometan Buona- 
 parte. 
 
 J !<• has been a mighty warrior ; but is as 
 barbarous as lie is successful, roasting reb- 
 els," t&c. A:c. 
 
 Very little of Albania had been traversed 
 by Europeans, and still less known of its 
 interior, before Lord Byron and Mr. Hob- 
 house visited it. 
 
 On the poet's mind, his travels there had 
 a lasting effect through life, and formed an 
 important epoch of his literary and private 
 
 career, which wrought their due effects at 
 a future period. The kind and fatherly 
 treatment he received from Ali, and the 
 rugged courtesy and hospitality he expe- 
 rienced from the Albanians, as well as the 
 devoted faithfulness of his servants, attached 
 him more strongly than ever to this inter- 
 esting country that be had already loved 
 with warm and passionate feelings. To- 
 gether with his love of liberty, his reception 
 here was the main instigation that prompted 
 him to lend his aid, and sacrifice his life, in 
 the hope of freeing unhappy Greece! The 
 dress of the Arnaouts, or Albanese, with 
 their white kilts, their hardy habits, dialect, 
 figure, and manner of living, according to his 
 own account, carried him back to the days of 
 
 his childhood, when he wandered over Mor- 
 
 ven, in the Highlands of Scotland, whi<*h 
 could not but have made upon him a Strom; 
 and indelible impression. Their undaunted 
 spirits excited his ardent admiration, and 
 hoping, too fondly, that men so resolute 
 could not but restore Greece to her ancient 
 freedom and happiness, he embarked in his 
 arduous undertaking, which might have suc- 
 ceeded then bad it not been for his prema- 
 ture and melancholy death ! The following 
 stanzas are a specimen of his deep feeling in 
 her cause : — 
 
 Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not 
 
 Who would be free themselves must strike the 
 
 blow ? 
 By their right arm the conquest must he wrought ? 
 Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye ? No ! 
 True, they may lay your proud despoilers low, 
 But not lor you will Freedom's altars Maine. 
 Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe .' 
 Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is still the 
 
 same ; 
 Thy glorious ilay is o'er, but not thy years of shame. 
 
 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 till he lost, 
 Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
 Anil wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: 
 
 Ah! Greece, they love thee least who owe theo 
 
 most; 
 Their birth, their blood, and that sublime record 
 Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate horde ! 
 
THE DOG ANA. 
 
 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 
 Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity increased. 
 
 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, RadclifTe, 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 wo. 
 Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a show. 
 
 The Dogana da Mare, or Customhouse 
 of Venice, as seen from the sea, together 
 with the stately Cathedral of St. Mark, 
 forms the subject of this beautiful engra- 
 ving. The Customhouse is a splendid 
 edifice. In front is seen a colonnade of 
 lofty marble pillars, surmounted by a neat 
 tower ; on the top, as may be observed, are 
 some statues supporting a large golden 
 globe, on which stands another statue ; the 
 group being intended to represent Venice 
 
 as ruling the commercial world. The mag- 
 nificent Cathedral of St. Mark's has a very 
 imposing, although a singular appearance ; 
 its architectural order being a mystery too 
 difficult to determine, as it appears to con- 
 sist of a mixture of the Mohammedan, Gre- 
 cian, and Gothic orders combined. The 
 front is divided by a long gallery, and the 
 roof is studded with numerous Moslem cu- 
 polas and minarets ; whilst beautiful col- 
 umns are crowded together in profusion, 
 which all tend to give the exterior a re- 
 markably strange effect. 
 
 Though the exterior to many seems ludi- 
 crous and fantastic, the interior is splendid, 
 and gorgeously decorated beyond descrip- 
 tion. You seem to be walking on nothing 
 but precious stones, for the floor is inlaid 
 in various devices, with jaspers, agates, por- 
 phyries, chalcedonies, lapides lazules, and 
 the costliest marbles. The roof is com- 
 posed of the most exquisite Mosaic work, 
 and even the walls are of the choicest 
 workmanship, and superbly ornamented. 
 The grand altar is placed under a very 
 large cupola, (or rather a series of five,) 
 being supported by thirty-six pillars, and 
 eight of this number are made of the most 
 
46 
 
 C1IILDE HAROLD. 
 
 valuable marble. On the altar is a priceless 
 reliquary of engraved jewels, set in plates 
 of the purest gold. The altar is covered 
 by a canopy of pure Ophir, sustained by 
 pillars of Parian marble, both being highly 
 sculptured. Behind these are placed four 
 columns of transparent alabaster, brought 
 from the ruins of Solomon's glorious tem- 
 ple. It is literally filled with sumptuous 
 offerings ; but has, despite of its magnifi- 
 cence, a sombre and gloomy appearance 
 within. 
 
 On the right, and beyond this church, are 
 two square towers, defending and flanking 
 the gate of the arsenal, and entrance to the 
 dock-yard, which was at one time the finest 
 in the world. The armories, magazines, 
 and manufactories are controlled and kept 
 in the best order, and contain several very 
 ancient and interesting trophies, that re- 
 
 main as dim shadows of the ancient glories 
 of Venice, now tarnished, and obscured in 
 degradation and misery ! 
 
 The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; 
 And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
 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 
 
 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 she rose ! 
 Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, 
 Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes, 
 From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. 
 
VENICE. 
 
 Oh Venice ! Venice ! when thy marble walla 
 Are level with the waters, there shall be 
 A cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls, 
 A loud lament along the sweeping sea ! 
 If I, a northern wanderer, weep for thee, 
 What should thy sons do? 
 
 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 die, 
 Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
 The pleasant place of all festivity, 
 The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy ! 
 
 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. 
 
 This fine engraving gives a view of Ven- 
 ice as seen from the main quay and harbor. 
 The first n ansion on the left is the Zecca, 
 
 or Mint, and the Library of St. Mark. Next 
 will he observed two lofty granite columns, 
 each consisting of a single block, standing 
 on either side of the Piazetta di S. Marco. 
 One is surmounted by a statue of St. Theo- 
 dore, the patron saint of the Republic. The 
 other, by the famous winged Lion of St. 
 Mark, in bronze. These trophies were 
 brought from Greece in the year 1171, and 
 the lion was venerated by the people as a 
 symbol of their widely-extended power. Ad- 
 joining this latter column is the magnificent 
 Ducal palace. The buildings opposite are 
 the prisons of Venice, and are separated 
 from the palace by a narrow canal, but con- 
 nected at a lofty height above by the fa- 
 mous Bridge of Sighs. This bridge, bow- 
 ever, cannot be seen in the engraving. 
 
 The Ducal palace was first built in the 
 ninth century, and was rebuilt in the four- 
 teenth by Doge Marino Faliero, who was 
 beheaded for conspiracy. This grand struc- 
 ture consists of a mixture of Moslem and 
 Gothic architecture, and has a noble and 
 solemn appearance. It has eight gates ; 
 the [principal one is at the corner of the I'i- 
 
18 
 
 rill LDE II \ R01 D. 
 
 azetta, and leads into a large com!, from | 
 which ascends the Giant's Staircase, so 
 called from the colossal statues of .Mars and 
 Neptune that adorn the summit. They 
 lead into an arcade, from which the Ducal 
 apartments and the State chambers are en- 
 tered. The hall of the Grand Council is 
 now a public library, and the halls of the 
 Council of Ten. and of the Tribunal of the 
 Inquisition, together with the Bridge of 
 Si^hs. and its gloomy cells, are the chief 
 objects <'t" painful interest. 
 
 Lord Byron, in mourning over the deso- 
 lation of Venice, pays a sincere and worthy 
 offering to the great genius and cruel 
 wrongs oi Torquato Tasso, who was impris- 
 oned by Duke Alfonso in a madhouse in 
 Ferrara. The exile of Dante, and the im- 
 prisonment of Tasso, are everlasl 
 fatal monuments of the shame and d 
 o\ Italy. 
 
 And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
 
 Hark to his strain ! And then survey his cell ! 
 And see how dearly earn'd Torqnal 
 And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell : 
 
 'I'lie miserable despot could not quell 
 The insulted mind he sought to quench an 
 With the surrounding Maniacs, in the hell 
 Where he had plunged it. Glory withou ei 
 Scatter'd the clouds away — and on that name attend 
 - and praises of all time ; * * * 
 
 Peace to ToTquato's injured shade ! 'twas his 
 In lite and death to he the mark where \Y 
 Aim'd with her poison'd arrows, Inn to miss. 
 (III. \ieior imsiir|iass'd in modern - 
 Each year brings forth its millions : 
 The tide of generations shall v.. 11 on. 
 And not the whole combined and counties 
 ose a mind like thine 1 though 
 ■d their scatter'd rays, they would not form 
 a sun. 
 
 fill Florence ! Dante sleeps afer, 
 I by tin- npbraidin ; 
 Thy tactions, 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 j ami the 
 Which Petrarch's laureate hrow snprem I; 
 Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
 His life, his fame, his grave, though riBed — • 
 
■*., -■-.■-• £-'*-* 
 
BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 
 
 The following quotations, alluding to this 
 sombre passage of Death, will give the 
 reader a minute and thrilling description : — 
 
 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 sate in state, throned on her hundred 
 isles ! 
 
 In Venice " but" 's a traitor. 
 
 But me no " buts," unless you would pass o'er 
 The bridge which few repass. 
 
 Your midnight carryings off and drownings, 
 
 Your dungeons next the palace roofs, or under 
 The water's level ; your mysterious meetings, 
 And unknown dooms, and sudden executions, 
 Your ll Bridge of Sighs," your strangling chamber, and 
 Your torturing instruments, have made ye seem 
 The beings of another and worse world ! 
 
 Their senses, though 
 
 Alike to love, are yet awake to terror ; 
 
 And these vile damps, too, and yon thick green wave 
 
 Which floats above the place where we now stand — 
 
 A cell so far below the water's level, 
 Sending its pestilence through every crevice, 
 Might strike them. 
 
 What letters are these which 
 
 Are scrawl'd along the inexorable wall ? 
 
 Will the gleam let me trace them ? Ah ! the names 
 
 Of my sad predecessors in this place, 
 
 The dates of their despair, the brief words of 
 
 A grief too great for many. This stone page 
 
 Holds like an epitaph their history ; 
 
 And the poor captive's tale is graven on 
 
 His dungeon barrier, like the lover's record 
 
 Upon the bark of some tall tree, which bears 
 
 His own and his beloved's name. 
 
 The communication between the ducal 
 palace and the prisons of Venice is by a 
 gloomy bridge, or covered gallery, high 
 above the water, and divided by a stone 
 wall into a passage and a cell. The state 
 dungeons, called " pozzi," or wells, were sunk 
 in the thick walls of the palace ; and the 
 prisoner, when taken out to die, was con- 
 ducted across the gallery to the other side, 
 and being then led back into the other com- 
 partment, or cell, upon the bridge, was 
 there strangled. The low portal through 
 which the criminal was taken into this cell 
 is now walled up ; but the passage is still 
 
CHILDE ll.VIIOI.P. 
 
 open, and is still known by the name of the 
 Bridge of Sighs. The pozzi are under the 
 of tlio chambor al the foot of the 
 bridge. They wore formerly twelve, but on 
 the first arrival of the French, the Venetians 
 hastily blocked or broke up the deeper of 
 these dungeons. You may still, however. 
 descend by a trap-door, and crawl down 
 through holes, hall-choked by rubbish, to 
 the depth of two stories below the firsl 
 range. If you are in want of consolation 
 lor the extinction oi patrician power, per- 
 haps you may find it there ; scarcely a ray 
 of light glimmers into the narrow gallery 
 which leads to the cells, and the places of 
 confinement themselves are totally dark. 
 A small hole in the wall admitted the damp 
 air o\ the passages, and served for the intro- 
 duction o\ the prisoner's food. A wooden 
 pallet, raised a foot from the ground, was 
 the only furniture. The conductors tell you 
 that a light was not allowed. The cells 
 are about five paces in length, two and a 
 half in width, and seven feet in height. 
 They are directly beneath one another, and 
 respiration is somewhat difficult in the lower 
 holes. Only one prisoner was found when 
 the republicans descended into these hideous 
 recesses, and he is said to have been con- 
 lined sixteen years. Hut the inmates of the 
 dungeons beneath had left traces <>{ their 
 repentance, or ol their despair, which are 
 still visible, and may perhaps owe something 
 to recent ingenuity. Some of the detained 
 appear to have defended against, and others 
 to have belonged to, the sacred body, not 
 
 only from their signatures, but from the 
 churches and belfries which they have 
 scratched upon the walls. The reader may 
 not object to see a specimen of the records 
 prompted by so terrific a solitude. As nearly 
 as they could be copied by more than one 
 pencil, three of them are as follows: — 
 
 NOXTI FIPAE AH ALCUNO PKNSA T.U'I 
 
 - 11.': ■ SPION1 [NSIDIE .' I u .'I 
 
 1L l'l XTIUTI rENTIETI NULLA BIOTA 
 MA BEN 1>I VAI.OU I 
 
 1007. aim ■_'. i.i \ 110. 1 1 i r.r- 
 
 TENTO 1'' I V Bl Ml! MM A I ' I 
 
 DA MANIAS A l \ MORTO 
 
 i n paw ai; eocho et 
 lonto et 
 
 l \ it SSAB Al FINE l'l DAM LA VITA 
 UESCHIKI 
 
 1605. 
 
 EGO [OHN BATOSTA AD 
 ECCI '. -i et ■ - 
 
 The copyist has followed, not corrected 
 the solecisms ; some of which are howevei 
 not quite so decided, since the letters were 
 evidently scratched in the dark. It only 
 need be observed, that bestemmia and man- 
 giar may be read in the first inscription, 
 which was probably written by a prisoner 
 i for some act of impiety committed 
 at a funeral ; that CorteUarius is the name 
 ol a parish on terra lirma. near the sea ; and 
 that the last initials evidently are put for 
 Viva hi sanla Chiesa Kattulica Romana. 
 
RUINS OF ANCIENT ROME. 
 
 While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand : 
 When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall ; 
 And when Rome falls — the World. 
 
 This saying, now regarded as a prophecy, 
 was first recorded by the venerable Bede, 
 as having been used by the earlier pilgrims 
 to its shrine of devotion. 
 
 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 shine 
 As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 
 Should be the light which streams here, to illume 
 This long-explored but still exhaustless mine 
 Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
 Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume 
 
 Hues which have words, and speak to ye of heaven, 
 Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, 
 And shadows forth its glory. 
 
 Flavius Vespasianus, (the tenth of the 
 Caesars,) emperor of Rome, commenced 
 building this stupendous structure, a. d. 70, 
 whence it was called the Flavian Amphi- 
 theatre. It was named Colosseum, from a 
 colossal statue of the Emperor Nero, that for 
 a long time stood near it. Titus, the de- 
 stroyer of Jerusalem, continued the work, 
 
 and employed in its erection his captives, the 
 unfortunate Jews. It was completed by Do- 
 mitian, on his accession as Emperor, in the 
 year 81 ; and during the second persecution 
 of the Christians, which took place under 
 him, in 94, the blessed martyrs were for the 
 first time butchered within its walls. Wild 
 beasts here fought with each other, or tore 
 in pieces unarmed martyrs and malefactors, 
 who were thrown in that their sufferings 
 might delight the inhuman and brutal popu- 
 lace. But their greatest enjoyment was to 
 witness the trained gladiators fight in pairs. 
 The victor was hailed with shouts, but if 
 the vanquished had shown any timidity, they 
 turned down their thumbs as a signal, and 
 he was slaughtered for their amusement; 
 but if he had been brave they let him go free. 
 
 I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
 He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
 Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
 And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
 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 wretch 
 who won. 
 
CHILDE HAROLD. 
 
 He heard it, but lie heeded nut — his eyes 
 Were with his heart, and that ivas tar 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 ire ! 
 
 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 its 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 
 
 rays 
 On the arena void — seats crush'd — walls bow'd — 
 And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strangely 
 
 loud. 
 
 In 409, the Goths, under Alaric, plunder- 
 ed it of its ornaments and statues. In the 
 sixth century, its disgusting butcheries 
 ceased, and it was used for a market. In 
 the fourteenth century it began to be plun- 
 dered of its stones for building purposes. It 
 
 is now a magnificent mass of ruins, cover- 
 ing nearly six acres of ground. It contained 
 seats for eighty thousand spectators within 
 its walls, which appears incredible. The 
 wondrous Cathedral now stands beauteous 
 in its stead, proclaiming the gentler triumph 
 of the Cross, over its heathen and barbarous 
 oppressor ! 
 
 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 arche? 
 Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
 
 Shone through the rents of ruin ; 
 
 But the Gladiators' bloody Circus stands, 
 A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! 
 While Cesars' chambers and the Augustan halls, 
 Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. 
 And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon 
 All 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 place 
 Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
 With silent worship of the great of old ! 
 
BRIDGE OF ST. ANGELO. 
 
 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! 
 
 But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
 Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
 Worthiest of God, the holy, and the true. 
 Since /.ion's desolation, when that He 
 Forsook Ms former city, what could be, 
 Of earthly structures, in his honor piled, 
 Of a sublimer aspect ? Majesty, 
 Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are aisled 
 In this eternal ark of worship undefiled. 
 
 This view from the left bank of the Tiber 
 discloses the Castle of St. Angelo on the 
 right, with its bridge in the centre. This 
 bridge, although seen here in front, is in 
 the rear of the mighty Cathedral of St. Pe- 
 ter, which, with its wondrous dome, is seen 
 towering aloft in stately majesty. 
 
 The Childe, after weeping over the many 
 woes of Italia, turns to his long-sought 
 shrine, beloved Rome ! the city of his soul ! 
 
 Italia ! oil 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 shame, 
 
 And annals graved in characters of flame. 
 Oh God ! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
 Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst claim 
 Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who press 
 To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy distress. 
 
 Oh Rome ! my country ! city of the soul ! 
 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
 Lone mother of dead empires ! and control 
 In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
 What are our woes and sufferance ? Cone- and see 
 The cypress, hoar 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. 
 
 The Niobe of nations ! there she stand's, 
 Childless and crownless, in her voiceless wo ; 
 An empty urn within her wither'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 mantle her distress. 
 
 In viewing the withering desolation sur- 
 rounding the seven-hilled city, he endeavors 
 to sink his own agonizing griefs, as being 
 insignificant when compared with such an 
 awful wreck. 
 
54 
 
 CHILDE BAROLD. 
 
 Then let the winds bowl on ! their harmony 
 Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
 The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry. 
 As 1 now hear them, in the fading light 
 Dim o'er the bird of darkness' nat 
 Answering each other on the Palatine, 
 With their large eyes, all glistening gray and bright, 
 And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
 What are our petty griefs I — let me not number mine. 
 
 Bat it is useless: gazing at the weeping 
 mother of many empires, some of whom are 
 
 dead, and others hastening to decay, he 
 readily admits the painful lesson that is 
 taught, lie perceives the eternal justice 
 of the Deity, in devoting matter corrupted 
 by sin. to a temporal and purifying corrup- 
 tion. This stem truth again tears open his 
 bleeding heart, that lie may learn rejected 
 knowledge lie might have known before. 
 He finds that sin and sorrow are concomi- 
 tants : that our heinous faults and follies are 
 oUcn deservedly punished by injuries and 
 - inflicted by our erring fellow-mor- 
 tals, and the healing balm for his woes at 
 
 once presents itself. In revenge for the 
 deadly wounds he has received, he hurls a 
 curse on the head of his unfeeling torment- 
 ors; but it is the thrice-blessed curse of 
 forgiveness ! the only hope the contrite sin- 
 ner has that he himself can be forgiven. 
 
 And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that now 
 I shrink from what is suft'or'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. 
 Nor in the air shall these my words disperse, 
 Though I be ashes : a far hour shall wreak 
 The deep prophetic fulness vi this 
 And pile on human heads the mountain of my curse. 
 
 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 1 not suffer' J things to be forgiven ? 
 Have 1 not had my brain sear'd, my heart riven, 
 Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied away? 
 
 not to desperation driven, 
 Because not altogether of such clay 
 As rots into the souls of those whom I survey 
 
OH THAT THE DESERT WERE MY 
 DWELLING-PLACE! 
 
 On 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 Mich inhabit many a spot? 
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot. 
 
 The pilgrim's shrine is won — he has trod 
 upon the dust of empires, visited mighty- 
 ruins of ancient cities, wandered over bat- 
 tle-plains where the fate of nations has been 
 doomed, and viewed every spot he listed 
 that would prove interesting to a mind stored 
 with classic lore ; but his heart is broken — 
 the tender chords of its affection snapped 
 asunder with ruthless violence, his hopes 
 blighted and decayed, and the loved beings 
 of his soul, that made life dear to him, have 
 forsaken him forever ! 
 
 His desolation and loneliness distract him 
 with anguish, and he yearns for one true 
 ministering spirit to cling to for protection 
 and support, for he is sick and weary of the 
 cold selfishness of his fellow-men. He turns 
 to nature with his plaintive quest : 
 
 " 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 !" 
 
 The magnificent scenes of nature, her 
 elements and wonders, are now his only- 
 source of enjoyment, and her solitude his 
 only comfort. 
 
 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. 
 
 He had already shown in his lay the folly 
 and vanity of the human heart, winch clogs 
 itself with worldly pleasures until it pro- 
 duces that dull satiety which is the only- 
 barrier that conceals Contentment, (the cas- 
 ket which holds the jewel Happiness, but 
 yielding it only when unlocked by the key 
 of Religion!) and it only remained for him 
 to compare the utter insignificance of man, 
 
56 
 
 CH1LDE HAROLD. 
 
 with the works of creation, over whom he 
 should have had a boundless and absolute 
 control. To the Ocean he is but as a drop 
 of rain. 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — roll ! 
 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 
 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, uncofhVd, and unknown. 
 
 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 
 
 wields 
 For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
 Spurning him from thy bosom to thi 
 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. 
 
 As is his wont, when communing with 
 Nature, he pours forth his song with un- 
 
 surpassable sublimity, and he clothes the 
 mighty ocean with some of the attributes 
 of the Omnipotent God. The indescribable 
 grandeur of these last concluding notes, as 
 
 pealing forth from his wild and enchanting 
 harp, exists as an imperishable monument to 
 show posterity the power of his genius. 
 
 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 zone 
 Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
 alone. 
 
 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 . 
 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. 
 
LEILA 
 
 Tiir. Giaour, a fragment of a Turkish tale, 
 is partly drawn from real life. It. is a wild 
 and singular [".cm, for its irregularity gives 
 it additional interest ; and the descriptive 
 digressions abounding in it contain some of 
 the choicest gems that poetry possesses, or 
 poets have e\ er conceived. The descrip- 
 tion "I' Leila, is the first regular portrait of 
 female loveliness that Byron produced, and 
 is very pretty. 
 
 Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to tell, 
 
 But " that of the Gazelle, 
 
 It will assist thy fancy well ; 
 \ hi ■.!•. as lamnii .hiii My 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 naught 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. 
 ( Hi : n ho young Leila's glance could read 
 And keep that portion of his creed, 
 Which saiih 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 check's unfading hue 
 
 The young pi>mo"|-aiiate"s hlu-.viim i-ln-w 
 
 Their bloom in blushes ever new ; 
 Her hair in hyacinthine How, 
 When left to roll its folds below, 
 As midst her handmaids in the hall 
 She stood superior to them all, 
 Hath swept the marble where her feet 
 (JleamM whiter than the mountain sleet 
 Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 
 
 It fell, and caught I slain (.('earth. 
 
 The cygnet nobly walks the water; 
 So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 
 
 The lovelie I bird • I Fran tan ! 
 
 As rears her crei t the ruffled Swan, 
 
 And spurns the wave with wings of pride, 
 \\ hen pass the steps of stranger man 
 
 Along the banks that bound Iter tide ; 
 Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
 Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
 Intrusion's glance, (ill Folly's ga/.e 
 
 Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise. 
 
 Leila is sewn up in a sack, and thrown 
 into the sea, for infidelity, according to the 
 custom of the East. Her lover, the Giaour, 
 makes good his escape, and afterwards re- 
 venues herdeath upon her husband Hassan 
 
58 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 but stung with remorse for having been the 
 cause of her melancholy end, he enters an 
 Eastern convent as a caloyer, and ends his 
 days in anguish and despair. The agonies 
 of the heart, when caused by guilt, and 
 heightened by unavailing penitence, are 
 fearfully portrayed with glowing colors. 
 Among the many beautiful digressions in 
 this poem, the following is one of the most 
 remarkable, for the exquisite delineation of 
 the intensity of deadly hatred. 
 
 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 fervor 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 lauulis at faith ; 
 True foes, once met. are join'd till death ! 
 
 But the most beautiful digression (which 
 is. in tact, the 6nest flower oi this Oriental 
 bouquet) is a sweet and melancholy descrip- 
 tion of Greece, compared to the angelic 
 beauty that lingers upon the face of the 
 
 much-loved dead, for a short time only — ■ 
 that short time, when the mourner's heart 
 can scarcely believe the dread reality. 
 
 lie 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 lingers 
 
 Have swept the hues 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 diat sad shrouded eye, 
 
 That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
 And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
 
 Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
 
 Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
 
 As if to him it could impart 
 
 The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
 
 Yes, but for diese and these alone, 
 
 Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
 
 He still might doubt the tyrant's power; " 
 
 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. 
 
THE GRAVE OF HASSAN. 
 
 The conflict of Hassan and the " Venge- 
 ful Giaour" in the vale of Parne, is drawn 
 with graphic vigor, and will equal the best 
 of any such passages that poetry contains. 
 
 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 Fame's vale. 
 
 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 :" 
 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 dying ask revenge in vain. 
 With steel unsheath'd, and carbine bent, 
 Some o'er their courser's harness leant, 
 
 Half shelter'd 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 
 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, 
 Fve 'scaped a bloodier hour than this." 
 And now the foe their covert quit, 
 And call his vassals to submit ; 
 But Hassan's frown 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 ! 
 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 
 That aids his envious treachery ; 
 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 him from the death : 
 
60 
 
 THE GIAOUR. 
 
 'Tia he ! well met in any hour. 
 
 Lost Leila's love, accursed Giaour:" 
 
 With sabre shiver'd to the hilt, 
 
 Yet dripping with the blood he spilt ; 
 
 Yet strain'd witliin tlie sever'd hand 
 
 Which quivers round ihat faithless brand ; 
 
 His turban far belli d 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, 
 
 FalPn Hassan lies — his unclosed eye 
 
 Y'et lowering on his enemy. 
 
 As if the hour that seal'd his fate 
 
 Surviving left his quenchless hate ; 
 
 And o'er him bends that foe with brow 
 
 As dark as his that bled below. — 
 
 ***** 
 '■ Y'es, 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 caU'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 
 Be pass'd, and thine accorded there ? 
 I watch'd my time, I leagued with these, 
 The traitor in his turn to seize ; 
 My wrath is wreak'd, the deed is done, 
 And now I go — but go alone." 
 
 The following is similar in style to the 
 exclamations of Si<era's mother, in Deb- 
 orah's song of triumph. 
 
 The browsing camels' bells are tinkling : 
 her look'd from her lattice high — 
 
 She saw the dews of eve besprinkling : 
 The pasture green beneath her eye, 
 
 She saw the planets family twinkling. 
 lc ! Tis twilight — sure his train isni 
 She could not rest in the garden-bower, 
 But gazed through die 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 die token from his vest — 
 
 Angel of Death ! 'tis Hassan's cloven crest ! 
 
 His calpac rent — his caftan red — 
 
 a fearful bride thy Son hath wed : 
 Me, not from mercy, did they spare. 
 But this impurpled pledge to bear. 
 Peace to the brave ! whose blood is spilt : 
 Wo 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 lonelv dell. 
 
ZULEIKA BEFORE GIAFFIR. 
 
 The character of Giaffir, in the Bride of 
 Abydos, is a faithful counterpart of Ali 
 Tebelen, Pacha of Yanina. To this cele- 
 brated personage, the Corsair, Lara, and 
 Hassan, as well as Giaffir, are indebted for 
 their origin, resembling him truly in their 
 many vices, and very few virtues. Ferocity 
 and tear, in the following lines, are well con- 
 trasted. 
 
 " Son of a slave," — the Pacha said — 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Go — let thy less than woman's hand 
 Assume the distafl' — not the brand. 
 But, Haroun ! — to my daughter speed : 
 And hark — of thine own head take heed — 
 If thus Znleika oft takes wing — 
 Thou see'st yon bow — it hath a string !" 
 
 Old Giaffir gazed upon his son 
 And started : for within his eye 
 lie read how much his wrath had done ; 
 He saw rebellion there begun : 
 " Come hither, hoy — what, no reply ? 
 9 
 
 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. 
 
 Giaffir, having murdered his own brother, 
 Abdallah, to obtain his Pachalic, brings up 
 
 his only son, Selim, as his own by a Greek 
 slave. Selim, having learned his real pa- 
 rentage from Haroun, informs Zuleika, his 
 intended bride, of the fratricide of her father. 
 This deed was actually committed by Ali, 
 who thus poisoned the Pacha of Scutari. 
 
 Eacli brother led a separate baud : 
 They gave their horsetails Id the wind, 
 
 And mustering in Sophia's plain 
 Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign 'd ; 
 
 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. 
 
62 
 
 RIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 Reclined and feverish in the bath, 
 He, when the hunter's sport was up, 
 
 But little dream'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 ! 
 
 Zuleika is about to flee with her lover, 
 when Iter absence from the Harem is dis- 
 covered by Giaffir, who in his fury murders 
 his nephew, as he endeavors to escape — 
 Selirn meeting his death, whilst searching 
 with the last fond look of affection for Zu- 
 leika. 
 
 There as his last step left the land, 
 And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 
 Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 
 For her his eve but sought in vain ? 
 That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 
 Hath dooin'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 la}-, 
 When, at the instant hiss'd the ball — 
 " So may the foes of Giaffir fall !" 
 
 Whose voice is heard ? whose carbine rang ? 
 Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
 Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err ? 
 'Tis thint — Abdallah's Murderer! 
 
 Lord Byron, having witnessed a similar 
 sight off the Dardanelles, took the opportu- 
 nity of connecting it with Selim's fate, as 
 follows : — 
 
 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 billow ; 
 That hand, whose motion is not life. 
 Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
 F'lung by the tossing tide on high, 
 
 Then levell'd with the wave — 
 What recks it, though that corse shall lie 
 
 Within a living grave ? 
 The bird that tears that prostrate form 
 Hath only robb'd the meaner worm; 
 The only heart, the only eye 
 Had bled or w 7 ept to see him die, 
 Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed, 
 And mourn'd above his turban-stone, 
 That heart hath burst — that eye was closed — 
 
 Yea — closed before his own ! 
 
ZUL E I K A . 
 
 Tun Bride of Abydos is, on account of 
 its regularity, unlike the Giaour; but this 
 is the only dissimilarity, (apart from the 
 two stories,) as the main features and beau- 
 ties of the two poems are alike, owing to 
 the purity and splendor of Eastern imagery, 
 which they both possess. 
 
 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 
 
 Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime, 
 Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, 
 
 Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime ? 
 Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
 Where the (lowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; 
 Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppress'd with per- 
 fume, 
 Wax faint o'er the gardens of Giil in her bloom ; 
 Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
 And the voice of the nightingale never is mute ; 
 Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky, 
 In color though varied, in beauty may vie, 
 And the purple of ocean is deepest in die ; 
 Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine, 
 And all, save the spirit of man, is divine ? 
 Tis the clime of the East ; 'tis the land of the Sun — 
 Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done ? 
 Oh ! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell 
 Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which 
 they tell. 
 
 The beauty of Zuleika is embellished 
 with those delicious similes which Byron 
 delighted to use. The charms that he 
 ascribed to female loveliness, might be ap- 
 propriately termed Spiritual Beauty, from 
 the entire absence of all sensual attributes. 
 These last destroy the brighter and better 
 qualities of love, by exciting the baser emo- 
 tions of lust. His example in this respect, 
 even at this present day. will very well 
 bear to be imitated. 
 
 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, 
 When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian, 
 And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven ; 
 Soft, as the memory of buried love 1 ; 
 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 failing sight 
 Faints into dimness with its own delight. 
 
c,\ 
 
 BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 
 
 His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
 The might — the majesty of Loveliness ? 
 Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
 The nameless charms unmark'il 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 ! 
 
 The tender love of Selim for Zuleika is 
 minutely depictured. The poet here re- 
 veals the secret yearnings of his own heart, 
 and the deep devotion with which he could 
 cherish some pure and lovely being, who 
 understanding his nature, would soften down 
 his rugged excesses by attaching him t>> 
 virtue! He also unveils in this poem his 
 presentiment of the bitterness of his future 
 life. 
 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow : 
 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 ! 
 ( >r. since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
 Be tlum the rainbow In 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 ! 
 
 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 Giaffir's stern decree. 
 That dread shall vanish with the favoring gale, 
 Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail : 
 No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest. 
 Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
 With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath charms ; 
 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 tins lip shall be 
 No sigh tor safety, but a prayer for thee! 
 
MEETING OF CONRAD AND MEDORA. 
 
 ;i -Mv own Mcdora ! sure thy song is sad" — 
 
 '• In Conrad's absence wonldst tliou have it glad .'" 
 
 This mournful and romantic poem de- 
 servedly holds a lasting and cherished ad- 
 miration among the lovers of poesy. The 
 fame and popularity of Lord Byron were be- 
 ginning to wane, in consequence of his 
 having written various poems, which had 
 occupied the attention of the public for some 
 time ; and the influence that other envious 
 authors possessed, was operating against 
 him. The first grand burst of worldly adu- 
 lation for his youthful genius had naturally 
 •ubsided, and his Bride of Abydos and 
 Giaour being inferior to Childe Harold, 
 some unworthy, older, and unsuccessful 
 rivals, took advantage of the calm, and 
 commenced a series of personal and literary 
 attacks in the various quarterly and monthly 
 periodicals that then controlled the public 
 mind. These individual and combined at- 
 tacks, though paltry and contemptibly mean 
 in themselves, when they flowed together, 
 formed a mighty torrent that nearly under- 
 mined his fame. 
 
 To stem and overcome this he produced 
 
 the Corsair, knowing it to be a grand pro- 
 duction, having predetermined not to intrude 
 again on the public for some years — a reso- 
 lution he faithfully intended to keep, and did 
 partly perform. 
 
 The Corsair was welcomed with un- 
 bounded but evanescent enthusiasm. Un- 
 fortunately, the touching lines, " To a lady, 
 weeping," addressed to the Princess Char- 
 lotte, the daughter of the Prince Regent, 
 were connected with them. The Regent, 
 who had always attributed them to Mr. 
 Moore, on thus learning that Lord B. was 
 the author, took umbrage, and was very 
 much displeased. The nation, ever ready 
 to crush the victims of kingly hate, let loose, 
 and believed every species of calumny they 
 could heap against him, the fatal effects of 
 which last to this day. 
 
 For he, whom royal eyes disown, 
 When was his form to courtiers known ? 
 
 The Corsair, though covered with crime, 
 has a great many redeeming qualities. A 
 description of him is best given in the poet's 
 
THE COR S A 1 K . 
 
 There was a laughing devil in Ins sneer, 
 Thai raised emotions both of rage anil fear ; 
 And where his frown of hatred darkly fell 
 Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd farewell ! 
 
 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 condui 
 
 Too firm to yield, and far too proud i 
 
 Doom'd by his very virtues lor a du 
 
 He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
 
 And not the traitors who betray'd liim still. 
 Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
 
 him joy, and means to give again. 
 Fear'd — sbunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost her 
 
 H 
 
 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 bettor than the thing he seem'd : 
 
 And scorn'd the best as hypoerites who hid 
 Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
 
 He kn.v. himself detested, but he knew 
 
 The hearts that lo.uhed him, crouch'd and dreaded too. 
 
 Returnino; from an expedition, he hears 
 that iho Pacha Seyd intends i" attack his 
 isle. To prevent this. h,< instantly resolves 
 to burn the Pacha's fleet, and so allows 
 himself but a single hour to visit his bride, 
 whom he tenderly loves. He reaches her 
 chamber as she concludes a soul-sad mel- 
 ody. 
 
 •• My own Medora 1 sure thy soncr is sad" — 
 "In < !i nrad's absence wouldst thou have it glad ? 
 Without thine ear to listen to my lay. 
 Still must my sons my thoughts, my soul betray, 
 
 eaeli accent to my bosom suit, 
 .My heart unhush'd — although my lips were mute !" 
 
MEDORA WATCHING THE RETURN OF CONRAD. 
 
 Previous to the return of Conrad, Me- 
 dora watches with painful anxiety for his 
 vessel, and passes many dismal nights in 
 keeping the beacon-fire alive, that forms in 
 darkness the clue to his island. At their 
 meeting she describes with great tenderness 
 her solicitude and deep affection for him, 
 and gently implores him to quit his perilous 
 crimes. 
 
 "Oh! many a night on this lone 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 many 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 blest the mast 
 That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it past 1 
 Another came — Oh God ! 'twas thine at last !" 
 
 It is at least pleasing to think, that one so 
 perverted and hardened in guilt, should love 
 so true and tenderlv. 
 
 " 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 
 
 changed, 
 Worm-like 'twas trampled — adder-like avenged, 
 Without one hope on earth beyond thy love. 
 And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above." 
 
 He chills her heart by telling her they 
 must soon part. She will not believe it ; 
 and the sweet, simple manner in which she 
 urges him to partake of rest and food is 
 very affecting. 
 
 It would be a mockery to describe their 
 parting in any other words than Byron's. 
 It is here quoted entire. 
 
 " This hour we part ! 
 
 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 pleas'd, 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 grapes' 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. 
 
8 
 
 mi: CORSAIR. 
 
 But come, the board is spread j our silver lamp 
 Is trimm'd, am) heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
 Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
 And join with me the dance, or wab 
 
 Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hoar. 
 Shall soothe or lull — or. should it vex thine ear, 
 Well turn the tale, by Ariosto told. 
 Of fair Olympia loved and left 
 - Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away. 
 Our matrofts and thy handmaids with thee stay : 
 And this thy comfort — that, when next we meet. 
 Security shall make repose more sweet. 
 
 - the bugle — Juan shrilly blew — 
 One kiss — one more — another — Oh '. Adieu !" 
 
 She rose — she sprung — she clung to his embrace. 
 
 irt heav'd beneath her hidden face. 
 He dared not raise to his that deep-blue eye. 
 Which downcast droop'd in I 
 Her "long fair hair lay floatii - 
 In all the wildness of dishevell*d charms : 
 Scarce beat that bosom when? his imago dwelt, 
 So full — that feeling seem'd almost nnfelt. 
 Hark — peals the thunder of the signal-gun ! 
 I: told 'twas sunset — and he cursed | 
 Again — again — that form he madly pi - 
 Which mutually clasp'd. imploringly e 
 Aud tottering to the conch his bride he bore. 
 One moment gazed — as if to gaze no 
 Felt — that for him earth held but her alone. 
 KissM bei • Conrad g 
 
 - he gone ?" — on sudden solitude 
 that fearful question will intrude! 
 
 - inn an instant past — and here he stood — 
 Aud now" — without the : - - -r.sh'd. 
 And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd ; 
 Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her tbey fell : 
 
 her lips refused to send—- Farewell !" 
 
 For in thai word — that fatal word — howe'er 
 We promise — hope — believe— there breathes despair 
 O'er every feature of that still, pale face. 
 Had sorrow lix'd what time can ne'er 
 The tender blue oi that large 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. 
 I 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 tum'd widt sickening soul within the gate — 
 •• It is no dream — and I am d - 
 
 The graphic transition of the vessel from 
 the Pirate's isle to Coron is like magic : they 
 gain their ambush unnoticed by the Pacha 
 v - galleys, equipped for their destruc- 
 tion. 
 
 Meantime, the steady breeze serenely blew. 
 And fast and falcon-like tbe vessel rlew : 
 
 ■ high headlands of each clnsteri::^ - 
 To gain their port — long — long ere morning - 
 
 ■_ - through the narrow bay 
 - where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
 Count tbey each sail— and mark how there supine 
 The lights in vain o*er heedless Moslem shine. 
 Secure, unnoted. Conrad's prow pass' 
 And anchor'd where his ambush meant to lie ! 
 
 from espial by the jutting cape. 
 That rears on high. - - sliape. 
 
 Then rose his band to duty — not from - — 
 Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep : 
 While lean'd their leader o*er the fre: g 
 And calmlv talk'd— and vet he ralk'd of blood ! 
 
THE COKSAIR 
 
 " But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
 From reeking pile and combat's wreck, away — 
 Who but the love of him lie dooms to bleed ? 
 The Ilaram queen — but still the slave of Seyd !" 
 
 This interesting picture represents the 
 pirate chief bearing Gulnare in his arms, at 
 the head of his companions, who rescue the 
 inmates of the seraglio from the flames they 
 themselves had lit. Conrad, disguised as a 
 Dervise, boldly introduces himself into the 
 presence of Seyd, who questions him closely. 
 These are parried however with pleasing 
 tact. 
 
 " A captive Dervise from the Pirate's nest 
 Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest." 
 
 He artfully evades eating the sacred 
 bread and salt, and is about to be dismissed, 
 but the galleys being fired he is detected. 
 lie throws off his disguise, and, single-handed, 
 makes fearful slaughter. 
 
 " What ails thee, Dervise ? eat — dost thou suppose 
 This feast a Christian's ? or my friends thy fnes ? 
 Why dost thou shun the salt ? that sacred pledge, 
 Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre's edge ; 
 Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
 And bated hosts Boem brethren to the sight." 
 10 
 
 " 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." 
 
 " 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 o form appall'd the sight : 
 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 flash'd his sabre's ray ! 
 
 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. 
 
 " 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must die — 
 Much hath been done — but more remains to do— 
 Their galleys blaze — why not their city too ?" 
 
THE CORSAIR. 
 
 Quick at the word — they seized him each a torch, 
 And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
 A stem 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 yell. 
 
 " 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 : 
 But 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 smoke, 
 But still from room to room his way he broke. 
 
 They search — they find — they save : with lusty arms 
 
 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. 
 
 The refinement, nobility of soul, humanity, 
 and his gentle respect for the weaker sex. 
 form redeeming traits on the bright side of 
 Conrad's character. By humanely saving 
 the females from a cruel death, and neglect- 
 ing to pursue Seyd, who thus becomes 
 aware of the smallness of their number, the 
 pirates themselves are attacked, and finally 
 vanquished by an overpowering force. 
 
 '• One effort — one — to break the circling host !" 
 They form — unite — charge — waver — all is lost ! 
 
GULNARE 
 
 She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, 
 While other eyes his fall or ravage weep ? 
 Anil 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 wo: 
 "Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber breaks — 
 How heavily he sighs ! — he starts — awakes !" 
 
 The captive corsair, bleeding and loaded 
 with chains, is closely imprisoned, so that 
 he may be impaled. Gulnare, grateful for 
 her life, and pitying his misfortunes, visits 
 him in his cell by stealing the Pacha's sig- 
 net-ring, which she had often done before in 
 sport. Before his capture, Conrad, after 
 saving her, had treated her kindly, and left 
 her safe at the house of a friend. 
 
 " 'Tvvas strange — that robber thus with gore hedew'd 
 Seem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
 
 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 !" 
 
 Astonished at finding so much gentleness 
 and courtesy in a pirate, which she had 
 never seen even in Seyd, her own lord ; and 
 
 overjoyed that Conrad had also prevented 
 her from falling a prey to what would have 
 been worse than death, she resolves to save 
 him, if possible, from torture. The corsair 
 in the melee, seeing all was lost, had in vain 
 sought for death. 
 
 " Oil were there none, of all the many given, 
 
 To send his soul — ho scarcely ask'd to heaven ? 
 
 Must he alone of all retain his breath, 
 
 Who more than all had striven and struck for death '.'" 
 
 Gulnare had painfully witnessed him bat- 
 tling thus with the hosts around him ; and 
 had seen him, bound and bleeding, borne to 
 prison, with his life preserved only for a 
 time, so that as soon as his strength should 
 be recruited, he could support longer the 
 awful pangs of impalement. She innocently 
 enough shudders to think of this horrible 
 spectacle, which she will have to witness 
 with Seyd when he thus ferociously gluts 
 his revenge, and she generously resolves to 
 avert it, even at the cost of her life. Exe- 
 cution by impalement is a favorite Turkish 
 practice, the agonies of which are worse 
 than crucifixion. It is thus fearfully pic- 
 tured : 
 
72 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun, 
 Will sinking see impalement's pangs began, 
 And rising with the wonted blush of Morn 
 Behold how well or ill those pangs arc borne. 
 Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
 Which adds all other agon; to thirst. 
 That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
 While famish'd vultures ilii around the stake. 
 "Oh! water — water !" Smiling Hate denies 
 'The victim's prayer; lor if he drinks — he dies. 
 
 This horrible death does not alarm him, 
 but the thoughl that Medora will break her 
 loving hear) at the news, almost maddens 
 him. 
 
 ( hie thought alone he could not — dared not meet — 
 
 " Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet .'" 
 
 'Then — only then — his clanking hands he raised. 
 
 \ud strain'd with rage the chain on which he gazed. 
 
 This thoughl agonizes him so much that 
 he strives to forgel it by courting repose; 
 ami when asleep he is visited In- the com- 
 passionate Gulnare. 
 
 He slept. Wh > o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
 His loos arc gone — and here he hath no friends : 
 Is ii some seraph sent to grant him grace? 
 No. 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
 
 # * * # 
 
 He raised his head — and dazzled with the light, 
 His eye secin'd dnhions if it saw aright : 
 •■ What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
 Mcthinks, my jailor's face shows wondrous fair!" 
 '• Pirate! then know'st me not — but I am one, 
 Grateful lor deeds thou hast too rarely done; 
 Look on me — and remember her. thy hand 
 Snatch'd from the flames, and thy more fearful hand. 
 1 come through darkness — and I scarce know why- 
 Yet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 
 
MEDOR A. 
 
 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 night-breeze freshens — she that day had past 
 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 ! 
 
 The sincere affection that dwells in the 
 fond heart of the beautiful Medora is a 
 delicious reality; there is no fiction here, 
 nothing could be truer than her love for 
 Conrad. To love one so imbued in guilt 
 would be a soul-damning crime, were it not 
 that to her he is always gentle and kind. 
 She knows that he has been deeply wronged, 
 and now avenges these wrongs upon his fel- 
 low-men ; but she hopes at length to win 
 him away from guilt by love, and oft forgets 
 or covers up his faults. 
 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. 
 10 
 
 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 sunk 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 whicn said, 
 " With nothing left to love — there's naught to dread." 
 
 She sees him not amongst the bleeding 
 crew, and knows from this that he is dead 
 or dying. But remembering the stern les- 
 sons that Conrad taught her, she endeavors 
 to assume an unnatural firmness that she 
 does not possess. But the strength of her 
 soul is ebbing away, like a spirit gliding 
 into eternity! and the pulsations of her 
 heart become lengthened, and her blood 
 courses through her veins slowly, and chil- 
 ly as ice. Grief, Desolation, and Woe — 
 as huge forms arise, plain and palpable 
 before her ; she views their mocking smiles, 
 through Jier hallucination, in the pitying 
 looks of those who weep and share her 
 misery around her. Madness usurps the 
 
GULNARE AND SEYD. 
 
 The Pacha Seyd, satisfied of the security 
 of his prison to hold the pirate, who is 
 enchained in his cell, permits him to live 
 longer than he intended, solely that he may 
 endure more torture. Gulnare, true to her 
 promise to save his life, endeavors to excite 
 Seyd's cupidity for the large ransom he 
 could obtain by freeing him. 
 
 " Gulnare ! — if fur 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 should not him redeem ! 
 
 It had not now redeem'd a single hour, 
 
 But that I know him fetter'd, in my power ; 
 
 And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
 
 On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 
 
 Horrified at his hatred and barbarity, 
 Gulnare uses a slender artifice, by repre- 
 senting that the pirate, deprived of his 
 wealth and half his band, would soon fall an 
 easy prey. This at once arouses the Pacha's 
 jealousy and suspicion. 
 
 " 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 J 
 Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware : 
 "I'is not his life alone nmij claim sunk care ! 
 In words alone I am not wont to chafe : 
 Look to thyself — nor deem tliy falsehood safe !" 
 He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
 Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu. 
 
 Gulnare, shocked and enraged at being 
 accused of unfaithfulness, of which she is 
 wholly innocent, permits her love for her 
 lord and master to turn into hate, and thirsts 
 for revenge. She bribes the guard and 
 provides a boat for Conrad's escape, and at 
 midnight repairs to his cell with a poniard 
 in her hand, that she offers him to murder 
 Seyd with, if he would be free. 
 
 " But in one chamber, whet 
 
 There sleeps — he must t 
 
 Seyd !" 
 
 path must lead, 
 ake — the oppressor 
 
 Here Conrad appears truly noble, for his 
 magnanimity and generosity. He knows 
 that the Pacha has doomed him to the most 
 awful tortures, that his own Medora's heart 
 is breaking in his absence ; but he cannot 
 kill a sleeping enemy, although he has slain 
 
76 
 
 THE CORSAIR. 
 
 hundreds in fighting; so would rather die 
 than be free upon such base terms. 
 
 " Gulnare— Gulnare — I never felt till now 
 
 My abject fortune, witber'd fame so low : 
 
 Seyd is mine enemy : had swept my band 
 
 From earth with ruthless but with opeu 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 save 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 stake. 
 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 ! 
 But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
 I'll try the firmness of a female hand." 
 
 She flies from him to do the cruel deed 
 herself. He gathers up his chains to pre- 
 
 vent her. When he finds her, she is re- 
 turning. 
 
 No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
 
 " Thanks to her softening heart — she could not kill !" 
 
 Again he look'd, the wildness of her eye 
 
 Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 
 
 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 — 
 
 Her 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 ! 
 
 He had shed the blood of his foes in tor- 
 rents, and seen many ghastly scenes un- 
 moved, but this cruel murder fills him with 
 horror. 
 
 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 lie had view'd — could view unmoved — but then 
 It fiow'd in combat, or was shed by men. 
 
THE DEATH OF MEDORA. 
 
 Conrad having escaped, through the 
 means of Gulnare, who accompanies him, is 
 picked up by his companions, on the sea, 
 who had sailed in search of him, or to 
 avenge his death. They sail for his isle, 
 and reach there at night ; seeing no light 
 in Medora's tower, his heart sadly forbodes 
 the real cause. 
 
 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 ; 
 He 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. 
 He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
 As soon could he have linger'd there for day ; 
 But, glimmering through the dusky corridor, 
 Another checkers o'er the shadow'd floor ; 
 His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
 All that his heart believed not — yet foretold ! 
 
 He had been doomed to die; a horrid 
 murder had been committed by another to 
 
 save him, and he at length had been per- 
 mitted to reach the long-desired home of his 
 heart ; but Medora, the only being on earth 
 whom he loved, was dead, and lay in still 
 and solemn purity before him on her funeral 
 bier; and this is his welcome home! His 
 heart was crushed and desolate. What 
 was life now to him, when his life's life lay 
 before him, in all her beauty — cold, motion- 
 less, and dead? here, too, where he had 
 last tenderly strained her to his bosom, 
 promising soon to return. He is now a lone 
 wanderer on the face of the earth, with the 
 mark of Cain on his brow ; with anguish, 
 remorse, and despair in his heart, creating 
 the burning torments of a living hell ! 
 
 He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'd his look, 
 
 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 there ; 
 
 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, 
 
THE COUSAIK. 
 
 -thought shrinks from all lli: 
 
 low- 
 
 Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
 
 And hurls lilt- spirit from her throne Of light ! 
 
 Sinks those blue orhs in that long last eclipse, 
 
 But spares, as yet. the charm arouml her lips — 
 Vet. yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
 Ami wish'd repose — but only for a while ; 
 Hut the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
 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 ? 
 
 He asks not how she died; forsheislost 
 to him on earth, and thus lost forever! He 
 will not see her hence, for she litis fled to 
 1K-. inch, whose crystal gates are closed to 
 men of unrepented crimes ' 
 
 He ask'il 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 I 
 
 Even Byron, with all his eloquence, can- 
 not describe the bleeding agonies o( real 
 grief; and his woes and sorrows were very 
 far from being o( a light nature. The 
 bleeding pangs of a true mourner's heart, 
 
 grief's palsied tongue can ne'er hut faintly 
 show. The sorrow felt for the loss of the 
 one dearest being, our till on earth, outbeg- 
 gars all description. 
 
 No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
 For Truth denies all eloquence to Wo. 
 On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
 And stupor almost lull'd it into rest ; 
 
 ■ now. his mother's softness crept 
 To those wihl eyes, which like an infant's wept . 
 It was the very weakness ot his brain, 
 Which thus coufess'd without relieving pain. 
 
 They who can read this tale unmoved, 
 must have adamantine feelings, so let them 
 heed its moral. Nothing is stronger on 
 earth than woman's love. In a virtuous 
 Medora, it clings around the dear object, 
 and the heart bursts with anguish when 
 deprived ot the light in which its soul did 
 naught but bask. In a perverted Gulnare, 
 even bloody murder cannot stop its strong 
 -terrific force. And the heart o{ num. 
 though dark with guilt, may yet hold one 
 pure pearl of virtue, for he was once made 
 in the image of a righteous and a holy 
 God! 
 
KALED 
 
 The tale of Lara is a continuation of the 
 Corsair, but unlike the most of sequels, it 
 fully equals its precursor ; yet, strange to 
 say, Lord Byron never admitted this pub- 
 licly, and the cause of its production 
 elucidates one of his most peculiar charac- 
 teristics, viz., satirical revenge. He had 
 asserted upon the appearance of the Cor- 
 sair, that it would be his last production ; 
 but this, his apparent and intended silence, 
 togethei with the Prince Regent's ani- 
 mosity, was the signal for his enemies to 
 commence an unjust and most unmerciful 
 persecution. To revenge himself, he wrote 
 and published Lara, being determined to 
 make his traducers, despite of their envy 
 and prejudice, acknowledge the superiority 
 of his genius, that could thus continue a 
 poem already complete in itself, and yet 
 render it more complete in a mysterious 
 and most attractive manner. But to de- 
 lude them, he made this sequel appear like 
 a new story, by making the real connection 
 obscure and seemingly contradictory, in- 
 troducing new features, and adding new 
 beauties, yet at the same time taking care 
 to preserve the unity of the two parts un- 
 broken. The blundering critic, so very 
 wise in his own conceit, stumbled at every 
 step by drawing wrong conclusions, and 
 thus unwittingly, at his own expense, fur- 
 
 nished intense amusement for the fancied 
 victim he imagined he was torturing. The 
 Corsair as Lara, and Gulnare as Kaled his 
 page, are the chief characters. A slight 
 sketch of the latter is here given, as con- 
 nected with the engraving. 
 
 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, 
 
 More 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 rumor 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. 
 
 The two assumed characters of Lara 
 and Kaled, though minutely drawn, do not 
 differ in the least from their original coun- 
 terparts. Gulnare, who had before mur- 
 dered Seyd when asleep, to liberate Conrad, 
 here murders Sir Ezzelin, (who had recog- 
 nised Lara as the Corsair,) to prevent him 
 disclosing Lara's real character to the 
 
SO 
 
 world. This fact is partially concealed 
 with consummate art, but this pa 
 enough to reveal ii : 
 
 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, doubl] 
 
 The color of your ; Kaled wenl and came, 
 
 The lip of ashes, and the cheek 
 
 Vnd o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops threw 
 
 The sickening iciness of that cold clow, 
 .1- 1 1n- Imsy bosom sinks 
 
 With htavy thoughts from which reflection shrinks. 
 
 Yos — ill, ; we must dream and dare, 
 
 thought be half aware : 
 K Jed's be, ii was enow 
 
 To soal his lip, but agonize his brow. 
 
 Com-. i.l. also, who would nol before mur- 
 der a sleeping enemy, does not here parti- 
 cipate in any way whatever in the murder 
 of Sir Ezzelin, though this is attested to 
 by onl} a single line. 
 
 If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his sou! ! 
 His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll; 
 And charity upon the hope would dwell 
 h mas not Lara's Itawl by which h 
 
 This last line of the quotation emphatical- 
 ly clears Lara of this crime, the poel insert- 
 ing the preceding one solely to mislead the 
 critic; lor had it have been otherwise, the 
 charm of mystery w ould have been dissolved. 
 and the wilful intentions oi' the ingenious 
 satirist would have entirely been frustrated. 
 
 The death of Lara is described with 
 unsurpassed vigor and beauty, and the 
 denouement of Kaled's real sex is made 
 with extreme tenderness and delicacy : 
 
 Yet sense seem'd left, though better wore it> 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, 
 
 I to look'd upon it with an eye profane, 
 
 And smiled -Heaven pardon ! if 'twere with disdain : 
 
 And Kaled, though he spoke not. nor withdrew 
 
 From Lara's face his tix'd despairing view. 
 
 With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 
 
 nek the hand which hold the sacred gift, 
 As it such but disturb'd tin' expiring man. 
 Nor sei m'd to know his lib- but then began, 
 That life of Immortality, secure 
 To none, save them whoso faith in Christ is sure. 
 
 I'm gasping braved the breath that Lara drew, 
 
 And dull the film along his dim eye grow ; 
 
 lbs limbs stretch'd Buttering, and his head droop'd o'er 
 
 yet still untiring knee that 
 Ho press'd the hand ho hold upon his heart — 
 
 io more, bin Kaled will not pan 
 Wnii the cold grasp, but feels, and fools in vain. 
 For that faint throb which answers not again. 
 •• It beats !" Away, thou dreamer ! ho is gone— 
 ... Lara which thou look's! upon. 
 ****** 
 oh ! never yet beneath 
 
 LSI of man such trusty love may breathe! 
 That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
 
 !l long and yet but half-conceal'd ; 
 In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
 1 seem'd ended, but the sex contest; 
 
 And life retum'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
 \\ ha! now to her was Womanhood or Fame ? 
 

THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART 
 FICKLE. 
 
 The picture of a coquette is not hard to 
 be imagined by either a poet or a painter; 
 for they would be lucky beings, and blissful 
 in their ignorance, if they did not often meet 
 in the gentler sex many originals to assist 
 their inspiration. The beautiful fancy of 
 the artist reveals to you the whole story at 
 a glance. Sometimes false, mostly true, but 
 always fickle! Such — too often — alas! is 
 
 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 leavest. 
 
 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 warmed ? 
 
 Sincere, but swift in sad transition, 
 As if a dream alone had charrri'd ? 
 
 Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 
 
 And all thy change can be but dreaming ! 
 
 It is curious to investigate the various 
 changing phases of our subtle nature, and 
 the springs of action that impel their course, 
 which are hidden in the human heart. Un- 
 der no phase do we appear more strange or 
 inscrutable, than that of love, for the cause 
 inevitably produces contrary effects, either 
 simultaneously or successively ; for pain and 
 pleasure, torture and rapture, and trouble 
 and peace, spring forth at a breath, or fol- 
 low in quick transition. 
 
 The poet, a worshipper of women, who 
 were, in fact, the ruling stars of his destiny, 
 knew by experience the fickle tendency of 
 their affections, and the chilling affectation 
 that follows a satiety of bliss ; but he knew 
 
82 
 
 THOU ART NOT FALSE, BUT THOU ART FICKLE. 
 
 also, that these clouds would disperse and 
 give place to a brighter and more conge- 
 nial sunshine; that tenderness would hide 
 itself awhile, when annoyed by the lurking 
 imp of coquetry, but would soon return, 
 unless pride had forever barred its way : 
 and that the fleeting quarrels of lovers sel- 
 dom terminated otherwise than in stronger 
 and more lasting love. 
 
 " Amantium ira; amoris rod integratio est !" 
 
 The knowledge that woman is not always 
 •• false," but "fickle," is all powerful in love ; 
 and if timely and properly applied, it would 
 have saved many a breaking heart. The 
 "fickle" whim of a passing moment is often 
 misconstrued into a "false" intent for life, 
 and pride — soul-damning pride, that turned 
 
 angels out of Heaven — usurps the place of 
 
 and changes love into hate! 
 No hand can wound deeper than the hand 
 that has once delighted to soothe the tender 
 and assailable point which confiding passion 
 has unwittingly disclosed ; and when co- 
 quetry, alas! is successful ; jealousy, a sense 
 of wrong and revenge, directed by pride, 
 launch there the sure and fatal dart of ma- 
 lignant hatred, that rankles deep, anil makes 
 a wound that never heals! O that the 
 Angel of Charity would inspire the mouth 
 of vexation to smile and whisper, "Thou 
 art not false, but thou art fickle," and the 
 scowling demon would depart, and the sweet 
 consoling fondness of a woman's heart would 
 return with tenfold force to strengthen tin 
 strained and tender bands of affection ! 
 
J EPI LTIT AITS DAUGHTER. 
 
 And Jcphthnh vowed a vow unto the Lord, and 
 said, " Ii i In >ii shall withoul fail deliver the children 
 ol Amnion into mine hands, 
 
 "Then it shall be, thai whatsoever comcth forth of 
 the doors of my house to meel me, when I return in 
 
 peace; from the children of Amnion, shall surely he 
 the Lord's, and I H ill offer it up l"> • r a burnt-offering." 
 
 So Jephthah passed ever unto the children of Am- 
 nion i" fighl again i them; and the Lord delivered 
 them into his hands. * * * * * 
 
 And Jephthah came to Mizpoh unto his house, and, 
 behold, his daughter rami- out to meet him with tim- 
 brels and with dances: and she was his only child ; 
 
 bi side her he had neither sun nor daughter. * * 
 
 And it came In pa - al ihe end of Iwo months, that 
 she rein ned unto her lather, who did with her ac- 
 cording to his vow which he had vowed. 
 
 From lliis affecting passage of Sacred 
 History, the noble poet composed a few of 
 the sweetest and most pathetic lines thai 
 could ever depicture the depths of female 
 resignation and devotion. The pure pa- 
 triotism, tender affection, and heavenly sub- 
 mission that he ascribes to this holy maid 
 of Israel, are invested in the simplest, yet 
 most powerful appeals that could be made 
 to awaken the sympathies of our better 
 nature. 
 
 Since our country, our God — Oh, my sire ! 
 Demand that thy daughter expire ; 
 
 Since thy triumph was boughl by thy vow— 
 Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now ! 
 
 And Ihe voice of my mourning is o'er, 
 And Ihe mountains behold me no more : 
 II Ihe hand that I love lay me low, 
 There cannot lie pain in the blow ! 
 
 And of Ibis, () my father ! be sure — 
 Thai ihe blood of thy child is as pure 
 As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 
 And the last thought that soothes tne below. 
 
 Though Ihe virgins of Salem lament, 
 lie the judge anil ihe hero unbent ! 
 I have won the groat battle for thee, 
 And my father and country are free 
 
 5. 
 
 When this blood of thy giving bath gush'd, 
 When Ihe voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
 Let my memory still be thy pride, 
 And forget not I smiled as I died ! 
 
 Who can read these mournful 
 without being convinced of the awful re- 
 
HEBREW MELODIES. 
 
 sponsibility of vowing rash vows unto the 
 Lord ! the fulfilment of which too often 
 bring deserved ruin and desolation, for such 
 offerings are unholy. We shrink from en- 
 tering into the bitter feelings of a fond 
 father's heart, who thus bound his soul to 
 slay the only object of his love. Man} 
 commentators have supposed that Jephthah 
 did not really offer up his daughter as a 
 burnt-offering, but redeemed her with mon- 
 ey, ami offered up the usual burnt-sacrifice 
 instead. However pity may have prompted 
 
 the humane suggestion, the stern meaning 
 conveyed in the unalterable words of Holy- 
 Writ proves this view o( the subject to be 
 incorrect, and the unwilling mind is forced 
 to admit the sickening reality <>i this fatal 
 catastrophe. Notwithstanding the disgust 
 that the mention o( human sacrifices in- 
 variably creates, the sincere affection, and 
 willingness of the unfortunate victim, endue 
 this awful subject with beauties that will 
 always elicit the warmest admiration. 
 
MOUNT OF OLIVES. 
 
 (KKO.M Till; WALLS Of JLUI.-'AIXM j 
 
 Tin; view from the walls of Jerusalem 
 not "iily shows the desecration of the most 
 holy hill of Sion, where 
 
 " Our temple hath not left a stone, 
 And Mockery sits on Salem's throne," 
 
 but presents other interesting scenes, the 
 time-hallowed mementoes of those solemn 
 events recorded in Sacred History. 
 
 On the right of the wall, in the fore- 
 ground, may be seen the deep excavation 
 known as the "Pool of Bethesda," and the 
 high northern boundary of the Haram's 
 enclosure, with a minaret above, connected 
 with the great Mosque of Omar. The 
 magnificent Mosque of Omar, (occupying 
 the site of the " Holy of Holies" of the tem- 
 ple of Solomon,) with the smaller Mosque 
 of El Aksa, seen in the distance, to 
 with the groves, fountains, and spacious 
 enclosure of the Haram, form of themselves 
 a distinct and beautiful picture. 
 
 Below the wall, on the left, is a narrow, 
 level ridge, used as a Turkish cemetery; 
 and beneath this is the "Valley of Jehosha- 
 phrit," containing the "Garden of Geth- 
 sernane," with its grotto, the tomb of the 
 Virgin Mary, and the " Brook of Kidron." 
 
 Above and beyond this valley, the " Mount 
 of Olives" arises; and the pathway leading 
 to Bethany, over the centre of the Mount, 
 may be observed, as well as the Church of 
 the Ascension which adorns the summit. 
 
 In the following selections from tin- He- 
 brew Melodies, the poet bewails the e ecn 
 tion attending Judah's fallen race, and tin' 
 pollution of her desolate shrines, in the 
 purest and most pathetic poetry the English 
 language contains. 
 
 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 ; 
 Ik airy step and glorious eye 
 May glance in tameless transport by : — 
 
 A step as fleet, an eye more bright, 
 
 I lath 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 bless'd each palm that shades those plains 
 Than Israel's scattered race ; 
 
86 
 
 [I E BREW M ELODJ ES. 
 
 For, taking root, it there remains 
 
 In solitary grace : 
 U cannot quit its place of birth, 
 It will not live in other earth, 
 
 ltut we must wander witneringly, 
 
 In other lands to die ; 
 An, I where our fathers' ashes be, 
 
 Our ow n ma\ never lie i 
 Our temple bath not left a stone, 
 And Blocker? sits »n Salem's throne. 
 
 OH! 1VIT1' POB 
 
 Oh! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
 Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream; 
 Weep for the harp of Judah'a broken shell ; 
 Mourn— where their God hath dwelt the Godless 
 dwell : 
 
 And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet? 
 
 Ami when shall Si, mi's sn!i.,'< :i,;uu -,',';n swoel ; 
 
 An, I Judah's melodj once more rejoice 
 
 The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly voice I 
 
 Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
 How shall ye Bee awaj and be at rest! 
 The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
 Mankind their country — Israel but the grave ! 
 
 on JOBMB s banks 
 On Jordan's hanks the Arab's camels stray. 
 
 On Si, .n's lull the False One's votaries pray. 
 
 The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 
 
 Vet there — even there — oh God ! thy thunders slee] 
 
 There — where thy finger scorch'd the 
 
 There — where tin shadow to thy people shone 
 
 Thy glory shrouded in its garb of tire: 
 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, 
 
 1 l,u\ long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
 
 How lona thv temple worshipless, oh God! 
 
 In the lament for the destruction of Jeru- 
 salem, Lord Byron achieves one of those 
 singular and successful efforts of his genius; 
 he blends the strains, almost oi triumph and 
 resignation, even amid the bitter anguish 
 
 and d« 
 
 the 
 
 .-hod 
 
 W Tin: M\ 01 rr.r DESTRITI HOH 01 JWCW HI 
 
 BX THIS. 
 From the last hill that looks on thy once hoi] i 
 1 b iheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to Rome : 
 Twasth] last -mi went dow n,and the flames of thy fall 
 Flash'd back on the last glance 1 gave to thy wall. 
 
 1 look'd for thy temple. I look'd lor my home. 
 
 And forgot lor a moment my bondage to come' 
 1 beheld but the death-fire that fed on thy lane. 
 And the fast-fetter'd hands that made vengeance 
 
 in vain. 
 
 On many an eve. the high spot whence I gazed 
 Had reflected the last beam of .lay as it blazed; 
 While 1 stood on the height, and beheld the decline 
 (>r the rays from the mountain that shone on thv 
 
 shrine. 
 
 And now on that mountain I Stood on that day. 
 But 1 mark'd tun the twilight beam melting awa) ; 
 Oh! would that the lightning had glared in its stead, 
 And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's head! 
 
 But the gods of the Pagan shall never profane 
 
 The shrine where Jehovah disdain'.! not to reign; 
 
 And scatter'd and scom'd as thy people may bo, 
 
 Our worship, oh Father, is only for thee. 
 
Mmi in .IfniGulr-m 
 
STREET IN JERUSALEM. 
 
 This view, taken from St. Stephen's 
 Gate, discloses the Arch of " Ecce Homo," 
 (under which, as tradition affirms, Pilate 
 showed Jesus to the people, crowned with 
 thorns and clad in purple, as related in the 
 Bible :) the street called the "Via Dolorosa" 
 — along which our Saviour, bearing his 
 cross, ascended to the hill of Calvary to 
 execution ; — and the Governor's house, 
 which occupies the site of Fort Antonia, 
 the residence and judgment-seat of Pilate. 
 
 It is a great pity for the name and fame 
 of Lord Byron, at least, that there were not 
 more of the " Hebrew Melodies ;" but, al- 
 though so few, they are sufficient to refute 
 the malignant charge of infidelity and athe- 
 ism against him. To say that the soul of 
 the man who composed the following mel- 
 ody was void of religion, would be more 
 untrue and absurd than to say that the 
 sentiment expressed was inappropriate and 
 blasphemous, for a devotional and Christian 
 mind to conceive or meditate upon. 
 
 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 tier tears, its chords are riven ! 
 
 It soften'd men of iron 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 throne. 
 
 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. 
 
 This soul-wrung complaint of the despised 
 Jew, is the very acme of heart-broken de- 
 spair and unavailing resignation : — 
 
 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 : 
 
II EBREW M ELOD I ES. 
 
 If the bad never triumph, then God is with thee ! 
 
 Il the slave only sin. thou Ml spotless and free ! 
 
 I: ih-> Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 
 Live on in thy faith, but in mine 1 will die. 
 
 [ have lost tor that faith more than thou can-. 
 As the God who permits thee to prosper doth know ; 
 [n his hand is my heart and my hope— and in thine 
 The land and the life which for him I resign. 
 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib contains 
 similes of unsurpassed grandeur and sim- 
 plicity, and constitutes the sublimest poem 
 of the whole collection 
 
 Tin: pr.sTurcnoN op se.nx.uu 
 
 • nan came down like the wolf on 
 
 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 I 
 
 tike the Summer is green, 
 
 Thai host with their banners at sunset wen 
 
 Like the si when Autumn hath blown, 
 
 That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strewn. 
 
 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 v.ax'd deadly and chill, 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew 
 still ! 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
 Tim through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride: 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. 
 And eeld as the spraj ting surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pie. 
 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. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are lend in their wail, 
 
 ila are hrok,' in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the ('.entile, unsmote by the sword. 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! 
 
 The forest in summer has always been 
 compared to the vigor o( manhood, and the 
 forest in autumn, to the gradual decay he is 
 subject to, towards death : but there is no 
 comparison to sudden death: flowers nipped 
 in the bud, untimely growth, or blasted by 
 lightning, are the usual expressions ; hut 
 Byron compares the Assyrian army.in their 
 strength, to the verdancy of summer at sun- 
 set, and by the morrow of Autumn, "the 
 f Death spreads his w ings on the 
 blast," and. by his breath, destroys them 
 with as much devastation, as the scorching 
 and blasting simoom would wither and strew 
 the leaves in a single night. And the melt- 
 ing of snow or thawing of ice by the sun's 
 raj >, dt e 01 ercome by the power 
 
 of truth and dissolving itself to give place 
 to -virtue : or the hardness of the heart, or a 
 tyrant, being melted into tenderness. It lias 
 seldom, if ever, been taken for any other 
 simile: hut he describes the destruction oi 
 one hundred and eighty-five thousand As- 
 syrians — unsmote by the sword — as if they 
 had been dissolved by the terrific glance of 
 the Most High C>oA. when in anger — con- 
 sumed and annihilated, as it were, like the 
 melting of snow. This is almost showing 
 one of the highest powers of the Omnipotent, 
 "whose ways are not as our ways," in the 
 most magnificent and comprehensive lan- 
 guage that an erring mind of a creature 
 can conceive. 
 
MEETING OF HUGO AND PARISINA. 
 
 The melancholy facts relating to the 
 tragedy of Parisina, occurred in Ferrara, 
 in the year 1405, under the reign of Nich- 
 olas III. Lord Byron, in his exquisitely 
 mournful poem on this distressing subject, 
 renders the story thus: — Hugo, the natural 
 son <>f Azo, (Nicholas,) Marquis of Este, by 
 Bianca, was betrothed to Parisina : the 
 Marquis, disdaining Hugo — being of illegiti- 
 mate birth — as a rival, (although he, alone, 
 was the guilty cause of the imputed shame,) 
 covets his son's destined bride, and makes 
 Parisina his wife; but afterwards discover- 
 ing the incestuous love of the guilty pair, 
 he sentences Hugo to be beheaded. 
 
 This beautiful tragedy, though not made 
 up of highly-wrought plots and violent 
 scenes, is yet a meritorious and almost 
 faultless composition ; it is a painful recital 
 of guilt and retribution, and the easy, touch- 
 ing transitions delineate the utmost depths 
 of horror, terror, grief, pity, and sadness, in 
 their gloomiest shades ; the language is sim- 
 ple and pathetic, and the versification is 
 harmonious and spirited; the delicacy of 
 the subject has never been abused, nor the 
 guilt palliated ; and the remorse and speech- 
 less agony of the guilty, are portrayed in 
 words whose force may be felt, but not so 
 easily re-expresscd. 
 
 The few fragments here given, embrace 
 historical portion of the poem, which 
 
 will not bear mutilation, except at the ex- 
 pense of beauty ; but is too long to be 
 inserted entire. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 Esto's bower, 
 
 'Tis not for the sake of iis 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 brats quick. 
 
 There whispers a voice through the rustling Iravrs, 
 
 And her blush returns, and her bosom heaves: 
 
 A moment more — and they shall meet : 
 
 'Tis past — her lover's at her feet. 
 
 With many a lingering look they leave 
 
 The spot of guilty gladness pass'd ; 
 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 forever, 
 While gleams on Parisina's face 
 
 The Heaven she fears will not forgive her, 
 As if each calmly conscious star 
 Beheld her frailty from afar — 
 
90 
 
 r a i; i s i \ \ 
 
 The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
 Vol binds them to ilioir trysting-place. 
 Hut it must come, aiut they must jvirt 
 lu fearful heaviness of bout, 
 Willi all the deep and shuddering chill 
 Which follows (est the deeda of ill. 
 
 And Hugo is gone to liis lonely bed, 
 
 To cove) there another's bride ; 
 But slio must lav lu-r conscious heed 
 
 A husband's trusting hoar: beside. 
 But fever'd in her sloop she - 
 And rod hor cheek with troubled dreams, 
 
 And mutters she in lior unrest 
 A name slio dare not breathe by day. 
 
 And clasps lior lord unto the breast 
 Which pants tor one awa) : 
 And lio to that embrace a> 
 And. happy in the thought, mistakes 
 That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
 Por suoh as he was wont I 
 And could in very fondness weep 
 O'or hor who loves him even in sleep. 
 
 her sleeping to h - 
 
 \ - :.M to each broken word : 
 Ho hoars— Why doth Prince A start 1 
 
 1 (go's — his— 
 
 In sooth he had not deem'd 
 
 >. — he, the child 
 
 He loved — his own all-ei a 
 
 I youth. 
 - -.ruth. 
 Tho maid whose folly could confide 
 In him who made hor not b - 
 
 I his poniard in its - 
 id it ere the pok 
 
 now to breathe, 
 - 
 At least, nc s f - teping — there. 
 
 The Convent bells are ringing, 
 
 lint mournfully and slow ; 
 In the gray square turret swinging, 
 
 Willi a doop sound, to and fro. 
 v to tho heart they go ! 
 Hark : the hymn is singing — 
 
 The song for the dead b 
 
 Or the living who shortly shall 1>0 so ! 
 
 For a departing being's soul 
 
 Tho death-hymn peals anil the hollow bells knot 
 
 Ho is near his mortal ^vil ; 
 
 Kneeling at the friar's knee : 
 
 Sad to hoar — and piteous to see — 
 
 Kneeling on the haro cold ground, 
 
 With the block before and the guards around ; 
 
 And the headman with his bare arm ready. 
 That the blow may be both swift and steady. 
 
 Feels if the ase be sharp and true — 
 Since be sot its edge anew : 
 While the crowd in a speechless circle gather 
 To see the Son fall by the doom of the Father 
 
 5 
 
 Of that raise sou — and daring lover ! 
 His beads and sins arc all recounted, 
 His hours to their last minute mounted — 
 
 spoke: 
 
 the stroke — 
 ; tad — and, irushiiiir. sunk 
 
 - ain'd and heaving trunk. 
 In the dust, which 
 
 ensanguined raiu ; 
 • lips a moment 
 ltd quick — thou fix 
 3 Biting man sha 
 W 
 
 iad be Ivw-'d and pray'd, 
 
 \ ' hiirh. 
 
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 The Chateau de Chillon is situated at the 
 eastern extremity of the Lake of Geneva, 
 between Clarens and Villeneuve, in Switz- 
 erland. Ii is a large Gothic edifice, and 
 with its lofty, white walls, laved by the blue 
 waves of the rushing Rhone, presents a no- 
 ble appearance, and can be seen for a great 
 distance along the lake. It is surrounded 
 h\ the most romantic and sublime scenery 
 of thai magnificent country, whose far- 
 famed spots are shrines consecrated to the 
 deathless memories of the mosl gifted sons 
 of the genius of poesy. From the battle- 
 ments, a grand panorama of the lake and its 
 environs is beheld, comprising the cantons 
 of Berne ami Fribourg, the Pays de Vaud, 
 and the duchy of Savoy. On the left is the 
 town of Villeneuve, and the two entrances 
 of the Rhone; on the right, Lausanne in 
 the distance, Vevay, and the Chateau and 
 village of Clarens, so delightfully situated, 
 arc beheld ; while opposite, the rocks of 
 Meillerie, and the eternal snow-clad Alps 
 above Boveret and St. Gingoux, soar up- 
 ward in their ruggedness and solemn stern- 
 ness. The names ofRousseau, Voltaire, and 
 • lihlioii have hitherto been cherished among 
 the charms of these enchanted haunts, 
 which are now assimilated with those 
 
 of Byron, Shcllev, and Madame de Stael. 
 The Chateau was built in the twelfth cent- 
 ury, and in its dungeons the early reformers, 
 and afterwards prisoners of state, were con- 
 fined. < )f the latter, the most noted was the 
 good Bonnivard. 
 
 " The Prisoner of Chillon" is the sur- 
 viving brother of three reformers, who are 
 supposed, by the poet, to have been cruelly 
 immured there. The mournful narration is 
 clothed in soul-subduing and heart-chilling 
 pathos, glaring with the gloomy horrors of 
 captivity, and showing its frightful effects 
 on the human mind. The extracts given 
 need no comment ; they almost speak out 
 in tones of agony and horror ! 
 
 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, 
 linl with that pale and livid light, 
 That made us strangers in our sight. 
 
 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 side ; 
 But why delay the truth ? — he died. 
 I saw, and could not hold his head, 
 Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 
 
02 
 
 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 
 
 Though hard I strove, but strove in vain. 
 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. 
 1 begg'd them as a boon, to lay 
 His corse in dust whereon the day 
 Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 
 Hut 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 there : 
 The flat and turfless earth above 
 The being we so much did love ; 
 His empty chain above it leant : 
 Such murder's fitting monument ! 
 
 But he, the favorite and the flower, 
 Mosl cherish'd since his natal hour 
 His 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 
 Lesa wretched now, and one day free; 
 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 stock 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, 
 ['ve seen the sick and ghastly bed 
 ( )i Sin delirious with its dread : 
 
 were horrors — this was woe 
 Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow 
 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 bloom 
 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 tainting nature's feebleness, 
 More slowly drawn, grew less and less : 
 I listen'd, but I could not hear — 
 1 call'd, for I was wild with fear ; 
 1 knew 'twos 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 bound, 
 And rush'd to him: — I found him not, 
 / 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 hound me to my failing race, 
 Was broken in this fatal place. 
 
 At last men came to set me free, 
 
 1 ask'd not why. and reck'd not where, 
 
 It was at length the same to me, 
 
 Fetter'd or fetterless to be, 
 1 learn'd to love despair. 
 
 My very chains and I grew friends, 
 So much a long communion tends 
 To make us what we are :— even I 
 Regain'd my freedom with a sigh. 
 
L A U R A 
 
 Beppo is a volatile and humorous Vene- 
 tian story, founded on an anecdote that had 
 amused Lord Byron, and was written, as he 
 said, to prove thai he could write cheerful- 
 ly, and to repel the charge of monotony and 
 mannerism: it was completely successful; 
 and this, probably, was one of the causes 
 that originated Don Juan. 
 
 The poem abounds in laughable and 
 truthful descriptions of Italian life and so- 
 ciety, with occasional digressions, replete 
 with caustic wit and sarcasm : it contains no 
 seriousness or cloudy gravity, but sparkles 
 in brilliancy and sunshine — showing the au- 
 thor's knowledge of the world and human 
 nature, and ridiculing and exposing the fol- 
 lies and foibles of mankind, and their man- 
 ners. The composition is polished, but not 
 beautiful ; light, yet not immoral; and gen- 
 tlemanlike, without being genteelly sober: 
 in short, it is a versification of every-day 
 life and conversation, seasoned by one 
 whose hours of gayety and grief were in 
 the extremes of both. 
 
 The story, in brief, is this : — Beppo, a Ve- 
 netian merchant, remaining away from home 
 rather too long to suit the taste of Lama, his 
 wife, she, believing or wishing him dead, 
 '"alls in love with a certain Count, who 
 13 
 
 usurps her husband's place. Beppo, in the 
 mean time, having been made a slave, and 
 then becoming a Turk and pirate, returns 
 home, and, like a good stoic, calmly takes 
 hack his wife ; and, like a good-natured 
 man, lives in friendship with the Count; 
 which philosophical conduct upsets the en- 
 tire modern catalogue of ravings and tears, 
 divorces and damages, as well as duels and 
 executions. The annexed verses relate the 
 whole story. 
 
 Laura was blooming still, had made the best 
 
 Of time, ami time returned 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 seemed to flatter 
 Mankind with her black eyes lor looking at her. 
 ****** 
 She chose, (and what is there they will not choose, 
 
 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. 
 
 ****** 
 While Laura thus was seen and seeing, smiling, 
 
 Talking, she knew not why and cared not what 
 
94 
 
 Bo that her female friends, with envy broiling, 
 Beheld her airs ami triumph, and all that; 
 
 And well-dresa'd males still kept before her filing, 
 And passing bow'd and mingled with her chat; 
 
 More than the real one person Beem'd to stare 
 
 With pertinacity that's rather rare. 
 
 Mi- was a Turk, the color of mahogany ; 
 
 And Laura saw him, and at lirst was glad, 
 Because the Turks so much admire phylogyny, 
 
 Although their usage of their wives is sad; 
 "I'is -aid 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 'em, 
 Four wives by law, and concubines "ad libitum." 
 
 Our Laura's Turk still kept his eyes upon ber, 
 
 Less in the Mussulman than Christian way, 
 
 Which seems to say, ■' Madam, I do you honor, 
 
 And while I please to --tare, you'll please to stay !' 
 Could staring win a woman, this had won her. 
 
 But Laura could not thus be led astray ; 
 She had Stood lire too long and well,tO 
 Even at this stranger's most outlandish ogle. 
 
 ****** 
 The Count and Laura found tb'ir 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. 
 
 " Sir," said the Count, with brow exceeding grave, 
 " Your unexpected presence lure will make 
 
 It necessary for myself lo crave 
 
 Its import ? But perhaps 'tis a mistake ; 
 
 1 hope it is mi ; and. al once lo wave 
 
 All compliment, I hope so for your sake: 
 
 You understand my meaning, or you fluii!." 
 
 " Sir," (quoth tho Turk,) " 'tis no mistake at all. 
 
 •• That lady is my wife 1" Much wonder paints 
 The lady's changing cheek, as well as it might ; 
 
 l!ut where nn Lnglishwoman 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 . 
 
 She said —what could she say? Why, not a words 
 
 But the Count courteously invited in 
 The stranger, much appeased by what he beard I 
 
 "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." 
 
 They enter'd, and for eollbe call'd — it came, 
 A beverage for Turks and Christians both, 
 
 Although the way they make it's not i: 
 Now Laura, much recover'd, or less loth 
 
 To speak, cries " lieppo ! what's your pagan 
 Bless me ! your beard is of amazing growth ! 
 
 And 1iow came you to keep away so long I 
 Are you not sensible 'twas very wrong »" 
 
 His wife received, the patriarch rebaptized him, 
 (He made the church a present, by the way ;) 
 lb- then threw nil" the garments which disguised him, 
 
 And borrow'.! the Count's smallclothes Inr.a day : 
 I lis 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 J don't believe the half of them. 
 
 Whate'er his youth bad suffer'd, his old age 
 
 'With wealth and talking made him some amends; 
 
 Though Laura sometimes put him in a rage, 
 I've heard the Count and he were always friends. 
 
M A Z E P P A 
 
 (PLATE I.) 
 
 Lord Byron's Mazeppa is a very grand 
 and spirited versification of a well-known 
 ami authenticated story. Mazeppa, in his 
 youth, was a page of John Casimir, king of 
 Poland, and having been found guilty of an 
 intrigue with the wife of a Polish gentle- 
 man, was bound upon the back of a wild 
 horse, and thus launched forth upon the 
 desert. The horse being of the Ukraine 
 breed of Tartary, carried him there, where 
 he was found by some Cossacks, nearly 
 dead ; but through their kind treatment he 
 recovered, and lived to a good old age, as 
 Hetman, or Prince, of their nation. lie 
 was a brave and noted warrior, and is 
 creditably celebrated by more than one 
 biographer^ in the lives of Peter the 
 Crcat of Russia, and Charles the Twelfth 
 of Sweden. 
 
 Alter the battle of Pultowa, Mazeppa, 
 with a few others, accompanied the unfor- 
 tunate and ambitious Charles in his unex- 
 pected flight, and conducted him safely into 
 the Turkish territory. During a gloomy 
 night in their dangerous and melancholy 
 journey, Mazeppa (according to Byron) re- 
 lates his miraculous history to the wounded 
 
 monarch, who is almost worn out with pain 
 and exhaustion. Introduced as it is, in this 
 romantic and unusual manner, accompanied 
 by such distressing associations, the wild 
 grandeur and sublimity of this exciting nar- 
 ration are beautifully enhanced, and the 
 poem doubly enriched with two pathetic. 
 pictures, each creating an intense interest. 
 
 " Bring forth the horse !" — the horse was brought ; 
 
 In truth, he was a noble steed, 
 
 A Tartar of the Ukraine breed, 
 Who look'cl 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 lie had been caught ; 
 And snorting, with erected mane, 
 And struggling fiercely, but in vain, 
 In the lull foam of wratli and dread 
 To me the desert-born was led : 
 They bound me on, that menial throng, 
 Upon his hack with many a thong ; 
 They loosed him with a sudden lash — 
 Away ! — away ! — and on we dash ! — 
 Torrents less rapid and less rash. 
 
 The thundering, rushing course of the 
 noble charger, and the unwearied chase of 
 

 PPA. 
 
 the hated wolves after their expected prey, 
 form a striking and terrible contrast. 
 
 We rustled through the leaves like wind. 
 I. i; lirubs, and trees, and wolves behind ; 
 By night 1 In ard them on the track. 
 Their troop came hard upon out bin !. 
 With their long gallop, \\ hich can tire 
 The hound's deep hate, and huntei ' 
 Where'er we Hew thej followed on, 
 Not lefl us « ill) th ■ moi ning sun ; 
 B hind I tw th in, can e a rood, 
 Ai daybreak \\ inding tin.' 
 Ami thro I heard th.eir feet 
 
 p repeat. 
 oh! Mow I wish'd for spear or sword, 
 
 i.' die amidst the b ird i, 
 And perish — it it must l«- «>- 
 Ai 1m\ . destroying many a foe. 
 
 What marvel if this worn-out trunk 
 Beneath its woes a moment sunk .' 
 'I'll i earth ; ave * ■ 
 I seem'd to sink upon the ground ; 
 bound. 
 rl turn'd sick, my brain grew sore, 
 ub'd awhile, then beat no more : 
 The ski is spun like a might} whei I ; 
 1 saw tlie ' 
 
 ■' | | 
 
 Which saw no farther: he who dies 
 Can die no more than i len 1 died. 
 O'ertortured by that ghastl) ride, 
 
 1 felt the blackne - c ai 
 
 And strove to u i it m ike 
 
 VI j uses climb up from below : 
 1 felt as on a plank at sea, 
 When all the waves that dash o'er ifa ie, 
 
 At the same time upheave and whelm, 
 
 And hurl thee toward- a desert realm. 
 
 My undulating life was as 
 
 The fancied lights that Bitting pass 
 
 Our shut eyes in deep midnight, when 
 
 Pevi r begins upon the brain ; 
 
 Bui soon it pass'd, with little pain. 
 
 But a confusion worse than snob : 
 
 I own thai I should doom ii much, 
 Dying, to feel the same , 
 Nil. 1 . I i do tvppo i we must 
 Peel far more ere we turn to dust : 
 No matter ; I have bared my brow 
 Full in Death's fact — before— and now. 
 
 M\ thoi : where was I ' ; 
 
 And numb, ami giddy : pulse by pul - • 
 Life reassumed its lingering hold. 
 And throb by throb: till grown n 
 
 \\ in. h for .i m I cont uls -. 
 
 h thick and chill ; 
 tfj eat • ran 
 
 My he i i be an one., more I i thrill ; 
 dim, alas ! 
 And ili i [lass. 
 
 'There was a jjeain loo ol the sk} . 
 Studded u itii stars : — it is no dn am ; 
 The wil 1 horse swims the wilder stream ! 
 
 The sickening sufferings and a 
 feelings of Mazeppa are fearfully delineated . 
 and, with his d< ath-like swoon and sit 
 lingering return to consciousness, when re- 
 vivified by the dashing waves, as "the wild 
 horse svi ims the wilder stream," arc nol only 
 a natural and forcible reality, but an artistl- 
 cal and well-executed scene. 
 
M A Z E P P A 
 
 Tin-: harmonious laienia'-re describing the 
 
 impetuous speed of the horse, and h 
 
 hen In' attains Ins native 
 plains, may !><• likened to a magnificenl hurst 
 
 a soft and plainth i melod - . 
 
 Onward we went — but slack and ■ 
 Ili^ a o'ersp mt, 
 
 Tin' drooping emir, r, faint an 1 low, 
 
 Ail Irrl.ly foaming V, ri;l. 
 
 A sickly infant had had ; 
 
 ,it liour; 
 
 lint useless all i' . 
 
 His new-horn lameness naught avail'd — 
 My limbs were bound ; my force bad fail'd, 
 
 Perchance, had they 1 n 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 llie more, 
 And soon the idle strife gave o'er, 
 
 Which but prolonged their pain : 
 The dizzy race seem'd almost done, 
 Although no goal was nearly won: 
 Some streaks announced the coming sun — 
 
 I low slow, alas ! he came ! 
 
 Byron not only excites our pity for 
 Mazeppa's sufferings, but bespeaks it for 
 
 the drooping and dying animal ; I h< 
 r- en pathos of the highest order in his 
 limning of the noble courser's arrival, *-i;>L r - 
 gering and i xhau ted, among his terrible, 
 untamed companions, who come thundering 
 on in their plunging pride to meet him, only 
 to see him fall, gasp, and die tit their feet : 
 they stop — slait — and check their wild ca- 
 
 so strange and bl Ij a sight; 
 
 approach — retire — 
 
 •• And backward to the forest fly, 
 By instinct, from a human eye." 
 
 The accompanying engraving represents 
 this beautiful and impressive passage. 
 
 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 come '. 
 In one vast squadron they advanc ! 
 
 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 hit or rein, 
 
ns 
 
 MAZEPPA. 
 
 And feet that iron never shod, 
 And flanks unscarr'd by spur or rod, 
 A thousand horse, the wild, the free, 
 Like waves that follow o'er the sea, 
 
 Came thickly thundering on, 
 As if our faint approach to meet-. 
 The sight reuerved my courser's feet, 
 A moment staggering, feebly Heel, 
 A mom !nt, with a faint low neigh, 
 
 1 1 ■ answered, and then fell ; 
 With gasps and glazing eyes he lay, 
 
 And reeking limbs immoi 
 His first and last career i 
 On came the troop— thi y saw him stoop, 
 
 They saw me strangely bound along 
 
 His back with many a bloody tin m^ : 
 They stop — they start — they snuff the air, 
 Gallop a moment here and there, 
 Approacn, retire, wheel round and round, 
 Then plunging back with Budden 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. 
 
 The following lines are the best in the 
 poem ; we might almost name them the 
 Death of Mazeppa, for death is there por- 
 trayed, palpable and real as the very feeling 
 of its pangs. The quivering, departing 
 breath — gradual sinking — and thrilling ag- 
 ony of his last moments of consciousness, 
 could not have been more truly delineated, 
 even if dissolution had taken place. 
 
 The sun was sinking — still I lay 
 
 Cbain'd to the chill and stiffening steed 
 I thought to mingle there our clay ; 
 
 And my dim eyes of death bad ne td, 
 
 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 his repast begun ; 
 
 lie Hew. ami perch'd, then flew once re, 
 
 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 th 
 
 But the slight motion of mj hand. 
 
 And feeble scratching of the sand. 
 
 The exerted throat's faint struggling noise, 
 
 Which scarcely could be call'd a voii 
 
 Together scared him off at length. — 
 I know no more — my latest dream 
 
 Is something of a lovely star 
 
 Which iix'd my dull eyes from afar, 
 And went and came with wandering beam, 
 And of the cold, dull, swimming, dense 
 .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 brain — 
 A gasp, a throb, a start of pain, 
 
 A sigh, and nothing more. — 
 What need of more? — I will not tire 
 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 tiie desert to a throne. 
 
THE WITCH OF THE ALPS. 
 
 "Manfred" has been considered by 
 many to be, not only the finest production 
 of the pen of Lord Byron, but the sub- 
 limest and best executed composition of 
 English poetry. It certainly stands unri- 
 valled for the sweetness and soft purity of 
 •Is delicious language — its grand and beau- 
 'iful descriptions of the mighty wonders of 
 iiajestic nature — the wildness and bewitch- 
 
 ng imagination of its spiritual conceptions 
 
 —and its terrible pathos, revealing the 
 horror and agony of that deep remorse 
 
 vhich follows the extremest deeds of evil, 
 And the tortures of that self-despair which 
 .brms the innate hell of the human mind. 
 
 The moral of this poem is a sad and bitter 
 truth — " The tree of Knowledge is not that 
 of Life ;" for " knowledge is not happiness, 
 and science only an exchange of one kind 
 of ignorance for another," the attainment of 
 
 ivhich never contents or satisfies mankind, 
 who, though " half dust and half deity," be- 
 come degraded and polluted by sin, so as to 
 be a shame to themselves and to each other. 
 Manfred is a Magian of fearful skill, with 
 a superhuman mind, whose lofty talents 
 have been perverted and misapplied ; he is 
 well versed in the abstruser sciences, and 
 by his art commands and communes with 
 
 the imaginary spirits who are fancied to 
 control the universe ; he is even immortal 
 in his nature, which appears to have been 
 acquired by the self-sacrifice or murder of 
 his devoted sister Astarte, whom he tenderly 
 loved, but destroyed with his guilty affec- 
 tion, which broke her heart : and his 
 consuming grief for this awful deed, and 
 excruciating sufferings in his undying state 
 in search of oblivion, are the most impres- 
 sive parts of this appalling drama. For 
 the touching desolation Manfred feels, even 
 when surrounded by the glories of Alpine 
 grandeur, Lord Byron drew upon his own 
 poignant sorrow and outraged feelings, as 
 may be proved by his own words : " The 
 recollection of bitterness, and more espe- 
 cially of recent and more home desolation, 
 which must accompany me through life, 
 have preyed upon me here ; and neither the 
 music of the shepherd, the crashing of the 
 avalanche, nor the torrent, the mountain, 
 the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, have 
 for one moment lightened the weight upon 
 my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own 
 wretched identity in the majesty, and the 
 power, and the glory, around, above, and 
 beneath me." 
 
 These sentiments are beautifully express- 
 
100 
 
 M \ N i ' K E n . 
 
 oil in iho following passages in the celestial 
 beaut; oi the "Witch of the Alps." the 
 sweet loveliness of her retreat, and the 
 heart-rending agony of Manfred, wrung 
 from him in their fruitless colloquy. 
 
 li is not noon — the sunbow's rays still arch 
 The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
 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 palo courser's tail, 
 
 I steed, to lv bestrode In i I 
 As told in the Apocalypse. N 
 But mine now .Irink this sight of lo> 
 1 should be solo in this sweet solitude. 
 And with the Spirit of the plai 
 
 tage of these waters.— 1 will call her.— 
 Beautiful Spirit ! with thy hair of light, 
 
 - of glory, in \\li. - 
 The charms of earth's Last mortal daughter 
 To an unearthly stature, in at 
 Of nurcr elements ; while the hues of youth— 
 Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's check, 
 Rock'd by Ihe beating of her mother's heart, 
 Or die rose tints, which summer's twilight 
 rpon the lofly glacier's virgin snow. 
 
 The Mush of earth, embracing will) her heaven 
 
 Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
 The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er thee. 
 Beautiful Spirit ! in thy calm clear brow, 
 Wherein is glass'il serenity of soul, 
 Which of itself shows immortality, 
 
 1 read that thou will pardon to a Son 
 
 Of Earth, whom the ahstrusor powers permit 
 At limes to commune with them — it' that he 
 Avail him of his spells — to call thee thus, 
 Ami ga.-.e on thee a moment. 
 
 The face of the earth hath modden'd me, and 1 
 
 Take rofugv in her mysteries, and pierce 
 To the abodes of those W ho govern her — 
 But ihej can nothing aid me. 1 ha\e sought 
 Prom them what they could not hestow. ami now 
 1 search no further. 
 
 ***** 
 \ tre mine — her virtues wen 
 1 loved Iter, and destroy \t her ! * * 
 
 Not with my hand, hut heart— which broke her heart- 
 
 ' mine, ami wither'd. 1 have shed 
 Blood, hut not hers — and yet her blood I 
 I saw — and could not stanch it. 
 
 Daughter of Air ! 1 tell thee, since that hour — 
 But words are breath— look on me in ray sleep. 
 Or watch mv watchings -Come and - 
 
 My solitude is solitude no more, 
 
 Bui peopled with the Furies:— 1 have gnash'd 
 
 My teeth in darkness lill returning morn. 
 
 Then cursed myself till sunset; — 1 have pray'd 
 
 For madness as a blessing — 'lis denii 
 
 1 have affronted death— but in the war 
 
 Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 
 
 And frfta! things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
 
 Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
 
 Back bj a single hair, which would not break. 
 
 In fantasy, imagination, till 
 
 The affluence ^( my soul— which one 
 
 A CltBSUS in creation— 1 plunged deep. 
 Hut. like an ebbing wave, it dash'd ra 
 Into the gulf of my unfathom'd thought. 
 I plunged amidst mankind— Forgctfulness 
 1 sought in all. save where 'tis to In- found. 
 And that 1 have to learn — my Sciences, 
 My long-pursued ami superhuman ar:, 
 Is mortal hero — 1 dwell in my despair — 
 And live — and live : 
 
ASTARTE. 
 
 The exquisite engraving of Astarte, that 
 is here presented, reveals as truly to the 
 beholder — as the poem does to the reader — 
 the sister of Manfred, who appears but as 
 a phantom. The figure shows not life nor 
 death : the hands, though raised in mild 
 reproach, are stiff and frozen there in rigid 
 firmness, as if sculptured out of solid mar- 
 ble ; nor does she seem of breathing clay, 
 being dust and ashes, — the spirit only seems 
 to glow — wearing the semblance of its 
 earthly form — lending a contrite and re- 
 morseful look, in dim and shadowy sor- 
 row. 
 
 We read of her, as once blooming in 
 purity and innocence, with mind and fea- 
 tures like her brother, having like desires, 
 but of a far gentler and humbler nature : — 
 
 She was like me in lineaments — her eyes, 
 Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
 Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; 
 But soften'tl 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, 
 14 
 
 Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not ; 
 And tenderness — but that I had for her ; 
 Humility — and that I never had. 
 
 Their pure affection, maturing from child- 
 hood, at last becomes defiled — perhaps, only 
 in soul — and Astarte withers like a blighted 
 lily, and broken-hearted perishes. 
 
 Manfred, though immortal, finds no hap- 
 piness in knowledge and enduring life, so 
 seeks forgetfulness or death. Through his 
 power over the spirits, he obliges Nemesis 
 to call up the Phantom of Astarte, whose 
 aid he invokes in the following touching 
 passages ; finally receiving from her the 
 knowledge that his earthly ills will end in 
 death. 
 
 Can this be death ? there's bloom upon her cheek ; 
 But 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 dread 
 To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No, 
 I cannot speak to her — but bid her speak — 
 Forgive me or condemn me. 
 
 • * * * * 
 
 Hear me, hear me — 
 Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me ; 
 
102 
 
 \i \ UFRED 
 
 I have so mucfa endured— so much endure — 
 
 Look on me I the grave bath not changed thee more 
 
 Tlinii 1 am climicji-il for thee. Thou lovedst me 
 
 Too much, as 1 loved thee: we were nol made 
 
 To torture thus each other, though it were 
 The deadliest sin to love as we have IoycJ. 
 Say that thou loath'st me not — that I do hoar 
 This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
 < me of the blessed — and that I shall die ; 
 For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
 To hind 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 hut what thou art — and what I am ; 
 And I would hear yet once before 1 perish 
 
 The voice which was nrj music -Speak to me! 
 
 For I have call'd "it thee in the still night, 
 
 Startled the slumbering birds from the hush'd boughs, 
 
 And woke the mountain Wolves, and made the caves 
 
 Acquainted with thy vainly echo'd name, 
 
 Which answor'd ine — many things answer'd n\e — 
 
 Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
 
 Yet speak to me ! 1 have outwatched the Mais. 
 
 And jjazr-il o'er heaven in vain in search of theo. 
 
 Speak to me! I bare wander'd o'er the i 
 And never found thy likeness — Speak to me I 
 Look on the fiends around — they feel for me ; 
 
 I tear them not. and feel for thee alone — 
 Speak to me ! though it he in wrath; — hut say — 
 1 reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
 This once — once more ! 
 
 It remains only to enforce again, at part- 
 ing with the subject, its impressive moral, 
 [f Man were immortal in his earthly 
 state,*— possessing power to control the 
 elements and domineering unthwarted over 
 all around — he would still be dissatisfied; 
 he would, like Lucifer, either impiously in- 
 to dethrone Omnipotence, or, like the Fallen 
 Archangel, be ever tortured in a self-made 
 hell of remorse and agony. Death is our 
 natural rest. We must die as we would 
 sloop, — if we live well, we vest in peace, 
 and awake with a refreshed and calmei 
 nature, having brighter and better aspira' 
 tions. 
 
ANGIOLINA 
 
 The tragedy of " Marino Faliero," though 
 never intended by its author for, and entire- 
 ly unadapted to the stage, was nevertheless 
 represented there, against his wish and with- 
 out his consent, in the year 1821, soon after 
 publication. This proceeding caused him a 
 great deal of unfeigned annoyance ; his 
 protestations and feelings were entirely dis- 
 regarded, and, as might have been expected, 
 the piece failed. The critics could not con- 
 ceive of a tragedy without love or jealousy 
 in it, and would not believe, despite of reali- 
 ty, of a prince conspiring against a state, 
 to avenge the inadequacy of punishment 
 awarded to a ribald who had grossly insult- 
 ed the virtuous Duchess. The fact was, it 
 was too true, too tragically, terribly true, to 
 suit them ; had it only been falser, only 
 otherwise, why, then it would have succeed- 
 ed. Yet its dramatic qualities are of the 
 highest order, the unities being strictly ob- 
 served, and the scenes well wrought and 
 effective ; and moreover, whenever repre- 
 sented since that period, it has always been 
 admired : but before, there was too much 
 truth in it, and it was then fashionable to 
 envy and condemn Lord Byron and his 
 writings. It will always prove a source of 
 interest to attentive readers, who, in their 
 
 researches, treasure up true gems of beauty, 
 pathos, and the intensity of the sterner and 
 consuming passions. 
 
 Angiolina is enthroned among the loftiest 
 and best of Byron's female characters. She 
 is the emblem of purity, the very essence of 
 chastity ; one that might well call forth the 
 terrible passion of the Doge for the un- 
 avenged insults offered to her. As there is 
 not room for further comment, such extracts 
 are given as space will admit of. 
 
 My child ! 
 My injured wife, the child of Loredann, 
 The brave, the chivalrous, how little dream'd 
 Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, 
 That he was linking thee to shame !— Alas ! 
 Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadstthou 
 But had a different husband, any husband 
 In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand. 
 This blasphemy, had never fallen upon thee. 
 So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, 
 To suffer this, and yet be unavenged ! 
 
 'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice, 
 
 Nor the false edge of aged appetite, 
 
 Which made me covetous of girlish beauty, 
 
 And a young bride : for in my fieriest youth 
 
 I sway'd such passions ; nor was this my age 
 
 Infected with that leprosy of lust 
 
 Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men, 
 
104 
 
 MARINO FALI E R . 
 
 Making them ransack to the very last 
 The ilr.-y* ot pleasure for their vanish'd joys ; 
 Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim, 
 Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest. 
 Too feeling not to know herself a wretch. 
 Our wedlock was not of this sort; you had 
 Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer 
 Your lather's choice. 
 
 Where is honor, 
 Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock 
 Of faith connubial : where it is not — where 
 light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities 
 
 Of worldly pleasure rankle in the lirarl. 
 Or sensual throbs convulse it, well 1 know 
 Twere hopeless for humanity to dream 
 Of honesty in such infected blood; 
 It is consistency which tonus and proves it ' 
 Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change. 
 The once fall'n woman must forever fall; 
 For vice must have variety, while virtue 
 Stands like the sun, and till which rolls around 
 Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect 
 
 I speak to thee in answer to yon signor. 
 
 Inform the ribald Steno, that his words 
 
 Ne'er weigh'd in mind with Loredano' 
 
 Further than to create a moment's pity 
 
 For such as he is : would that others had 
 
 Despised him as I pity ! I prefer 
 
 My honor to a thousand lives, could such 
 
 Be multiplied in mine, hut would not have 
 
 A single life of others lost for that 
 
 Which nothing human can impugn — the sense 
 
 Of virtue, looking not to what is call'd 
 
 A good name for reward, but to itself. 
 
 To me the scorner's words were as the wind 
 
 Unto the rock : but as there are— alas ! 
 
 Spirits more sensitive, on which such things 
 
 Light as the whirlwind on the waters; soul.-. 
 
 To whom dishonor's shadow is a substance 
 
 More terrible than death, here and hereafter; 
 Men whose vice is to start at vice's scoffing, 
 And who, though proof against till blandishments 
 
 Of pleasure, and all pangs of pain, are 
 
 When the proud name on which they pinnacled 
 Their hopes is breathed on, jealous as the eagle 
 Of her high aiery ; let what we now 
 Hi hold, and feel, and sillier, be a lesson 
 To wretches bow they tamper in their spleen 
 With beings of a higher order. Insects 
 Have made the lien mad ere now ; a shaft 
 1' the heel o'erthrew the bravest of the brave ; 
 A wife's dishonor was the bane of Troy; 
 A \\ il'e's dishonor unking'd Koine for. v. r ; 
 
 An injured husband brought the Gauls in Clusium 
 Ami thence to Rome, which perish'd for a time ; 
 
 An obscene gesture cost Caligula 
 
 His life, while Earth yet bore his cruelties; 
 
 A virgin's wrong made Spain a Moorish province ; 
 
 And Steno's lie, couch'd in two worthies, lines, 
 
 Hath decimated Venice, put in peril 
 
 A senate which hath stood eight hundred years, 
 
 Discrown'd a prince, cul off his crownless head, 
 
 And forged new fetters for a groaning peo| I ■■. 
 
 Then farewell, Angiolina ! — one embrace — 
 Forgive the old man who hath been to thee 
 A fond but fatal husband — love my memory — 
 1 would not ask so much for me still living, 
 But thou canst judge of me more kindly now, 
 Seeing my evil feelings are at rest. 
 Thou tttrn'st so pale! — Alas! she faints, 
 She has no breath, no pulse ! — Guards ! lend your 
 aid— 
 
 I cannot leave her thus, and yet 'tis better, 
 Since every lifeless moment spares a pang. 
 When she shakes off this temporary death, 
 I shall be with the Eternal. — Call her women — 
 One look !— how cold her hand ! — as cold as mine 
 Shall be ere she recovers. — Gently tend her, 
 And take mv last thanks 1 am ready now. 
 

 
 
 3 -:' 
 
 
HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 " In his description of the deluge, which 
 is a varied and recurring master-piece, — 
 (we hear it foretold, and we see it come,) 
 Lord Byron appears to us to have had an 
 eye to Poussin's celebrated picture, with 
 the sky hanging like a weight of lead upon 
 the waters, the sun quenched and lurid, the 
 rocks and trees upon them gloomily watch- 
 ing their fate, and a few figures struggling 
 vainly with the overwhelming waves." 
 
 This is a wild and solemn, but a very 
 painful poem : most painful, because it en- 
 gages all our sympathies, and arouses all 
 our terrors. It represents God, as the God 
 of the whirlwind and the tempest, — the God, 
 not of mercy but of vengeance, — the de- 
 stroyer, not the preserver of the beautiful 
 universe. Our conviction of the truth of 
 the leading features of this drama adds to 
 its power. Not only have the Hoi}' Wri- 
 tings impressed the reality of the deluge on 
 our conviction from infancy, but every 
 feature in the present aspect of nature con- 
 firms its truth. The rocky ravine, bearing 
 traces of the torrent's violence, though wa- 
 ters rush no longer down its bed : mighty 
 
 forests buried deep below the surface of the 
 earth : " the little shells of ocean^s least 
 things," imbedded amongst roots of moun- 
 tain flowers : the fossil mammoth dug from 
 his age-enduring tomb : all speak a voice 
 intelligible to the skeptic as to the Christian. 
 
 The dreary feeling conveyed by this 
 poem arises also from the circumstance, 
 that we see the punishment impending, 
 with only a general notion of the sin that 
 has caused it, and we forget the guilt in 
 anticipation of the suffering. 
 
 We regard the Being, on whom we de- 
 pend for all happiness, in his inexplicable 
 wisdom dealing with the innocent as with 
 the guilty : visiting the sins of the parents 
 on the children, and overwhelming all his 
 works in one universal ruin. 
 
 There are few hearts that will not re- 
 spond to the mother's appeal to Japhet. 
 
 A mother, (offering her infant to Ja- 
 phet,) 
 
 " Oh, let this child embark ! 
 I brought him forth in woe, 
 
 But thought it joy 
 To see him to my bosom clinging so. 
 
TOG 
 
 HEAVEN AND EARTH. 
 
 Why was lie born ? 
 
 What hath he done— 
 
 My unwean'd son — 
 To move Jehovah's wrath or scorn ? 
 What i9 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 !" 
 
 Little interest is felt for the principal in- 
 dividuals in this Mystery. Here, as in the 
 storms of Salvator and Poussin, it is the 
 general aspect of nature that fixes the atten- 
 tion ; and though human creatures are seen 
 struggling against the violence of the ele- 
 ments, they are too insignificant to inter- 
 fere with the grandeur of Nature's strife. 
 Thus, in this sublime poem, we hear the 
 din of the rising waters : the rushing of the 
 mighty winds : the laughter of the exulting 
 demons : the trembling earth, and the low- 
 ering sky announce the dissolution of na- 
 ture. 
 
 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 Woman. 
 
 Woman. Oh, save me, save ! 
 Our valley is no more : 
 
 My 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 - 1 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 TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 In 1445, Giacopo, the only surviving son 
 of Francesco Foscari, was denounced to 
 the Ten as having received presents from 
 foreign potentates. The offence, according 
 to the law, was one of the most heinous 
 which a noble could commit. Even if 
 Giacopo were guiltless of infringing this 
 law, it was not easy to establish innocence 
 before a Venetian tribunal. Under the eyes 
 of his own father — compelled to preside at 
 the unnatural examination, — a confession 
 was extorted from the prisoner on the rack ; 
 and from the lips of that father, he received 
 the sentence that banished him for life. 
 
 Some time after, being suspected, on 
 slight grounds, of having instigated the as- 
 sassination of a chief of the Ten, the young 
 Foscari was recalled from Treviso, tortured 
 again in his father's presence, and not ab- 
 solved, even after he resolutely persisted in 
 denial unto the end. 
 
 Banished once more from his country, 
 which, notwithstanding his wrongs, he still 
 regarded with passionate love; excluded 
 from all communication with his family ; 
 torn from the wife of his affections ; de- 
 barred from the society of his children ; 
 
 and hopeless of again embracing those pa- 
 rents who had already far outstripped the 
 natural term of human existence, his imagi- 
 nation ever centered on the single desire to 
 return. For this purpose he addressed a 
 letter to the Duke of Milan, imploring his 
 good offices with the senate ; and for the 
 heavy crime of soliciting foreign interces- 
 sion with his native government, Giacopo 
 was once more "raised on the accursed 
 cord no less than thirty times" under the 
 eyes of the unhappy Doge ; and when re- 
 leased, was earned to the apartments of his 
 father, torn, bleeding, senseless, and dislo- 
 cated, but unchanged in purpose. Neither 
 had his enemies relented — they renewed 
 his sentence of exile, and added that its first 
 year should be spent in prison. Such are 
 the historical facts on which Lord Byron 
 has founded his tragedy. 
 
 Mar. I have ventured, father, on 
 Your privacy. 
 
 Doge. I have none from you, my child. 
 
 Command my time, when not commanded by 
 The state. 
 
 Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him. 
 
 Doge. Your husband ? 
 
108 
 
 THE TWO FOSCARI. 
 
 Mar. And your son. 
 
 Doge. Proceed, my daughter ! 
 
 Mar. I had obtain'd permission from " the Ten" 
 To attend my husband for a limited number 
 Of hours. 
 
 Doge. You had so. 
 
 Mar. 'Tis revoked. 
 
 Doge. By whom ? 
 
 Mar. " The Ten." — When we had reach'd " the 
 Bridge of Sighs," 
 Which I prepared to pass with Foscari, 
 The gloomy guardian of that passage first 
 Demurr'd : a messenger was sent back to 
 " The Ten ;" but as the court no longer sate, 
 And no permission had been given in writing, 
 I was thrust back, with the assurance that 
 Until that high tribunal reassembled, 
 The dungeon walls must still divide us. 
 
 Doge. True. 
 
 The form lias been omitted in the haste 
 Willi which the court adjourn'd ; and till it meets, 
 'Tis dubious. 
 
 Mar. Till it meets ! and when it meets, 
 
 They'll torture him again ; and he and / 
 Must purchase, by renewal of the rack, 
 The interview of husband and of wife, 
 The holiest tie beneath the heavens ! — Oh God ! 
 Dost thou see this ? 
 
 Doge. Child— child— 
 
 Mar. (abruptly.) Call me not "child !" 
 
 You soon will have no children — you deserve none — 
 You, who can talk thus calmly of a son 
 In circumstances which would call forth tears 
 Of blood from Spartans ! Though these did not weep 
 Their boys who died in battle, is it written 
 That they beheld them perish piecemeal, nor 
 Stretch'd forth a hand to save them ? 
 
 Doge. You behold me : 
 
 I cannot weep — I would I could; but if 
 
 Each white hair on this head were a young life, 
 
 This ducal cap the diadem of earth, 
 
 This ducal ring with which I wed the waves 
 
 A talisman to still them — I'd give all 
 
 For him. 
 
 Mar. With less he surely might be saved. 
 
 Doge. That answer only shows you know not 
 Venice. 
 Alas ! how should you ? she knows not herself, 
 In all her mystery. Hear me — they who aim 
 At Foscari, aim no less at his father ; 
 The sire's destruction would not save the son ; 
 They work by different means to the same end, 
 And that is but they have not conquer'd yet. 
 
 Mar. But they have crush'd. 
 
 Doge. Nor crush'd as yet — I live. 
 
 Mar. And your son, — how long will he live ? 
 
 Doge. I trust, 
 
 For all that yet is past, as many years, 
 And happier than his father. The rash boy, 
 With womanish impatience to return, 
 Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter ; 
 A high crime, which I neither can deny 
 Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke : 
 Had he but borne a little, little longer 
 
 His Oandiote exile, I had hopes he has quench'd 
 
 them — 
 He must return. 
 
 Mar. To exile ? 
 
 Doge. I have said it. 
 
 Mar. And can I not go with him ? 
 
 Doge. You well know 
 
 This prayer of yours was twice denied before 
 By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now 
 Will be accorded to a third request, 
 Since aggravated errors on the part 
 Of your lord renders them still more austere. 
 
THE DREAM. 
 
 In this singular poem Byron typifiet his 
 own life, and endeavoi to justify some of 
 the inconsistencies of his conduct: it may 
 be called his ideal history. He thus de- 
 scribes himself and M.m Chaworthj to 
 whose non-appreciation of his affection he 
 always attributed his after misfortunes. 
 
 I saw two beings in the hues of youth, 
 
 * * • * * 
 
 Ami both wore young, and one was beautiful. 
 The maid was on the eve ol womanhood ; 
 
 l,,,l |n I, ,|,| 
 
 Had far outgrown bis years, and to h 
 There was but one- beloved face on earth, 
 And that was shining on him. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I I i, id no bri ath no h ing -but in hers ; 
 
 * * * 
 
 * • She was hie sight — 
 
 hi life: — 
 
 thoughts, 
 Whirl, terminated all. 
 
 ***** 
 irere not for him ; to ber he was 
 much, 
 
 " Our union would have healed feuds in 
 which blood had been shed by our fathers , 
 it would have joined land broad and rich ; 
 it would have joined one hearl and two per- 
 sons — not ill-matched in yeai | he is two 
 tnj elder ;) — and — and — and — what 
 i the result ?" 
 He thus allude to the old hall at Annes- 
 ley, the family-seat of the ChaworthB: 
 
 There wa * and before 
 
 i i . . ■ traed : 
 
 Within an antique oratory ■ tood 
 Tl boy i b m I pake ; he was alone 
 
 And |, :,!>■. and pacing lo and Iro ; anon 
 
 He sate him down, and i iz< d a pen, and traced 
 Words which I could not gues i oi ; Hun be leaned 
 1 1 bov ed hi ad on his bands, and shook as 'twere 
 
 . • again, 
 And with bis tooth and quivering hands did tear 
 W hat he had written— but he shed no tears. 
 
 He passed 
 Prom out the ma ,• gate oi thai old ball. 
 And mounting on hi steed he went bis way ; 
 And ne'er repa ised that hoary threshold more. 
 
 In his diary, he thus alludes to the effects It wa cudi- od bj the noble poet, to a 
 
 which would have flowed from their union : friend, that this scene is strictly true, and 
 
110 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 that he actually rode to Annesley to make 
 a formal declaration of his love to Mary 
 Chaworth ; but the unconcern of her man- 
 ner, when she came in to welcome him, 
 chilled him so that he rode off, as stated in 
 the poem before us. 
 
 The next change in his dream alludes to 
 his wanderings in Greece: this was con- 
 sidered by Walter .Scott as admirably 
 painted, so far as keeping was concerned. 
 
 In the wilds 
 Of fierv.xhmes he made himself a home, 
 And Ids soul drank their sunbeams : he was girt 
 With strange and dusky aspects. * * 
 
 * * * On the sea 
 
 And on (lie 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, 
 Couched among fallen columns, in the shade 
 Of ruined walls, that had survived the names 
 Of those who reared them ; by his sleeping side 
 Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
 Were fastened near a fountain ; and a man 
 Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
 While many of his tribe slumbered around : 
 And they were canopied by the bine sky, 
 So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
 That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 
 
 The next phase of his dream is, as every- 
 body knows, purely imaginary ; as Mary 
 Chaworth was happily married to Mr. 
 Musters, and had, apparently, as pleasant 
 and contented a life as need be desired. 
 The poet's vanity strongly peeps out in this 
 passage : 
 
 Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
 
 Tin' 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 loved, 
 
 And ho who had so loved her was not there 
 
 To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish. 
 
 In the next change of the spirit of the 
 dream we know — unhappily for Byron's 
 peace of mind — that it only depicts the 
 truth, and that it is an exact description of 
 his own marriage with Miss Milbank. 
 
 I saw him stand 
 Before an altar, with a gentle bride. 
 
 And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
 The fitting vows, but heard not his own words. 
 And all things reeled around him. 
 
 Even at this moment the poet was thinking 
 
 Of the old mansion, anil the accustomed hall, 
 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? 
 
 In the next change, the poet thus alludes 
 .„ i,:„ ,„..„i:„„ c..„„, t „.i.. i}.. . 
 
 lis separation from Lady Bj roi 
 
 The wanderer was al as heretofore : 
 
 The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
 Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
 For blight and desolation, compassed round 
 With hatred and contention : pain was mixed 
 In all which was served up to him. until 
 He fed on poisons, and they hud no power, 
 [in! were a kind of nutriment : he lived 
 Through that which had been death to many men, 
 Ami made him friends of mountains J with the stars 
 And the quirk spirit of the universe 
 He held his dialogues. 
 

ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 Burns and I'vitoN may lie regarded as 
 two of the most genuine poets of their age : 
 as the great Scotch Peasant Bard was lay- 
 ing down his weary heart on the bosom of 
 mother earth, the English Peer Poet was 
 rising from it : no writers of equal genius 
 have sci thoroughly bared their own natures 
 to the world ; and, as a matter of course, 
 they reaped a large harvest of suffering 
 Both were men of fierce, impetuous passions; 
 both of a wonderful genius; both of noble 
 dispositions, loving the generous, scorning 
 the mean; both pursued a checkered ca- 
 reer through life, at one time adored al 
 another the exile of popular opinion, and 
 both died in comparative disgrace; — but no 
 sooner was the breath from their bodies, 
 than Scotland and England cried out, 
 "Verily, a greal man lias fallen this day in 
 Israel." 'I hen the man who had to beg 
 five pounds on his death-bed to procure him 
 the necessaries of life, had thousands sub- 
 let ibi 'I for his monument ; and the poet, 
 whose exit from England wa made amid 
 the hootings and howlings ofadebased and 
 bigoted press, was, when he fell al Misso- 
 
 longh proi lai I is the honor and glory 
 
 of his native land. This is, however, onlj 
 a new edition of the old proverb, 
 
 i' ■ ■.■( : ill ; .i'l 
 
 fliroiiijli which the li vini,' I!., .mi I- 1 1 In I u "in I. 
 
 We therefore make no special complaint on 
 this score against the present times. 
 
 'I In more Byron and Burns are com- 
 pared, the stronger the likeness will appear 
 between them: in each, their scorn of the 
 conventional led them into excesses which 
 were magnified into pices, and finally 
 crimes, so that, for the last few years of 
 their life they were considered as out of 
 the pale of respectable society. 
 
 With this fact in view, how vividly we 
 
 can enter into Byron's feelings when he 
 wrote, 
 
 If, fallen In evil days on evil tongues, 
 
 Mi I ion ii|i|ic;ilc(l in ili*- avenger, Time; 
 [f Time the nve n e cecn a his wrongs, 
 
 Ami in. il" the u \IiIIuiiii mean sublimef 
 
 1 1" rjejgni d not to belie his soul in songs, 
 Ni.i i in very talent to a crime. 
 
 It will, however, always happen that every 
 man of verj original genius will fall in evil 
 days on evil tongues, because the very 
 nature of his soul is of that uncompromi ing 
 kind which compels him to war with the 
 corruptions of society, and the truthfulness 
 of In- heart lends him into a conflict with 
 the artificialities of modern life. This was 
 
 e tently the case with Byron and Burns, 
 
 ! neither of whom made sufficient allowance 
 [ for the prejudices of their fellow-creatures : 
 
112 
 
 ROBERT BURNS. 
 
 they seemed to forget that their very 
 superiority consisted in this difference of 
 opinion, and that had they received a gene- 
 rous welcome and appreciation from the 
 public, they would themselves have been 
 very little above the crowd they despised 
 and professed to teach : the hatred and the 
 persecution of the world arose from the 
 towering height of Byron and Burns, and 
 they should have been consoled with the 
 reflection that in future times their names 
 would be turned into adjectives expressive 
 of glory and national pride. 
 
 Another parallel in these two great poets 
 is, their dying at the same early age of 
 thirty-seven. They had, however, lived a 
 life which will exist with the language of 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 Imbued with vivid perceptions, warm 
 feelings, and strong passions, both poets too 
 frequently threw their own existence into 
 that of others, and consequently arose many 
 errors of judgment, which the cold-blooded 
 world were too apt to consider as radical 
 vices of character. Knowing the injustice 
 of this accusation, they rushed into invec- 
 tives and imprudencies which seemed to 
 confirm the opinion of their malignant crit- 
 ics, when the philosophical would at once 
 perceive their conduct was the result of a 
 noble scorn and honest indignation. 
 
 There is. however, one great difference 
 between the Peasant and the Peer, and that 
 is, in their appreciation of woman ! — here 
 the change is marked : neither had that 
 legal formality of respect which the world is 
 
 too apt to consider as the true feeling ; but 
 Burns had a genuine affection for woman 
 in her own right of nobility, while we ai - e 
 forced to confess that the English poet con- 
 sidered them as mere appendages to man, 
 and instruments of his pleasure. 
 
 This is the key to Byron's domestic un- 
 happiness ; and herein was the only comfort 
 that withheld the Scotch poet from utter 
 suicide and disgrace. 
 
 In our life of Byron we shall endeavor to 
 elucidate some of the mystery that hangs 
 over his separation from his wife, a woman 
 well known for her propriety and excellent 
 sense. How far these otherwise valuable 
 traits of character interfered with their 
 chances of conjugal happiness we shall de- 
 monstrate in that portion of our work ; here 
 we shall content ourselves by asking for a 
 charitable construction for both " lord and 
 lady,'' both of whom, as we shall prove, 
 were not altogether free agents in this mat- 
 ter. We are aware this will predicate weak- 
 ness of character in both ; but it should be 
 borne in mind that one, however distin- 
 guished for his intellect, was a, poet, a race 
 of beings celebrated for their sensitive na- 
 ture and facility of foreign impressions, and 
 the other was a young lady, whose sense of 
 conventional propriety was paramount, not 
 to say tyrannical. 
 
 In the mean time, we close this slight 
 notice of the great poet of Scotland by 
 urging upon the attention of Byron's ad- 
 mirers the many points of sympathy be- 
 tween the Peasant and the Peer. 
 
,. 
 
DON JUAN. 
 
 Don Juan is undoubtedly the only mod- 
 ern epic. It is as true a picture of our j 
 times, as the Iliad and the Odyssey were of 
 theirs. That it is the most wonderful mon- 
 ument of Byron's genius is undoubted, His 
 powers were admirably adapted to portray, 
 with unparalleled force and vivacity, that 
 flippant, mocking spirit, which so singularly 
 mingles now with even the most momentous 
 questions, whether of morals, politics, or 
 theology. It has likewise the merit of being 
 the best-abused poem of the present 
 ation; a certain proof of its influence upon 
 the age. It would indeed be difficult, if not 
 impossible, to name any work which shows 
 so vast an acquaintance with human nature. 
 We admit that the author has Byronized it 
 to a certain extent ; but, making every de- 
 duction for the idiosyncracy of the poet, it , 
 must still remain the most remarkable pro- 
 duction of modern literature. To those 
 who complain of Lord Byron's egotism, let 
 it always be remembered, that the egotism 
 of a great mind is very different from that 
 of the common-place man: the latter nause- 
 ates you with mere duplicates of his own 
 daguerreotype likeness ; while the former • 
 presents an ever-varying kaleidescope of 
 mind and nature, interesting in every as- 
 pect. There is variety in one, monotony 
 
 in the other. We consider this to be emi- 
 nently the characteristic of Byron's genius; 
 his view is extensive, though somewhat 
 tinged with the prevailing color of his own 
 wonderful mind. In this, he certainly oilers 
 a remarkable contrast to Shakspeare, who 
 differed from the moody Childe far as the 
 poles asunder. We attribute to this mark- 
 ed distinction between the dramatist and 
 the modern poet, the common belief in 
 Byron's egotism and want of universality. 
 How unfounded this charge is, need not to 
 be pointed out to the student of "Don Juan." 
 That the poet has more thoroughly de- 
 veloped his own nature in this celebrated 
 epic than in Manfred, Lara, Conrad, and 
 Childe Harold, is evident to all who know 
 any thing of his habits or his life. The 
 light and shade of his nature are here inter- 
 woven so inextricably as to form a com- 
 plete portrait, while in the earlier poems all 
 is dark and gloomy. It is a picture without 
 any relief; or, to use a homely simile, like 
 a profile cut out of black paper. Byron's 
 character was eminently changeable ; his 
 spirit was moody, but full of variety, shift- 
 ing like a quicksand, and swallowing up all 
 that was passing over it at that particular 
 instant. So loud has been the outcry 
 against this remarkable poem, that many of 
 
114 
 
 DON JUAN. 
 
 our readers will no doubt be surprised 
 when we affirm that some of the puresl 
 and loftiest passages in modern poetry are 
 to be found in this much-denounoed epic ; 
 that it also contains much of that Mephis- 
 tophelian spirit, which unhappily disfigures 
 some of his noblest works, is undoubtedly 
 true; but Byron is a mighty garden, where, 
 among the finest of herbs, the costliest of 
 exotics, and the brightest of Sowers, there 
 grows at the same tunc the deadly weed. 
 Let us not indiscriminately crush the mul- 
 titudinous wheat and destroy the harvest, 
 in our short-sighted effort to destroy the 
 tares. 
 
 The faculty which we possess of calling 
 up. by an effort of thought, a well-remem- 
 bered face, is very often exercised by lovers. 
 Byron has availed himself of this well- 
 known propensity, to make it frequently 
 the subject of his muse. We have given 
 one instance in the present illustration. 
 
 Donna Julia is thus introduced to the 
 reader : 
 
 There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
 Pretty, « ere but to give a feeble notion 
 
 Of ninny charms, in her as natural 
 As sweetness to the Bower, or sail to ocean 
 
 The darkness of her » Orients 
 
 Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 
 Her blood was net all Spanish, by the bye. 
 
 Her eyi — Tin very fond of handsome eyes) — 
 Was lare;e and dark, suppressing half its lire. 
 
 Until she spoke; then througn its Soft disguise 
 Flashed an expression more of pride than ire. 
 
 And love than either ; and there would arise 
 \ something in them which was not desire, 
 But would have been, perhaps, hut tor tho soul 
 Which Btruggled through, and chastened down the 
 whole. 
 
 Her glossy hair was clustered o'er a brow 
 
 Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth ; 
 I fer eyebrow's shape was like the a, i 
 
 Her cheek all purple with the beam of youlli, 
 
 Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow. 
 
 As if her veins ran lightning ! 
 
 Juan's attachment to Julia is discovered, 
 and he is sent to sea. Julia was dispatched 
 to a convent, from whence she contrived to 
 
 convey that letter which has been celebra- 
 ted by the lovers of poetry. We subjoin 
 an extract : 
 
 They tell me 'tis decided ; yon depart ; 
 
 "I'is wise, 'tis well— hut not the less a pain.' 
 I have no further claim en your young heart — 
 
 Mine is the victim, and would I" - again : 
 To love too much has been the only art 
 
 I used : I write in haste, and if a slain 
 He on this sheet, 'lis not w hal il appears ; 
 My eyeballs hum and throb, bul have no tears. 
 
 The next stanza has been considered by 
 man 3 as embodying a painful truth: 
 
 Man's love is of man's lit,' a thing apart, 
 
 "Pis woman's whole existence; man may range 
 
 Th,' court, camp, church, the vessel, ami the mart — 
 
 Sword, gown, gam. Lilorv. ,,n",. r i„ exchange 
 Pride, fame, ambition, to till up his heart, 
 And few there are whom these cannot estrange; 
 
 Men have all these resources, wo hut one — 
 To love again, and he again undone. 
 
HAIDEE 
 
 It was the saying of Charles Lamb, that 
 Shakspeare had monopolized the finest of 
 all womankind, and he then rushed into a 
 glowing panegyric of Desdemona, Ophelia, 
 Imogen, Isabella, &c. We candidly confess 
 that Byron has not been successful in his 
 treatment of the fairer sex ; all his women 
 partake too much of the sensual or the melo- 
 dramatic. Medora is perhaps a modified 
 exception ; but in Haidee he has thoroughly 
 and nobly vindicated the nobility of woman- 
 hood, and done justice to his own genius. 
 Haidee is the sweetest and most touching 
 of his feminine creations. 
 
 She is the fair spirit of the second and 
 third cantos of Don Juan ; she is just the 
 creature to have inspired the wish in "Childe 
 Harold," 
 
 Oh ! that a desert were my dwelling-place, 
 With one bright spirit as a minister ! 
 
 Don Juan has been shipwrecked, and cast 
 ashore insensible. On his coming to his 
 consciousness, he first perceives Haidee ; 
 she is thus beautifully described : 
 
 And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 
 A lovely female face of seventeen ! 
 
 'Twas bending close o'er his, and ihe s.uall mouth 
 Seemed almost prying into his for breath ; 
 
 And chafing him, the soft warm hand of youth 
 Recalled 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 poured, and mantle flung 
 Around his scarce-clad liir.bs, and the fair arm 
 
 Raised higher the faint head which o'er it hung ; 
 And her transparent cheek, all pure and warm, 
 
 Pillowed his deathlike forehead ; then she wrung 
 His dewy curls, long drenched by every storm ; 
 
 And watched with eagerness each throb that drew 
 
 A sigh from his heaved bosom, and hers, too ! 
 ***** 
 
 Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
 That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, — 
 
 Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were rolled 
 In braids behind ; and though her stature were 
 
 Even of the hfghesl for ;l female mould, 
 They nearly reached 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, the lashes the same hue, 
 
 Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow liea 
 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 coiled, who pours his length, 
 
 And hurls at once his venom and his strength ! 
 
 These two lines contain one of the most 
 felicitous images in all poetry ; there is a 
 darting, forky force about the words which 
 admirably second the thought. 
 
116 
 
 HAIDEE. 
 
 Her brow was white and low ; her cheek's pure dye 
 Like twilight rosy with the set of sun ; 
 
 Short upper lip — sweet lips! that make us sigh 
 Ever to have seen sucli ; for she was one 
 
 Fit for the model of a statuary, 
 
 (A race of mere impostors, when all is done !) 
 
 I've seen much finer women, ripe and real, 
 
 Than ail the nonsense of their stone ideal. 
 
 I'll tell you why 1 say so, for 'tis just 
 One should not rail without a decent cause : 
 
 There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 
 I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
 
 A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
 
 Yield to stern Time, and Nature's wrinkling laws, 
 
 They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
 
 Ne'er compassed, nor less mortal chisel wrought ! 
 
 This is a fair specimen of Don Juan : in 
 the midst of a passage full of tenderness 
 and beauty, he breaks oft' into some gro- 
 tesque allusion, utterly at variance with the 
 spirit of his foregoing theme. It may, per- 
 haps, interest our readers to know that the 
 Irish lady here alluded to was the Countess 
 of Blessington, who has had the curiosa 
 felicitas of being immortalized by the first 
 poets of the Old and New World : we allude 
 to Byron, Moore, Landor, Leigh Hunt, and 
 Willis. 
 And such was she, the lady of the Cave : 
 
 Her dress was very different from the Spanish, 
 Simpler, and yet of colors not so grave ; 
 
 For, as you'know, the Spanish women banish 
 Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while wave 
 
 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-colored, finely spun ; 
 
 Her locks curled negligently round her face, 
 
 But through them gold and gems profusely shone t 
 
 Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
 
 Flowed in her veil, and many a precious stone 
 
 Flashed on her little hand ; but, what was shocking, 
 
 Her small, snow feet had slippers, hut no stocking. 
 
 The next stanza describes the attendant 
 of Haidee ; it concludes with this charac- 
 teristic distinction of the patrician and the 
 plebeian : 
 
 Her hair was thicker, hut less long ; her eyes 
 As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 
 
 Haidee was the daughter of a Greek 
 pirate, who had his retreat in one of the 
 Cyclades : out of this dark old villain comes 
 this sweet flower of poetical womankind, 
 just as a fair white lily has its root in the 
 black earth. After describing the father- 
 pirate, he thus comes to the beautiful 
 daughter : 
 
 He had an only daughter, called Haidee, 
 The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles ; 
 
 Besides, so very beautiful was she, 
 
 Her dowry was as nothing to her smiles ; 
 
 Still in her teens, and like a lovely tree. 
 
 She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 
 
 Rejected several suitors, just to learn 
 
 How to accept a better, in his turn. 
 
 The fair Haidee, walking out upon the 
 beach, discovers the insensible Juan, and 
 cherishes him in a cave : this they were 
 enabled to do with comparative safety, as 
 thf old pirate father was at sea on one of 
 his freebooting expeditions : leaving him to 
 his repose, the sweet Haidee, and her at 
 tendant Zoe, return to the uirate's dwelling 
 
IIAIDEE, ENTERING THE CAVE. 
 
 After a troubled night, the beautiful and 
 .nnocent Ilaidee, with her attendant, visit 
 Juan : 
 
 And <lown the cliff the Island Virgin came, 
 
 And near the cave her quick light footsteps drew, 
 
 While the sun smiled on her with his first flame, 
 And young Aurora kissed her lips with dew, 
 
 Taking her for a sister ; just the same 
 Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, 
 
 Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 
 
 Had all the advantage, too, of not being air. 
 
 And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 
 
 All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 
 That like an infant Juan sweetly slept ; 
 
 And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in awe, 
 (For sleep is awful,) and on tiptoe crept 
 
 And wrapped him closer, lest the air, too raw, 
 Should reach his blood ; then o'er him, still as death, 
 Bent, with hushed lips, that drank his scarce-drawn 
 breath. 
 
 While Zoe, the servant, is engaged in 
 preparing the breakfast, the sensitive Ilaidee 
 is hanging over her shipwrecked protege: 
 
 \nd she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
 Hushed as the babe upon its mother's breast, 
 
 Drooped as the willow when no wind can breathe, 
 Lulled like the depth of ocean when at rest ; 
 
 Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
 Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest : 
 
 Li short, he was a very pretty fellow, 
 
 Although his woes had turned him rather yellow. 
 
 He woke and gazed, and would have slept again, 
 But the fair face which met his eyes forbade 
 
 Those eyes to close, though weariness and pain 
 Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 
 
 For woman's face was never formed in vain 
 For Juan, so that even when he prayed 
 
 He turned from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy, 
 
 To the sweet portals of the Virgin Mary. 
 
 .She tells him, 
 
 With an Ionian accent low and sweet, 
 
 That he was faint, and must not talk, but eat 
 
 Now Juan could not understand a word, 
 Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 
 
 And her voice was the warble of a bird, 
 So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, 
 
 That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
 The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 
 
 Without knowing why — an overpowering tone, 
 
 Whence melody descends a3 from a throne. 
 
 We cannot avoid pointing out to our 
 readers the fatality which seems to attend 
 Byron when he uses the word "overpower- 
 ing:" these two lines are out of harmony 
 with the rest of the description of Haidee's 
 voice. — The tenderness with which she 
 nurses Juan, is described with the poet's 
 usual felicity. She attires him as a Greek, 
 and teaches him Romaic : 
 
 Thus Juan learned his alpha beta better 
 From Haidee's glance, than any graven letter. 
 
118 
 
 HAIDEE, ENTERING THE CAVE. 
 
 The absence of Lambro, Haidee's father, 
 enabled the lovers to be constantly together : 
 
 And every day by daybreak — rather early 
 For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest — 
 
 She came into the cave, but it was merely 
 To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 
 
 And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 
 Without disturbing her yet slumbering guest ; 
 
 Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 
 
 As o'er a bed of roses the sweet South. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 
 
 Whilst her piratical papa was cruising. 
 
 The description of her dress is very fe- 
 licitous : 
 
 Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 
 
 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 formed 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, flowed round her. 
 
 One large gold bracelet clasped each lovely arm, 
 Lockle6S — so pliable from the pure gold, 
 
 That the hand stretched and shut it without harm ; 
 The limb which it adorned its only mould, 
 
 So beautiful, its very shape would charm, 
 And clinging as though loath to lose its hold, 
 
 The purest ore enclosed 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 rolled, 
 
 Announced her rank : twelve rings were on her hand, 
 Her hair was starred with gems ; her veil's fine fold 
 
 Below her breast, was fastened with a band 
 
 Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told ; 
 Her orange silk full Turkish trowsers furled 
 Above the prettiest ankle in the world. 
 
 Her hair's long auburn waves down to her heel 
 Flowed like an Alpine torrent, when the sun 
 
 Dyes with his morning light, and would conceal 
 Her person, if allowed at large to run ; 
 
 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 seemed lighter from her eyes, 
 
 They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
 With all we can imagine of the skies, 
 
 And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
 Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 
 
 Her overpowering presence made you feel 
 
 It would not be idolatry to kneel. 
 
 Leigh Hunt remarked one day to the 
 writer, that, however beautiful these two 
 last lines are in themselves, they do not co- 
 incide with the rest of the description of 
 Haidee ; the compound epithet of "over- 
 powering presence" belongs rather to Lady 
 Macbeth, than the guileless, lovely Greek 
 girl. 
 
 Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged, 
 (It is the country's custom,) but in vain ; 
 
 For those large black eyes were so blackly fringed, 
 The glossy rebels mocked the jetty stain, 
 
 And in their native beauty stood avenged ; 
 Her nails were touched with henna ; but again 
 
 The power of art was turned to nothing, for 
 
 They could not look more rosy than before. 
 
DON JUAN AND HAIDEE 
 
 IN LOVE. 
 
 Tur. absence of Kaidee's father Lambro, 
 on liis piratical cruise, enables the lovers to 
 
 enjoy each other's society without restraint. 
 The poet has beautifully described their en- 
 dearments. 
 
 T" our tale — The feasl was over, the slaves gone, 
 The dwarfs and dancing girls had all retired ; 
 
 The Arab lore, and poet's song wen; dime, 
 
 And every sound of revelry expired ; 
 The lady and her lover left, alone, 
 
 The rosy flood of twilight sky admired ; — 
 I ! o'er the eartli and Bea, 
 
 That heavenliest hour of heaven is worthiest thee ! 
 
 Ave .Maria! blessed be the hour, 
 
 'I'll'' time, ili<- clime, the -pot, where I so oft 
 Have fell that moment in its fullest power 
 
 Sink o'er the earth o beautiful and soft 
 
 While' sun;'' lb" di'"p I " ■ ! I in lit" <li lanl lower, 
 
 Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
 And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
 And yet the forest-leaves seem'd 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 downcasl eye i beneath the Almighty Dove — 
 Whal though 'tis but a pictured image ! strike — 
 Thai painting is no idol — 'tis too like ! 
 
 Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead ; 
 
 The heavens, and earth, and air seem'd made lor 
 them ; 
 They found no fault with time — save that he fled ; 
 
 They saw not in themselves aught to condemn: 
 Each was the Other's mirror, and but read 
 
 Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
 And knew such brightness was bul the reflection 
 Of 1 1 ii -i r exchanging glances of affection. 
 
 In this glorious gem of a Grecian isle, the 
 lovers live a waking dream, more re i m 
 bling that of our first parents in paradi e, 
 than a reality in this cold world. There is 
 an Eastern coloring in this romantic pic- 
 ture, which no other poet, except Moore, 
 has ever approached : the whole scene is 
 redolent of perfume, love, and sunny enjoy- 
 ment. The absence of Lambro still con- 
 tinuing, months Hew over their heads in 
 this blissful manner: their existence was 
 the intoxication of happiness, to be sobered 
 by a terrible reality. 
 
 They gazed upon the sunset; 'tis an hour 
 Dear unto all, but dearest to (heir eyes, 
 
 For ii bad made them what they were : the power 
 Of love bad first o'erwhelmed them from such skies, 
 
 When happiness had been their only dower ; 
 
120 
 
 DON JUAN AND HAIDEE. 
 
 Ami twilight saw them linked in passion's tics; 
 Charmed with each other, all things charmed that 
 
 brought 
 The pas) still welcome as the present thought. 
 
 But even amid this glow of delight, a pre- 
 sentiment stole over them ever and anon 
 prophetic of evil. 
 
 [ know not why, but in that hour to-night, 
 E'en as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 
 
 And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' delight, 
 Like the wind o'er a harp-string '. 
 
 This forehoding of evil 
 
 Called from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 
 While one new tear arose in Haidec's eye ! 
 
 Unable to shake off the sense of impending 
 
 Juan and 1 [aidee gazed upon each other 
 
 With swimming looks of speechless tenderness, 
 
 Which mixed all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother, 
 All that the best can mingle and express 
 
 When tWO pure hearts arc DOUTed in one another, 
 
 And love too much, and yet cannot love less, 
 But almost sanctify the sweet excess 
 By the immortal wish and power to bless. 
 
 How magnificently Byron's misanthropy 
 breaks out in the following stanza describing 
 Juan and llaidee's love! 
 
 Vlii'v should have lived together in deep woods, 
 I nseen as sings the nightingale ; they were 
 
 Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes, 
 
 Called social haunts ofvice and hate and care ; 
 
 How lonely every free-born creature broods ! 
 
 The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair; 
 Ths eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 
 Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below 
 
 In this state of apprehension the lovers are 
 Pillowed cheek to cheek, in loving sleep ; 
 
 A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 
 For ever and anon a something shook 
 
 Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep ; 
 And llaidee's sweet lips murmured like a brook 
 
 A wordless music ; and her face so fair 
 
 Stirred with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air. 
 
 In this sleep she has a dream of horror and 
 dismay ; she wakes to a deeper dismay. 
 Her waking is thus described: 
 
 And gazing on the dead, she thought his face 
 Faded, or altered into something new — 
 
 Like to her father's features, till each trace 
 More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew — 
 
 With all his keen worn look, and Grecian grace ; 
 And starling, she awoke, and what to view ? 
 
 Oh! powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she 
 
 Tis — 'tis her father's — fixed upon the pair ! [there ? 
 
 Then shrieking she arose, and shrieking fell ! 
 
 This woke Juan, who, springing up, caught 
 the fainting and affrighted girl in his 
 arms. Snatching his sabre, he is told by 
 Lambro scornfully that he has a thousand 
 at his call. Haidee, reviving, tells Juan 
 it is her lather, and implores him to kneel 
 ami crave his pardon. Juan refuses to 
 deliver up his sword, whereupon Lambro 
 is about to shoot him, when Haidee throws 
 herself before the pistol. The old pirate 
 calls in some of his band, who wound and 
 disarm Juan : he is dragged away, and sent 
 to a galliol tit son. while Haidee is carried 
 by her infuriate father to his own house. 
 
TILE DEATH OF HA I DEE 
 
 Byron is not alone the poet of power ; he 
 is also the poet of pathos. There are few 
 things in his writings equal to the death of 
 Hauler : a golden glow of divine melancholy 
 rests u]>c ni it, just as the sunlight tails on the 
 day-descending earth. Imagination natu- 
 rally belongs to life in every aspect; but to 
 death ii clings with a tenacity which defies 
 ile truction. In that of Haidee, there is a 
 sweet yet brilliant sentiment which smiles 
 like an atmosphere over the whole. Singu- 
 lar enough, ii is one of the few sir tame, I 
 serious passages, undisfigured with those 
 rapid transitions to the burlesque which so 
 frequently jar on the solemnity of the scene. 
 
 It seems as though tile poet fell, for oner, 
 the influence Of Ins own pathos, and was 
 
 awed by the presence of the angel of Death, 
 as it released the gentle spirit of Haidee 
 from the chains of earth. 
 
 I leave H"" Juan fur ih • present, safe — 
 \<ii sound, i t fellow, but severely wounded ; 
 
 Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
 ni those with which his Elaidee's bosom bounded? 
 
 She wa not one to weep — to ruvc — and chafe, 
 And then give way, subdued because surrounded; 
 
 Her mother u a -, a II Ii maid, Ir Fez, 
 
 Where all ia Eden, or n wilde ' 
 
 The last sight which die saw was Juan's gore, 
 
 And lie himself ' o'cruiaslcred and cut down ; 
 
 I lis blood was running on the very Hour 
 Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own ; 
 
 Thus much she viewed an Instant, and no more — 
 Her struggles era ed with on invulsive groan : 
 
 • in hi r ire's arm, which until new scarce held 
 
 Iler writhing, fell sho like a cedar felled I 
 
 A vein had hurst, and her sweet lip' purfl dye ■ 
 
 Wore dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er; 
 And her head drooped, as when the lily lies 
 
 O'ercharged with rain: — her summoned hand* 
 maids bore 
 Their lady to her couch with gushing oyea; 
 
 Of herbs and ecu-dials they produced their sioro, 
 But he defied all means they could employ, 
 Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy. 
 
 Days lay she in that stair unchat d, though chill, 
 
 With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
 
 She had no pul le, but death seemed absent still; 
 No hideous sign proclaimed her surely dead; 
 
 Corruption came not, in each mind to kill 
 All hope; to look upon her Bweel face bred 
 
 New thought i of life, lor it seemed full of soul — 
 
 She had so much, eailli could not claim ihc whole. 
 
 Sin: woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
 Rather the dead, for life seemed something now; 
 
 A strange sensation, which she mu i partake 
 Perforce, i ince w hal oever met her view 
 
 Struck not her memory, though a heavy ache 
 Lay at her heart, who e earlie ii beat, still true, 
 
 Brought hack the sense of pain without the < 
 
 For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 
 
,.... 
 
 Til E DE \ r 1 1 OF HAID EE 
 
 Site looked on many .-i faoa with vaoanl nv. 
 
 On man) :\ tokon, without knowing whal ; 
 Sua saw them watch her, without asking why, 
 
 \ ked not w ho around het pillow Ml ; 
 
 \. not . no! :i sigh 
 
 Relieved her thoughts ; dull silonoeand quick chat 
 Were tried in vain b) thoso who served j i 
 \ tve breath, ol having led the (i ive 
 
 Her handmaids tended, bul ahe heeded no! ; 
 Her fkthei watolied . ahe turned liei eyes awaj . 
 
 Howovoi deal and cherished in theii daj . 
 The) ohangod from room to room, bul all I 
 
 Gentle, bul wlthoul memor) site la] . 
 \i length those eyes, whioh they would fain be 
 
 w oaning 
 Iferok to old thoughta, waxed toll of fearful moaning. 
 
 ll.-w deeply i" be regretted, thai ;i |"><'t 
 who could fnithfull) and tenderly paial the 
 changes ol the female mind in its ap 
 to insanity through wounded love, should 
 in m have more frequent!} drawn upon the 
 finer pari ofhis imagination, and given us a 
 gallerj of portraits oommensurate with his 
 genius, and the purity of womankind ' 1 tow 
 exquisite!} the apathy to life is portrayed 
 in this sketch of Haideel a slave brings a 
 harper, who played 
 
 \ ■ ■ • low Island song 
 Oi anclenl da] •-. ere 
 
 On the first prelude she gated on the 
 harper, 
 
 Tli!-!! iii tlie \\ all alio turned, as If to - 
 
 11. m thou [hi ■ from sorrow . through bei heai 
 
 \ e wall 
 
 in time to his old tune he changed the theme, 
 
 \ml sungol love; tli.< Bene name struck through all 
 Hei reoollectlon j on her flashed the dream 
 
 Of whal ahe was, and Is; If ye could oall 
 To be bream 
 
 rushed forth from her unclouded brain, 
 
 l ike mountain mists al length dl ■ loh .■■■ 
 
 Sliorl solaoe, vain n • una too quick, 
 
 Ami whirled her brain to madness . ahe arose, 
 
 \i one who ne'er bad dwell among the sick, 
 
 Ami flew on all ahe met, as on her foes ; 
 
 evei heard hei speak oi 
 
 hhei paroxysm drew towards its close j— 
 
 Hers w ;,^ ■ phronay whtoli disdained to rave, 
 
 Even w hen the) smote her, In the hope to i n 
 
 N itrayed al times r gleam of sense : 
 
 Nothing could make her meel her father's (Hoe, 
 Though on all other tilings with looks Intense 
 
 i 
 Pood she refused, and raiment no p 
 
 \> ler change of plaoe, 
 
 Nor time, nor skill, no 
 
 o sloop the pow er seemed gone fbre\ 
 
 Twelve days and nights she withered thus ; al last, 
 
 WiUio or glance, to show 
 
 \ parting pang, the apiril from her passed; 
 Anil they «lii> watched her neareal could nol know 
 
 Instant, till the change thai oasl 
 Her sweel face into aliadow, dull and slow, 
 beautiful, the black 
 Ohl to possess suoh lustre and then lack I 
 
 Thus closes one of the sweetest piotures 
 in the range ol Byron's poetry; ii sounds 
 like the w'm dirge of love and beaut] 
 «ll well says "over this oh 
 ■ the poet has throw n o beauty and 
 n fascination which were never, we think, 
 surpassed." 
 

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 THE 0>RS\IR. HR\. IRISH MELODIES. HEBREW MELODIES. DON JUAN. 
 
LB Ag 06 
 
Part 
 
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